Echoes of the Ages

Greetings, once again, friends, kin, near relations, strangers, critics, and enemies alike. You are reading Everyday Magic. If this is not the blog you were trying to reach, my apologies - you somehow typed the wrong URL. If I may say so, however, you might find it worth your while to read on. I've actually got a really good story for today.

I have had a momunental experience as I rambled through the Social Sciences section today. This afternoon, here in the Harold B. Lee Library (from whence I now write), I handled the oldest book it has ever been my privelage to encounter. It was a very aged thing, wearing away at the bindings, barely keeping it's long-since yellowed pages together. I could not at first locate a date within, so I had thought to simply put it away and move on. As I was about to shelve it, however, I caught sight of the library catalogue label on the spine - and couldn't suppress a gasp. This book - a collection of heroes and characters from Greek antiquity - was published in London, England... in 1774. 1774! I couldn't believe my eyes. I was holding a work of non-fiction literature that was 237 years old... older than my grandparents, my great grandparents, my great-great grandparents... something to the tune of four or five "greats" on the prefix.

I was suspended for some time in a state of awe. I withdrew the book again from the shelf, carefully examining the pages and cover with a sort of profound revrence. The inside cover held two labels - one with stamped the crest of the Royal Family (the lion and the Unicorn) that read "Haud Muto Factum" (Latin for "nothing comes from being mute"); the other depicting a tall sailing ship with the words "Ex Libris" ("from the books") printed above. Within the cover was written the name John J. Kest. My mind immediately started going a mile a minute. Who was John Kest? He wasn't the author... so perhaps an owner of the book? What did tall ships have to do with anything? What did the author and the printer and Kest think about the Americas? Did any of them realize that revolution was but a year away?

A veritable treasure trove - and right there in a college library. I remained with the book for some time, looking it over and enjoying its presence. I was reluctant to shelve it again and return to my usual work. However, even after I had left the bookshelves, visions of John Kest and sailing ships and antiquitous books danced before me, and my hands smelled of the dusty vellum cover for an hour afterwards.

I was reminded of this poem by Emily Dickinson:

IN A LIBRARY.

A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is
To meet an antique book,
In just the dress his century wore;
A privilege, I think,

His venerable hand to take,
And warming in our own,
A passage back, or two, to make
To times when he was young.

His quaint opinions to inspect,
His knowledge to unfold
On what concerns our mutual mind,
The literature of old;

What interested scholars most,
What competitions ran
When Plato was a certainty.
And Sophocles a man;

When Sappho was a living girl,
And Beatrice wore
The gown that Dante deified.
Facts, centuries before,

He traverses familiar,
As one should come to town
And tell you all your dreams were true;
He lived where dreams were sown.

His presence is enchantment,
You beg him not to go;
Old volumes shake their vellum heads
And tantalize, just so.

I have experienced the action of this poem firsthand today. I certainly believe that last stanza - "His presence is enchantment, you beg him not to go... old volumes shake their vellum heads and tantalize just so." That said, I think I can truly proclaim that I have been both fully tantalized and unwittingly enchanted today. I was glad to make the aquaintance of such an ancient friend, and I can promise that I will certainly be back to see him again very soon.

Many thanks, and keep smiling! 'Til next we meet...

Sunday Scribblings #251 - Eternity

The little girl walks down into the water, where her father stands waiting for her. He takes her hands and arranges them on his arm as they had practiced, she intently trying to remember his earlier instructions while concious of the luke-warm font water soaking through her jumpsuit. She closes her eyes as her father raises his arm to the square, addresses her by her full name, and speaks the baptismal blessing. As soon as the 'amen' is spoken, he carefully pushes her back and submerges her beneath the water. For an instant all is silent, then she is up again - blinking and spluttering, but suddenly... happy.

The little one leaves the font to put on her new white dress, feeling lighter and more cheerful than ever before. It had happened so quickly, but she knew that didn't matter... she was baptised. "Clean and pure...," she whispered to herself. And so she was.


-oo0oo-

The young bride and her handsome husband came out of the temple at 11:30, and hour and fifteen minutes after going in. Her flowing white dress blended in with the pearly white stone behind her, both sparkling bright in the sunlight. Pictures were arranged with both families - first with his parents, then hers, then the siblings, then all the aunts and uncles and cousins.

The day to come will be a long one, filled with greetings and goings and preparations for the reception. But for now, all that is forgotten as she looks deeply into the eyes of the man she loves more than anyone in the world and smiles as he draws her close. He sweeps her up into his arms and walks down the hill to the gates, the sealer's words still ringing in both of their ears. Together... not "'Til death do us part," but "For time and all eternity..." And so it was.

-oo0oo-

The newspapers had put a story out about it the week before, but it was small and went generally unnoticed. A teenager and an involved in a car crash. Black ice... an accident by most accounts, though the police wouldn't have called it so. Both cars were totalled. Both men were killed.

The young man's family was devastated. At his funeral there was a great deal of pain and many tears. The widow of the old man attended, but she felt that there was little she could say or do to assuage their grief. Yet it made her heart ache to see them brought so low - they looked as though they would never be happy again.

Her husband's funeral could not have been more different. There were tears, and there was time for mourning... But when all the words had been spoken and the dedication of the gravesite was through, the crying stopped. The pain of loss was still present, of course, and would be for some time to come - but it was only a shadow of what it had been before. The family retired to the cultural hall in the church and enjoyed a beautiful meal prepared by the Relief Society sisters of that ward. There was laughter and conversation again, smiles and love flowing freely. Somehow, it was almost impossible to feel pain in the midst of such joy.

Later, at home, the widow continued to smile. It had been a beautiful service... the best she could have hoped for. Everything was cleared up now, and everyone gone home... but there was one more thing that needed to be done. For a moment she disappeared into the bedroom, then came again into the living room, this time with a framed photograph in hand. She looked at it fondly - an unplanned shot of a beaming bride being kissed by a dashing young husband. Smiling again, though a little sadly, she placed the picture next to the painting of Jesus Christ on the mantlepiece. For a moment the tears almost came again, but one glance at the Savior stopped them. It would be alright... She would see him again soon. And when she did, it would not be a fleeting embrace, but a lasting union...

"For time and all eternity." And so it is.

Love's Magical Touch

Again, I am going off of a quote. If you've read my little quotes list to your immediate right, you will have seen it before. It was spoken (or written) by Charles Morgan, and it goes as follows:

"There is no surprise more magical than being loved. It is God's finger on man's shoulder."

