Does anyone even read this any more??

The last month, I know, has been gut wrenching to watch. From all vantages. I'm so sorry that we have borne this trial, and I sincerely hope that you have found someone to bear it deeply with you.

In my academic life, I study how minority groups are visually depicted and represented. I find a fascinating application for my training in looking towards my own self, and the groups with whom I am family. Right now, I want to turn my attention to us; to Mormons. Specifically, to Mormon women.

I was  struck when the church decided (whether autonomously or not) to FINALLY display a photograph of the highest female authorities of our organization in the conference center this year. I wondered, when that happened, why it was happening just now, and I was intrigued that there was only minimal precedent for such a display in such a public place in the church. Almost every Relief Society room I've been in has little oval portraits of the presidents of that organization hanging on its walls. I hadn't really ever considered that such a view wasn't displayed for everyone. When those sisters showed up in the conference center, with their pastel blazers and heavenly puffed hair helmets, I was moved to finally see my sisters taking their place.

Being represented on a wall with a portrait in a public place has a long tradition in western culture. A portrait conveys a message of importance, of belonging and sometimes of wealth or great knowledge. Historically, portraits were reserved for kings and queens, emperors and pharaohs , members of royal courts and heroic dynasties. I saw these sisters taking their place in line with a long tradition.

But the fact that it took them until 2014 to finally be put up on the wall told me a different story.
In art history (my area of academic interest and practice), there is a great array of means to approach visual representation. In my particular area of study, the mechanism of the "post memory" has been useful. The post memory, essentially, is the means by which the struggles and hardships of our predecessors are imbued with meaning. It is the means by which latter generations inherit these struggles as a part of their identity, their narrative, their truth. I posit that Mormon women today are inheritors of the minimal visibility of our faithful sisters before us, and the deep capacity to remain faithful regardless. I would like to further suggest that that specific struggle has a great deal of significance and meaning.

A dear friend KB recently expressed to me the frustration that she feels compelled to "bask in the history of my foremothers. But it is too deeply overshadowed by [our] forefathers." KB isn't one to be lost on sentiment where it isn't due, and I want to tell her, to tell all of us, that there is meaning in joining the struggle to be seen, to be heard, to matter, and to make the story of the gospel whole.

I think often about when Eliza Snow was writing the words to O My Father. She was discussing the theology and nature of Godliness with her husband Joseph Smith, when he told her that we have a Mother in Heaven just as much as we have a Father there. She excitedly added that verse to her poem and encased our deep revealed doctrine of feminine potential in its lines. Eliza helped to usher forth the truth of the gospel, providing a projected potentiality for the women of the church. Why, then, have we taken to being so quiet about her, then? Do we have an obligation to honor her thorough silence? Does a half of the God of the universe speak in a primary voice? Does She speak at all?

And why, until Mormon revelation was the overriding Christian belief that Eve ruined all of existence for humanity?

It has been tempting for me to believe that the real truth is what I hear so very very often, even from people in the church; I'm tempted to believe that maybe God really doesn't value me as a whole being because I am a daughter. It's heartbreaking for me to even write this down. I am tempted to buy the line that I was made with the wrong parts to be a full participant in Zion. I'm really really tempted to believe it when people tell me (so often) that women are silent and invisible because that's how God wants it. It seems to make so much sense- all of my foremothers, all of the heroines and prophetesses of scripture are muzzled in light of their male counterparts. I am bereft at the fact that I don't miss their voice more, that we don't long more wholly for our Mother. There is no song we teach our young about the presidents of the Relief Society.

I could bemoan the inequities for days. But I will spare you (since you are here, you are probably already acutely aware), and instead offer this thought: I believe that as the women of the church, we link with these women- powerful role models: Heavenly Mother, Eve, Mary, The Other Mary, Emma, Lucy, Deborah, Miriam, Jael, Jezebel, Leah, Dorcas, The Woman Taken In Adultery, Ruth, Bonnie, Carole, Linda, The Other Linda, The Other Carol, Neill, Rosemary, Jean and Cheryl, Margaret, Maxine, Lynne, Lavina,  Kate, and countless others - in seeking to be seen, to be heard, to be faithful to righteousness. We inherit their struggle and their faith also in NOT being seen or heard, but valued abundantly nevertheless.

There is a scripture that I found recently that caught me in a moment of my temptation to believe the lie that women's authority is null: it's aaaaall the way back in Doctrine & Covenants  138. It's embedded in this recounting of Joseph F Smith's vision. He is telling about a vast congregation who await Christ while His body lay in the tomb. Is says that, assembled among Adam and his male cohort, was also "our glorious Mother Eve, with many of her faithful daughters who had lived through the ages and worshiped the true and living God."

-D&C 138:39

I feel dumbfounded that this scripture isn't more well known and beloved and celebrated amongst Mormon feminists. I intend to learn it and use it every time I enter back into temptation to believe the lie that women don't matter or are lesser. It reminds me that daughters have place in the halls of Zion. Even on the walls with the sons!
These daughters' struggle is ours. I in no way praise the institutions of the world nor forgive the mechanisms of almighty history for forgetting these women, I simply ask that we see, as their inheritors, the light of the gospel in them and take them as our mothers. I want to be nourished by them.

And so. 
For those is us who are ready to be done with the church, I stand with you. I want to hug each of you in the lobby on your way out the chapel doors and weep with you. I want to shout out my anger with you, using all of the tones and swears unbefitting the "good girls" we were trained up to be. I want to walk around with you and know where you can still see God and I want to worship with you there. I know why you have to go, and I honor that. I don't blame you, or begrudge your choice in the slightest.

For those of us who can stay a little longer, I hope that you find meaning and a means by which you can honor our women in spite of the temptation to believe that we must be mute and invisible. I hope that we magnify and grow our faith from the realities of our predecessors. If there's one thing we are good at, it's honoring our pioneer ancestors. I believe that it's the thing that Christ would have us do.
I think we have a chance to make this into a blessed time for growth as a sisterhood, as a people, and as humanity.

On Women and the Priesthood: Finally

This post has been a long time coming, and it has been a labor to get to it. It hasn't been without its rewards, and I hope that I can help in lending my voice; at least in a small part. 

In April of this year, I put a request for discussion of women and the Priesthood in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints as my Facebook.com status. I wanted to hear from my friends what they were thinking about it, and I wanted to find a means through which to formulate my own opinion on the matter. I was blessed with an outpouring of thoughtful and well reasoned conversation from men and women of a multitude of opinion.  I haven't actually heard any news about the discussion that was officially begun and carried on in an institutional manner since a few months ago, but some of the things that were brought up in discussing this topic with some friends have been weighing heavily on me. I want to share those and talk about my own experiences. 

I finally feel like I can talk about this. I finally feel like I should weigh in. This post is freaky-long and filled to bursting with more freaky-long links. Take your time, it'll be here forever. Sorry if you are already past it and you live in Idon'tcaresville already; skip this post and read my thoughts about nature or gardening or art or crushes or grass (those ones are good too). Or better yet, get a drink of water and go outside. Your bicycle probably misses you.

 *****************

In March of this year, I went to church with my aunt in Ogden, Utah. During Relief Society, an elderly sister raised her hand and made a non-sequiter comment to the effect that the "good" sisters of the church are not advocating for change. They don't ask a million zany questions, they aren't disruptive in their appearance, they don't ascribe to gifts or callings, they are sweet, they are good cooks, they are submissive, they are pleasant, they are gentle and meek, they are educated as a backup plan, they are quiet, and they do not wear pants to church (this was shortly on