I want you to think back to your childhood. Remember the people who were close to you... and single one out who could be considered your best friend. If there's more than one, that's fine, too. What were they like? Why did you like to be with them? And most importantly, what did you feel like when they were around you?

I have a poem to share with you now. Keep that person in mind, and read this excerpt:

I love you
not only for what you are,
but for what I am
when I am with you.

I love you
not only for what
you have made of yourself,
but for what
you are making of me.

I love you
for the part of me
that you bring out.
I love you
for putting your hand
into my heaped-up heart
and passing over
all the foolish, weak things
you cannot help
dimly seeing there
and drawing out
into the light
all the beautiful belongings
no one else had looked
quite far enough to find.

There's more to it, but it's rather long - by Roy Croft, I think it is. Anyway, does this sound any familiar tones with you? It does with me. Here at college I have found some of the best friends I have ever known. And in doing so, I have discovered a version of myself that I didn't know before. It's true. They are the sort of friends that make me want to be my best self - and I have found that I love the person that I am when I am with them. They make me feel like I am someone worth being... and after hearing it so many times, I have begun to believe it. Just a little, day by day - but still.

Have any of you had those kinds of friends? Do you have any now? Then my thought of the day is this: the best thing you can do for a good friend to give them your thanks is to be a good friend back to them. It's easy to do, really... and it's such a beautiful feeling for everyone. I would also remind my readers that there are many out there who have not been truly befriended. May I encourage you to give of yourself to those who need it. A little love can work wonders - it truly can. A person touched by the love and belief of another can become almost a new being.

The effect is... how shall we say it... magical?

'Til next we meet my friends. Fare thee well... 

The Great Decision

Welcome once again to Everyday Magic, coming to you for the first time in this brand new year of 2011! The holidays are at an end, and routine has made its annual encroachment back into our lives. But no worries there - good old routine will soon be welcome enough.

Today is all about a choice. For many years, my mother kept a little framed embroidery sample hanging in the upstairs bathroom, just above the towels. Being in such an often used room, the members of our family had many opportunities to read it throughout the day - as we went about brushing our teeth, bathing little ones, washing hands and so forth. It read as follows:

"We are as happy as we make up our minds to be."

Now as a child, this phrase was lost on me. I thought it meant that we would be happy when we made up our minds to become something. We are as happy as we make up our minds to be... nurses? To be mothers? Primary leaders? I was a long way off the mark. This little quote means that we are only as happy as we choose to be. What an idea! We can choose to be happy... just imagine the sorts of possibilities that open up.

This idea came back to me as I was sitting around on the couch a couple nights ago. I hadn't been given much homework, so I was rather bored. Without some sort of productive occupation, I'd had a relapse of homesickness and was vainly craving human companionship. I had been in such a sorry state for over an hour before it occured to me. I didn't have to be miserable. I could choose, right then and there, to be happy, have a good day, and to be content with where I was. Even though the lonliness did persist a little, I was much improved thereafter.

The decision is yours, my friends - happiness or sorrow, contentment or misery. Your pick. And while there is no doubt that our circumstances do contribute to our emotional well being, they are only what we make of them. In the words of a poet, "Environment is but [our] looking glass." We possess the ability to make the world around us completely miserable if we view it through the wrong mindset. But if we can make the world miserable, surely we can make it joyful as well?

Perhaps I am simply a broken record. The appearance of the world depends on how you look at it - I've surely said it a thousand times. But it's a true now as it was last semester. Your world is only as bright, as beautiful, as magical, and as happy as you make up your mind that it shall be.

May you be safe and cared for, my friends, 'til next we meet...

Ring out the Old...

Yes, Christmas is past. I am aware of the fact. But these Christmas colors are staying up until January has fully begun, and even then.... well, we'll see how that goes. Welcome to any family, friends, kin, or acquaintances who are visiting based on my mom's little link at the bottom of our Christmas letter. Thank you for taking a few minutes out of your day to listen to the hopeful ramblings of an often misplace muse. Under the circumstances, you must either be very curious, very crazy, or really love me. Whatever your reason for being here, I thank you again for your time.

The year is almost out. I don't know about anyone else, but for me it has flown on wings of lightening. I have experienced a lot of changes, especially in heading off to college. Many thanks to those of you who have helped me through those difficult days. I can't possibly find adequate words to express the joy and blessing of the support of a friend or dear one when the road grows rough and the feet grow weary.

It has been quite a year... a year of long-anticipated endings and fresh new beginnings. A year of friends, of family, of near kindred. A year of song and dance and music. A year of herbal tea and wool socks. A year of lost keys, found keys, and borrowed keys. A year of hardship, work, and pain. A year of late nights and early mornings. A year of partings and a year of greetings. A year of temple trips, hot chocolate, and late-night conversation. A year of new friends and old friends. A year of sorrow. A year of rejoicing. A year of thanksgiving. A year of magic.

Isn't that amazing? Before we know it, a whole year gone. So here's the moral of the story - for a moral there must be. Three hundred and sixty five days have passed us by. Did we use them wisely? Now that the holidays are over, we are looking over our accounts to see how our funds have been spent. I think that ought to be the way we treat the new year, as well. Last January we were given three hundred and sixty five days to spend as we chose. Did we spend frivolously, or did we use them for the improvement of others as well as our own? The answer is yours. Just something to think about...

Should auld acquaintance be forgot
and never brought to mind
should auld acquaintance be forgot
for auld lang syne,

For auld lang syne, my dears
for auld lang syne
we'll drink a cup of kindness yet
for auld lang syne.

Robert Burns. Probably a familiar tune, isn't it? Auld lang syne, loosely translated, means "for the sake of old times" or "days gone by." I agree with Burns here. Though mountains, oceans, and passing years divide, let us never forget the bygone days, for they can be a great help and comfort to us in the future. Yet let us also raise a cup to days to come... and may they be as beautiful, as sweet, as prolonged, and as magical as auld lang syne.

Happy new year, my friends. Here's to auld lang syne, and to many days to come! May you be blessed and happy this new year and always. 'Til next we meet...  

Three Gifts

There is a book of religious doctrine out there - the Korahn, I think - which has a very interesting idea to go along with its reading. It is said that every doctrine written therein has seven meanings. The first is the most literal - for example, "And the Lord had prepared a great fish to swallow up Jonah. And Jonah was in the belly of the fish three days and three nights" (Jonah 1:17). So Jonah was swallowed by a fish and waited around inside for three days. Literal, face value interpretation. The second level is slightly more symbolic - say, the Lord prepared a trial for Jonah to endure. The third level more so - the Lord prepares trials for his children, which they must endure to become more like Him. And so on and so forth, until the seventh level, which, according to tradition, is known only to God.

One of my religion professors brought up an idea rather like this about Christmas. This season, too, has different levels. Three, as it happens - a number closely associated with this holiday, especially in the three gifts of the Magi. So, in honor of the season, consider these three kinds of gifts, of three levels, of Christmas.

The first kind of gifts are the secular ones. There's nothing wrong with that, by the way. Secularism, while often overplayed in the modern world, isn't always a bad thing. What I mean in this case is the gift that you go to a store, website, or retailers to purchase for someone near and dear to you for a holiday or special occasion. It could be anything - clothing, toys, books, electronics, home appliances, beauty supplies, you name it. Secular simply means it goes into wrapping paper and under the tree. Secular gifts are a great thing. I have gotten one for each person in my immediate family. My mom has been frantic trying to hunt them all down for the kids and my father. We have received countless tokens and treats of the season from neighbors and friends in the past weeks. These gifts are our ways of showing others that we love them and are grateful for their influence in our lives. It's how we give aid to those who we don't know, but who happen to need a guardian angel or Christmas elf - which, in turn, happens to be us. It's our way of participating in the season of giving.

The second kind of gift one from our Heavenly Father - that is, the Christ child. There are all kinds of gifts that go with this one - gold, frankinsense, and myrrh, to name a few, as well as bright stars, angel carols, and visits from neighboring shepherds. It's the perfect nativity - shepherds, wisemen, Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus in the manger. This is the second level of the Christmas season. Perhaps less noticible than the secular side sometimes, its spirit still penetrates our holiday celebrations with the sweetness of new birth.

It goes deeper still, however. There is a third level, a third gift. This level is the most important, but often the most overlooked of the three. It does not celebrate holiday sales and brightly colored presents. It does not celebrate a baby in a manger, or even a redeemer on a cross. Not a child Christ, or a dead Christ - but a living one. This level is one of remembering that at this time over two thousand years ago, our loving Heavenly Father gave to us the greatest gift the world has ever known. It is bearing in mind the great suffering that Jesus Christ took upon himself for our own sinful sakes, and bearing in our hearts the joy of knowing that we can be healed at his hand. It is celebrating that a baby was born - a baby that would make it possible for all of us to return to our Heavenly Father. It is a time of feeling of our Heavenly Father's incomprehensible love for us, and refining our desires to match his. And even though Eastertide is yet to come, this is a season to rejoice in the knowledge that our savior lives. Those are, in my opinion, the sweetest words human tongue can utter. Our savior lives!

I now most humbly descend from my little soapbox. You can come to your own conclusions about Christ and about faith. But I hope that my words have at least brought to your remembrance the true origins of this season. An unfriendly town, a shabby stable, a less than adequate manger, and a baby - a baby who would someday be the greatest gift the world has every received. May we give thanks for that gift this day and always.

Happy Holidays, my friends! 'Til next we meet...   

Silver and Gold

Three words: FINALS. ARE. OVER!!! Suffice it to say that I have been in a jubilant mood since I escaped my last exam yesterday - Astronomy. I no longer have to study for days at a time. I have two weeks to simply repose at home - no deadlines, no pressure, no textbooks. It will be a glorious experience. Anyway - to the point. I do have a tendency to get around that, don't I? We'll, we're here now - so let's begin.

"Make new friends but keep the old - one is silver and the other's gold." I imagine that you all have heard this so many times it hardly requires repetition. Yes, it's commonplace. Yes, it's been overplayed. I'm here to tell you that it's also true - but not in the way you might suppose.

Indeed, old friends are as good as gold and better. I have many companions that have been Daemon to my Pythias since before I can remember (and by the way, if you don't get the greek reference, look it up - Daemon and Pythias. It's a story worth the reading). I have many friends with whom I have formed sweet alliance as the years passed, throughout my school days and on. They have been dearer to me than any material possession I could ever own or desire. They have made life bearable for me when it could hardly be shouldered. They have supported me in my high ascensions, even when they themselves had already reached the summit. I couldn't have asked for anything or anyone better than they. Next to such unfailing friendship, where does gold stand a chance?

But here's a rather interesting spin on the old phrase. Did you know that silver is acutally more valuable than gold? It's true. Gold often sells for more on the market, but silver - in its broad usefulness and comparative scarcity - is actually higher in value. Now what does that say to us? Allow me to give example - and again remember, as I relate my own experience, that I do so only for a lack of anyone else's. If you can make relation with the topic at hand, please bear yourself in mind as you read.

I came to college lonely and afraid. All of my old companions had gone to other schools, and I was very much alone. The size of the school overwhelmed me, compared to the little high school I had just left. My apartment was altogether too quiet after the hustle and bustle of a household of seven. I found myself crying often, and sighing almost every two or three breaths. It was a difficult first few weeks, without question.

But college didn't bring hardship only. When I came here I discovered something else - pure silver. My wonderful roommate was my best helpmeet during those difficult times - always smiling, always free and easy, and a cock-eyed optomist to the core. She cared about what classes I was taking, how my day had gone, who I had met, or what I had done, and earnestly listened to the telling. My other apartment-mate soon made herself known as a veritable rainbow, bringing life and color into any room she entered. And then, not long after, we met the girls next door. Addy, a constant ray of sunshine who hails from rainy Washington. I suppose that when natural sunlight is scarce, you learn to make your own - Addy simply radiates it everywhere she goes. And then her roommate - if you read my sunday scribblings entry a week or so ago - "What a Difference a Day Makes" - then you know how I met Katie. She came over one night, without pretense, and asked if I was doing anything. We ended up making a movie night of it, and we both had a wonderful time. What she could not have known was that I had been having a horribly homesick day, and had despaired at sitting in the apartment alone all evening. I had no sooner completed the thought when her knock came at the door - a little miracle in its way. We have been fast friends ever since. We plan to room together next year, and to go to Jerusalem together come next winter.

I could tell you endless stories of a similar nature. It's incredible how many memories can be made in three and a half months! There have been so many evenings, so many days, so many hours that I have held on to afterwards, and which I have later fled to and cherished on difficult days.

But the point, once again - gold and silver. I love my old friends. I do. I've missed them, and I've tried to take every opportunity to correspond with them. I've missed high school and Heber City. And even in their absence, I prize them as gold. And yet... here in Provo, I've found something equal to gold and better. Even in the midst of difficult change, even in a new, unfamiliar place, I have been blessed with silver everywhere I turned. I haved thanked my lucky stars and my Heavenly Father every day for such friends and such blessings as I have been given - even during the difficult days. And those dear friends have been more valuable to me than the old, simply because they are not a letter or a message, but a warm, living, breathing human being standing in person before me. Someone I can physically turn to when I need encouragement, or comfort, or a sweet embrace. And I can say with all honesty that none of my shining silver friends have ever let me down.

This time of year, both Thanksgiving and Christmas, is a good time of year to take stock of your personal coffers, both in a physical and spiritual sense. As you do, I encourage you to take particular notice of your gold and silver, and express your gratitude to both for their friendship and service. I also encourage you to look around and notice those who count you as gold or silver in their own treasuries. I know that every time my friends have given me comfort, my only desire was to return it in their hour of need. So take notice, be aware, keep and open mind - you never know what you might discover by the simple act of keeping your eyes open.

I know I have well expended my time on this page - yet one thing more. Never forget who sent you among these loved ones - our Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. They are our finest friends, now and forever. When all other metals have rusted and tarnished, when "from love's shining circle the gems drop away," they will always remain. May we remember to turn to them in all our doings, during this sacred Christmas season and always.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and safe journeys to all. 'Til next we meet...

Sunday Scribblings #245 - Limits

Can't is a horrible word. For one, it's a conjunction - and in my book it's just as easy to say "cannot," as it was said in proper English for centuries before Americans hit the scene. And crazy though it may seem, even in this conjunction-heavy modern day I am a great supporter of proper English.

That's not the real reason I hate it, though - "can't." I hate it because everyone says it about me. Almost every day. They've been saying it for sixteen years, and I for one am at a loss for anything that might make them stop.

I "can't" use the stairs, so I have to have an elevator pass, or take classes on the ground floor. I "can't" be in the school play because it requires dancing - no voice-only parts available. I "can't" do any school sports, even though I'm sure I could dominate at track and field if I wanted to - or basketball, or even rodeo. I "can't" drive myself anywhere (even with my liscence) because I "can't" get in and out of the car by myself. And I "can't" get any job that's worth getting. Believe me - I've tried. All because of this stupid wheelchair.

I shouldn't say that, really - my wheelchair allows me to do a lot of things I wouldn't be able to do otherwise. It takes away a whole world of "can'ts" from the picture. The proper thing to say is that I hate the fact that I will probably never be able walk. It's the only "can't" I've learned to accept. I can't stand for more then a few seconds on my own - I never could. I suppose that after so many years of living with a "can't," you start to get used to it.

But I have a secrect. In the evenings, after the dinner dishes are cleared away and my siblings are off to their respective activities, I disappear to my bedroom. I have it to myself - the only one on the ground floor. I lock the door, turn on the desk lamp, and pull the shades. I get out of my wheelchair and onto my bed. I even collapse it and push it beneath the desk, so I don't have to see it. I kick off my shoes and pull off my braces. Then I slip a hand under my pillow and draw out what's hidden there - a novel, whatever I was able to get my hands on in the library that week. I reverently pull back the cover, find my last stopping place, and read.

And suddenly I am in another world. It doesn't matter which one - the effect is the same. I am taking the stairs of Hogwarts two at a time, trying to be on time for Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall. I am dancing in the moonlight with the Scottish selkies, their seal skins abandoned on the beach. I am playing discus or racing chariots with Perseus and Jason and Heracles himself. I am travelling the world - by ship, by train, by horse, by hot air balloon. I am working alongside both the great and the humble - sluething alongside Sherlock Holmes, weaving with Silas Marner, striking the hour in Notre Dame with Quasimodo, or farming beside Alexandra on the Divide. I fly over Alegaesia on Saphira's back, ride through the woods with the Elves of Rivendell, wield a sword in defense of Narnia against the evil White Witch, or join the crew of brave Odysseus in his journey home to Ithaca. I can be anyone, go anywere, or do anything between those blessed pages...

And when the novel is over, or life comes once again creeping beneath the door and through the blinds to steal me back from the realm of fastasy, I turn to other means. When my mother or teachers think I'm doing homework, I open a fresh notebook and write. And then the world is my own, and I am once again free of the contraints of reality and flying on the back of my own imagination.

The world may say that I "can't." I say "you can't stop me."

As I Am

I wanted to share another piece of prose that is not my own. This one's poetry, actually - but that's not really important. Here it is:

I am the place where God shines through
for He and I are one, not two.
I need not want, nor will, nor plan -
my place is where and as I am.
And if I be relaxed and free,
He shall carry out His plan through me.

It's that fourth line that I wanted to show you particularly - "My place is where and as I am." That is temperence at its best. I think that not all of us feel that way. It is easy to wish that we were somewhere else, some other time; or that we were like someone, or had what someone else has, or could be in someone else's place. Sound familiar? It sure does to me. More than once have I been touched with envy for another, for for longing for another time and place, away from the care and responsibility of now.

Perhaps, though, we ought to think more along the lines this poem suggests. I am not, in fact, in a more stress free environment than the one which I occupy. I am not the girl with the angel voice in the Fine Arts Center, nor the skilled actress in the main stage production, nor J.K. Rowling (or anyone like her). I am in finals week. At BYU. I am an actress, a singer, and writer, even if not perfect or highly trained. I am student, a sister, a daughter, and a friend. My place is where and as I am. I use myself as an example simply because I haven't the words to relate it to every one of you. Imagine the words as they would sound with your name in their stead, and your place and talents, and you'll have a better picture.

And then there's the next part: "And if I be relaxed and free, He shall carry out His plan through me." Relaxed and free. How often are we so set on our own plans that we forget our Heavenly Father's? I know I have become so misguided at times. Again, it's easy to forget. It is an inherent part of our nature to let even the sweetest memories slip away from us. Because we can't see Him, we sometimes forget that He is there. But even on our brightest days,and especially in our darkest hours, He never forgets us. All it takes is for us to turn to him, to "Humble [ourselves]... before the mighty hand of God, that He may exhault you in do time... Casting all you care upon Him, for He careth for you."

And that he does - more than our lesser minds and hearts can ever comprehend. He knows us, and loves us, and has a plan for each of us. If we will only be relaxed and free, seperating ourselves from the hasteneing and rush of our everyday lives, and let Him work through us. May we all remember His everlasting love this sacred time of year.

Onward, ever onward! Until next time, dear readers...   

Everyday Roses

I'm taking my own advice today. For once. I'll have to start making a practice of it if I intend to find anything worthwhile to write. In reality, though, I'm not taking my own advice so much as the advice of Dale Carnegie. The quote I refer to is to your immediate right and down a ways, but I will repeat it anyway:

"One of the most tragic things I know about human nature is that all of us tend to put off living. We are all dreaming of some magical rose garden over the horizon - instead of enjoying the roses blooming outside our windows today."

I think Carnegie was onto something here - a truth that has been hanging over the heads of the human race since the very begining. Who of us has not desired to be in a different place and time? Who has not said to oneself (though in not so many words), "I will be happy when such-and-such a date or this-that-and-the-other is done." You can fill in the blanks. We've all said to ourselves that life will be better when the school year is out, or when a final is over, or after taxes are due, or once pay day comes, or once an assigned speech, talk, or presentation is past... the list could go on forever.

But in this fast-paced, mortal world, forever is something we simply don't have. It is not known to any of us how long our probation on this earth will be. We can't afford to always be looking to our "magical rose gardens over the horizon." Not when there are so many roses blossoming around us where we stand.

For example - it has snowed where I am. Several feet put itself down over the weekend, and with it came the truely cold weather. One would imagine that any kind of roses short of those made of silk would be a sheer impossibility. Walking home from campus after the day's classes, the air was maliciously bitter. I could feel the sensation leaving my face, ears, and fingertips. By the time I got to the first traffic light - the halfway point - I was no more capable of fast speech than I was of sprouting wings. On top of that, the day had been long, finals approach, and I had caught a cold the day before. This was the point at which I was wishing to be a thousand places and a thousand times other than where I was - not the least of which included Italy, St. George, Hawaii, or at my grandparents' house in front of a roaring fire.

This was the point at which I had to try to remember my own councils. I looked around and tried to find a blessing, a piece of magic in my immediate surroundings. The trees were bare and black, their skeletal branches laden with snow. The contrast was truly beautiful - the white on the dark, sillouetted against the eventide sky. I also noted that several trees on the corner had been coated with colored Christmas lights, which sparkled beautifully in the midst of the busy street. And blessings - I had a home to go to, not two blocks away, and I was wearing a heavy winter coat. Sure, I was an imbecile to forget my gloves and scarf that morning - but a coat is more than many people can claim ownership to. And I was just returning from being educated and one of the best universities available to me.

I sang carols all the rest of the way home, even though I was the only one to hear them. And once I got there, I found yet another gift besides - after the chill and bite of the day, the presence of wool socks, internal heating, and hot food made this little apartment seem the most blessed place on earth.

This holiday season, as you go about giving and getting, I encourage you also to not neglect what you've already been given. Fill your life with gratitude, every day, and the beautiful things - the blossoming roses - of your own here and now will jump out at you as never before. I'll try my best to do the same.

Until, next time, dear readers - and a Merry Christmas!

'Tis the Season

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!! There, I said it - whether you like it or not. As far as I'm concerned, the minute the pumpkin pie is cleared, the Christmas season has begun. My family decorated our Christmas tree yesterday night, and we've been well-stocked with eggnog and cocoa for well over a week. And no doubt you will have noticed that Everyday Magic has changed colors again - bright red and green, as promised.

That's the subject today - the Christmas season. It is incredibly easy to have your view obscured by over-commercialism. Black Friday, the holiday shopping rush, the fake Santa in the mall - it's almost impossible to miss. With all the hustle and bustle and shopping and buying and running around, it isn't difficult to feel a certain resentment toward the season.

But as anyone with half a heart can tell you, that most certainly is not the life and breath of Christmastime. It may take another week for things to really settle in, but before long you'll feel it. A thrill of excitement every time you see a house or building strung with lights... a sigh of contentment at the scent of fresh pine or unseen delicacies baking in the oven... the delight of receiving gift, no matter how small - and the hundredfold joy of giving one. There is a goodness in the air that permeates everything it meets, and even the busiest, weariest, and most solitary members of the human race cannot help but breathe it in and feel their spirit be healed.

You can believe what you will, but it is part of my Christmas to remember the birth of our savior Jesus Christ. And in the spirit of his life and of the joy of the season, I believe that this time of year is a time to help our fellow men who stand in need. I can promise you right now that if you have felt the pain of a wounded heart, the emptiness of depression or despair, the ache of grief, or the sting of sorrow - nothing will do you more good than helping someone else.

Imagine giving a blanket to someone with no other shelter... a meal to someone who didn't think they would be able to eat that night... a note of thanks to someone who has worked their hardest, or a word of comfort to someone in pain... And it doesn't have to be anything physical either. A smile can light the darkness of a life faster than the sun lights the sky in the morning. A hug can warm both body and soul better than any coat or blanket. A word of appreciation or encouragement can turn a day from despair to joy in seconds. Is this not magic?

I think it is just that - Christmas magic at its best. And best of all, it is a power you hold in your own hands - right here, right now. So go out and work some magic - and you will surely feel it working on you in the process.

A Merry Christmas to you - 'til next time!    

Sunday Scribblings #242 - What a Difference a Day Makes

And in a single day and night of misfortune, the island of Atlantis disappeared into the depths of the sea.

9600 BC.

-o-

Caesar walked up the steps of the forum, his head held high. The winds of fortune were at his back today, he thought. The Gods had truly smiled upon this humble leader of their mortal constituency. Today was the day, he determined, as he passed through the marble-set entrace, that all his greatest ambitions would come to pass. By sunset, Rome would have seen a new birth, a new victory. As he walked among his white-cladden comrades in the senate, he smiled confidently, assured in his own success.

He didn't see the daggers until it was too late.

Ides of March, 44 BC.

-o-

Martin Luther marched up to the door of the Castle Church, a scroll of paper held tightly in one hand, a pair of nails in the other. Coming upon the step he paused, reading again his own words upon the scroll. No new errors presented themselves to his scrutiny - it was ready.

Lacking a hammer, he hefted a heavy rock from the earth-paven street and beat the nails through the paper and into the door - dead center, over top of every other edict and argument hanging there. The sound echoed through the silent church, rocking the candles on the alter and the cruxifix on the wall - rocking, as it were, the very foundations of all christianity.

All Hallows Eve, 1517.

-o-

Thomas Jefferson leaned forward over the piece of parchment, seeing as though for the first time the familiar words that covered it - the children of his own pen. His determination set to the sticking place, he took up the quill and placed his signature at the bottom of the document.

He had followed the suit of several other men before him, and many more came after. In doing so they marked themselves as traitors to the most powerful empire int he known world. They signed away their liberty, their honor, and even their very lives - all for the sake of this one piece of paper. And yet, though small, it was a document that would soon be the cause of bloodshed to men of all nationalities - Englishmen, Frenchmen, Americans, and Islanders alike. It was a document destined to unalterably change the entire known world from the day of its signing and forever after.

July 4, 1776.

-o-

The plane flew out from the island early that day. No one knew where it was going - not even the high-ranking officers. Those who saw it leave watched it until it was no longer visible over the horizon. Some tried to guess at its purpose. Purely confidential, the whole thing had been - and headed for Japan, it looked like.

No one, in the wildest corner of their imaginations, guessed at what that plane carried in its cargo holds. No one dreamed that by the time it returned that night, it would have been responsible for the deaths of over 100,000 people. No one knew that Hiroshima and Nagasaki were enjoying their final day free of the devistation and terror of the warfront, free from the poison of radiation.

The American navy and airforce recruits would all tell of it in years to come - how they watched the planes go. But on that day, no one realized that by sunset, the Enola Gay would have returned from its horrific mission having won the greatest victory of the second great war - a victory that would plunge the world into a reign of terror for decades to come.

August 6, 1945.

-o-

The young woman lay on the couch in her new apartment - a dormitory, really, but apartment sounded more grown up. Her eyes were dry, and she looked quite normal - but she had done her fair share of crying earlier on, and her heart was still aching from the ordeal.

It had been a horrible day - piles of reading, more nameless faces and faceless names swiming in and out of her view in the passing crowds on campus, and another unintetional "detour" on the way home. It was too much. She wanted nothing more than to go back to her own bed in her own house, far away from all the harship of college. Homesickness, she thought, was more potent than any germ or virus known to man. It hurt badly and stayed on, like an aching muscle after a long hike.

A knock at the door. The young woman pushed herself up off the cushions and went to answer it. It was another girl - one of the roommates from the dorm next door. "Hey - sorry to barge in like this. Are you... doing anything tonight?"

"Uh - no, not at all. Come on in, please. It's Kathryn, right?" asked the young woman, surprised that she remembered the other girl's name.

"Yes. Rachel, isn't it? I don't want to interrupt anything. I didn't have anything to do, so I thought I'd come see if anyone was around..."

The conversation lengthened. Common ground was discovered, similarities shared. Smiles lengthened, and laughter soon followed. Hospitality was extended. A movie was put on, treats fetched from both dorms, and pillows and blankets brought out. The evening was a wonderful one - and, little by little, the homesickness and despair were making their retreat. As Rachel looked at her new friend from across the couch, she felt a new emotion take their place - something sweet and healing and as familiar as a summer day. And somehow, she felt very certain that it was going to last.

September 10, 2010.

100% Chance of Starfall

Hey, Everyone! Welcome to the second post of the month of November! It's been a while, I know - please forgive the delay. It's been a very busy month.

The world gets colder and prettier with every passing day. Winter paid a visit a few weeks ago, and everything in creation seems to be striving to put forth its best work before the old boy sets in permanently. Ever since the first frosts began touching the earth, the tree outside my theatre classroom has retaliated by raining stars. Star-shaped leaves, really - but it really does look as though the ground and bushes around the trunk were subject to a sudden shower of falling stars.

And this isn't the only tree I've seen acting peculiarly. As I was walking past the library the other day, a sudden wind started to blow. I was underneath a massive tree filled with small yellow leaves, and in seconds I was in the midst of a hurricaine of gold. I could easily imagine that the leaves were falling so perfectly on purpose, taking full advantage of a last chance to truly soar on the wind's back before coming to rest in their mother earth.

They sky, also, seems to want to put on a good show. Though sunsets are beautiful at any time, the ones I've witnessed the past few nights have been a truly spectacular sight. Waves of crimson, fountains of topaz, and oceans of gold wash over the western horizon, painting everything below in shades of rosy pink. It was one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. I imagine that were I to be in the place of God, the most enjoyable work I could perform would be the nightly task of painting sunsets.

In case I shouldn't write again before then, a Happy Thanksgiving to you. Keep counting your many blessings and giving thanks to God for all you possess. Give thanks also to those dearest to you. Our loved ones often do not realize what an impact their every day has on us, so we must be the ones to open their eyes. I encourage you to thank those who have given you laughter, love, and hope throughout your days - in short, those who make life worth living. You will make their lives better in the process, and that improvement will be greater thanks than any word or gift. I promise.

Again, Happy Holdiays! 'Til next we meet... 

A Grateful Heart

November is here! The season of Thanksgiving. I have determined that every day from now until the feast day itself, I shall write down four things for which I am thankful. By Thursday the 25th, then, I shall have one hundred.

This past general conference, President Monson encouraged us to be grateful. I couldn't agree more. In the words of one of my favorite hymns, "When upon lifes' billows you are tempest tossed, when you are discouraged thinking all is lost... Count your many blessings! Every doubt will fly, and you will be singing as the days go by." This is part of the reason I started this blog. I found that when my day was set on a downhill slide, all I had to do was look around at all the things I already had, and everything would brighten.

This is my list for today: I live in a country that allows me to learn, worship, and act freely. I am receiving a higher education at a brilliant university. I have a roof over my head, food on the table, and a TV set in the living room to boot. I have a family who loves me and cares deeply for my welfare. I have the best roommates on earth (if I do say so myself). And I have the restored gospel to lift, guide, and comfort me through this life. I think these things, and I cannot help but feel happy again. I have been blessed beyond measure.

But "where much is given, much is required." In the words of yet another hymn, "Because I have been given much I, too, must give." That is my word of council for this post. This is a month for giving thanks for what we have. I think that the best way to show that thanks is to impart of what we have been given to those who have less - whether it be a monotary contribution, a donation of personal belongings to a charity or foundation, or simply our time and talents. But most of all, the best thing we can give is our love - because that is something we can give endlessly, over and over, and never run out. In fact, I can guaruntee that you will always find your supply greater than before.

There it is - the first post of the month. Happy Thanksgiving - and there's another thing to be grateful for. Thanks to you all for reading my work. I hope it has been worthwhile.

- 'Til next we meet, my friends.

Everyday Mythology

"Christmas time is snow time, and in no time it'll be Christmas again..." A cute little holiday melody, yes? Just one problem. It's snowing here in the mountians - snowing hard - and it's still October! They leaves are still firmly attached to the trees (or were, this morning) and the sky is already dishing out winter weather.

But I'm not complaining (much). Because of the snow, I got to see something magnificent. I was heading to class early this morning and happened to turn around and catch a glimpse of my mountain - Timpanogas. I grew up in love with that mountain. As long as I could see her, I was home. And she was always so beautiful - just as colorful and varied as the sky itself. This morning she was wearing white. Gleaming, pristine, flawless white. The suns rays were reflected off her slopes, causing the whole mountianside to shine. Her peaks were cloaked in cotton-thick clouds, rendering the summit invisible from the valley floor.

I wondered if it wasn't just such an image that inspired the myths of Mount Olympus in the minds of the ancient Greeks. I can just imagine the gods and goddesses sitting in council on the mountaintop, looking down through the clouds on the sorry mortals below. To those who had no need to climb the higher mountains, who had no knowledge of what a mountaintop looked like - the possibilites are endless.

I've thought similar things while observing the cosmos for my astronomy course. What the ancients must have thought looking to the unfathomable heavens, and seeing the forms of their heros among the stars... the very least they could bring to the table of explanation is that an all-powerful being had put them there.

We modern mortals look to the storm-enveloped mountains, pity the poor wretch who is attempting the climb, and go on with our day. We look to the heavens and think of millions of miles of outerspace, of laws of gravity and the speed of light. But what would it be like if we could put our modern knowledge aside and look at the world through the eyes of the ancients? If, instead of explaining the world through logic and knowledge, we could put our imaginations to the test for a while? If we could stop seeing the laws of science and start searching for the touch of the Gods?

I think that in letting ages past take over, we might just get a clearer view of the present.

Sunday Scribblings #237 - Harvest

Here's my Sunday Scribbling for the week - except this time, I wrote it on a Monday. I hope I'm not breaking any rules in the act.


-oo0oo-

A storm was on the way. The trees had felt it all day, turning their leaves inside-out in anticipation of the coming moisture. A brisk breeze had been building itself up for hours until it had become something much stronger, though not yet strong enough to be called a gale. Clouds had been marching steadily onward from the west, growing larger and darker with every passing moment. Evening came and went, and darkness fell.

The house was still dimly lit, even though the sleeping hour had come. The day had been an eventful one, between the picnic and the blackberry hunting and dinner with the folks. The little ones had exhausted their seemingly unending supply of energy some hours before. They had tried so hard to stay awake, but even the most intriguing book or cunning game could not keep the drowsiness at bay in the end.

The father walked through the house, slowly and noiselessly. He was bone-tired himself, for the weeks of harvest had been long. But now, at last, all the corn was stowed away in the crib, the wheat was laid up in bundles in the barn, and the potatoes and bulbs had been planted in fresh beds of earth to await the spring. It was nearly time to rest. But not just yet.

He came to the first child, asleep over her picture book. He plucked her gently from the rug. She was a little thing, still a baby no matter how many times she insisted that she was a big girl. He laid her in her crib, day clothes and all, and tucked a blanket around her.

Then to the kitchen, where a much bigger boy, to big to carry, was resting his head on the table. The father lifted him up under the arms and guided him to the first of two beds in the back room. Then he went back for the boy's younger brother, who was curled up in front of the dying embers in the fireplace, and brought him to the second bed. He carefully bundled them up beneath the quilts, knowing from the howling wind that the night would be a cold one.  

Finally, a girl and her sister, who was nearly old enough to call herself a woman, were reclaimed from sewing room and settled deep down in their soft bed of goose-feather tick. Then it was time for the father and the mother to turn out the lights, one by one, and make their way through the dark to their own perfect bed, where they could be burried together beneath the blankets to wait out the wind and the cold of the storm.

The wind howled. Rain began hammering the roof and walls. Thunder rumbled in the distance. The house was dark and warm and still, reaping its rest after so many weeks of labor. The harvest was at last complete.

-oo0oo-

I want to clarify my request from last time. Please comment if you want to . I have no way of seeing who reads this unless you do. What I meant by my note was that you needn't feel obligated to comment simply because you read my blog. But if you feel you want to say something, please do it (whether you're from Scribblings or not). And if not, then think nothing of it. Thanks for all your support, and for reading all these little bits of my every day. I hope they are worth your while.

Green Jell-o and Funeral Potatoes

I went to the memorial service for my great grandfather yesterday. The occasion was a solemn one, but not many tears were shed. His official funeral had been in California - his state of residence - the week before, and most everyone who attended the service had shed their tears then. I sang that day, a song specially requested by my great grandmother. "Oh, My Papa," - come to find out it was sung at her own father's funeral. I was honored to be asked to sing it for her husband.

There were two miracles that happened on that hot Utah afternoon. The first was a pre-existing one - the miracle of knowing what we know. I know that Grandpa is now content and free from pain, and that we will someday see him again. That knowledge is more precious and more comforting than anything else in this world.

The second miracle was performed by the relief society sisters. As is generally the custom among LDS wards, the relief society at the ward building we attended provided a luncheon for the family members. We were all complete strangers to these women. Grandpa was being buried in Grandma's hometown, where she and her parents and grandparents had lived - but none of the people in attendance (including Grandma) live there anymore. Few of us had even visited the place in years. And yet these saintly sisters went to great trouble and effort to provide a meal for us. If that isn't service and Christian charity at its finest, I don't know what is.

You can talk about the "mormon quirks" from now until the cows come home. The priesthood brethren coming for the food and staying to take down chairs... enormous food storage jokes... relief society hand-outs... quilt tying... return missionary stories... or, the best of the lot, green jell-o and funeral potatoes. But I can say without a doubt that there is no form of sustinence on this planet (short of the sacrament) that is more satisfying or more comforting than green jell-o and funeral potatoes. To go from weeping over the empty shell of a loved one, to laughing with friends and family over a hot meal... that is a magical transformation if I ever saw one.

So many thanks to the Axtell Relief Society sisters - you are magic in its purest form.

'Til next we meet, dear readers...

Guardian Angels

I have just witnessed a terrifying thing. So please excuse any misprints or type-os today - I am still a little shaken.

I was sitting in the foyer of one of my class buildings a moment ago, doing homework. I was deeply immersed in my missionary discussion outline when a voice startled me into reality - a young woman commanding someone else to "Call 911!" She was kneeling beside another young woman, who was lying on the ground, motionless. My first impulse was to run around like a chicken with its head cut off until I found someone from campus medical personell. This I did not do, of course, though almost every internal instinct I possessed was telling me to. Instead I kept still and stood by, just in case another pair of hands was needed. But for the most part, I knew that the most productive thing I could do was to keep out of the way.

The people who had first seen the unconscious girl collapsed were gathered around her, and from what I could gather from their conversation the situation was thus: she was breathing and had a steady pulse, but her jaw was clenched shut. Nobody knew who she was, though one member of the group had found a cellphone on the girl's person and was trying to contact her parents. She was wearing some sort of moniter, maybe for heart rate or bloodsugar, that was beeping inscessantly but not giving any clear reading. Only one or two people touched her, calling her name and cheking her pulse - everyone else kept hands off.

A few minutes later the campus medical personell arrived and took over. They ran vitals, talked with the parents on the girl's cell, and moved her onto a stretcher. Just as they were about to strap her down, her pulse stopped. Immediately one of the medical officers began CPR, his hands pressing her chest over and over, trying to put a beat into her heart. "One! Two! Three! Four....," he counted aloud and he pushed.  "Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty!" Check for a pulse... still nothing... begin again. "One! Two! Three! Four!" The whole room held its breath.

The city EMTs got on the scene less than a minute later and told everyone to vacate the area. I had felt totally powerless all the while - I'd been praying like crazy just to feel as though I were doing something helpful - and so having a command to follow was a relief. I packed up my things as quickly as possible and headed out the door. I lingered a moment, giving one last look at the scene behind. Then I heared four words announced - the four most beautiful words that could possible have fallen upon my ears: "She's got a pulse!" I heaved a sigh of relief that was almost a sob. The girl was still alive. She taken away to an ambulance just after I left, and hopefully will be alright.

The bottom line is this. I've discovered something though this experience. Those young men and women I watched in action today stayed calm and in perfect control in the face of a fatality, and with their training performed a miracle. A heart had stopped beating... and they brought it to life again. Who can describe such an act as anything less?

Guardian angels don't wear white - they wear EMT uniforms. And lab coats, and nurse's scrubs, and surgeons masks. Their deft fingers and unsurpassed knowledge are the instruments of salvation. I know this for a fact - my own life was saved by a genius of a man who had worked hard to gain the knowledge and skill necessary to operate on a heart the size of a golf ball. I was ten days old at the time, and I have not met with Doctor Hawks since. But I hope that one day I will be able to thank him personally for every new day I live to see. That is my challenge for you today, readers - take some time to do whatever you can to express gratitude for the medical personell in your life = those who have kept you living, breathing, healthy, and happy. We can never thank them enough for the miracles they perform every day. They all are truely guardian angels on earth.

The Everlasting Things

Usually I talk about simplicity and magic. Today, I have something of a more important nature to share. I have talked all this time about blessings in this world, but there is a very important one that I have neglected to count.

It is this: What an inconceivable blessing it is to have a prophet and apostles on the earth, and to have the ability to hear their words! It is a blessing that we live in a nation that has progressed so far in technology as to enable us to listen to what they have to say wherever we are on earth. And it is a blessing to know that we, the imhabitants of that earth, are God's children, and that he has been thinking of us. He wants us to be as succesful as we can be in this life, and so he give us though his prophets words of wisdom, comfort, and warning to help us on our way.

Last week, my great grandfather passed away. Despite the sadness of the occasion, I did not cry when I found out, and I probably won't at his funeral service (not much, anyway). Do not mistake me - it is not because I am in anyway cold or heartless. I have not mourned his loss for three reasons: the first, because he lived in California, and I did not see him often or know him intimately. I did, however see him frequently enough to know what manner of man he was, and to enjoy my visits to his home. The second, because he has been ill for many months, and all of us knew that his time had come. But thirdly and most importantly, I did not cry because I have been blessed with great knowledge. I know without a shadow of a doubt that his spirit lives on, and that one day I will have to opportunity to see him again and come to know him better.

Today I was able to witness a beautiful occasion - the blessing of a new baby. The child, my newborn cousin Grady, was blessed by his father in their ward church building. In my mind there is no more moving or more powerful sight than that of a circle of worthy priesthood holders taking an infant in their arms and invoking the blessings of heaven upon him. I have been blessed to have this power in my life. Any time that I or one of my siblings was ill, even if it were two in the morning my father would don a white shirt and tie and come to our bedside to minister to his fevered child.

I have been blessed in so many ways - with loving family, a good education, dear friends, food and shelter, and good health. But the greatest blessings of all are the everlasting things, the truths I have come to know that will never end. Eternal families, the atonement, the priesthood, the restored gospel - all these are things that will stand to the last, even when the world itself crumbles at my feet. This I know for myself, and I cannot deny it.

For any of you who are reading this from Sunday Scribblings, I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. The words I have written today are no less than my testimony, and so I close in the name of our savior and redeemer, Jesus Christ.

May God bless and keep you all - 'til we meet again.

Dry Clothes.

Everybody's heard of a cloudburst. Most of you have seen one, no doubt. And I'll bet some of you have been caught in the middle of one. Well, the other day, we here in Utah county got hit with something that was more of a cloud explosion. Gallons and gallons of rain pouring onto BYU campus... and guess who had to walk through all of it?

I was studying at one building and had to get to another for class - in ten minutes or less. That's the long and short of the matter. So I walked (not ran - walked) through the rain to the Fine Arts building - and at a fairly slow pace, thanks to the mountian of textbooks I was packing along in my shoulder back. The rain kept coming - if anything, it poured all the harder - and as an added bonus, BYU has a very poor drainage system on the brick paths, which results in puddles a foot deep. And so, between one thing and another, I arrived at my theatre classroom positively soaked. Dripping on the carpet. With Lake Superior hanging out in my shoes. And mermaid hair - bad mermaid hair. When I walked in the door of the Fine Arts building, a girl who was preparing to go out took one look at me, and froze. As I passed, I heard her mumble something like, "Oh my gosh..."

Fortunately, I wasn't the only one who came to theatre looking like that. But by the time I had sat around in my sopping jeans for an hour and ridden my bike home through a frigid wind... the fact that other theatre students showed up in dripping t-shirts was doing little to console my mood. I locked up my bike, went up to my apartment, peeled off my wet things and threw on a dry pair of sweats...

The effect was instantaneous. Goosebumps receeded, muscles relaxed, breathing slowed... it was comfort in its purest form. My whole outlook on the day was turned around in the space of ten seconds. Add a hot meal, a glass of milk, and an oreo... Magic? I should say so. You don't have to wave a wand to make contentment appear out of thin air. All it takes is dry clothes.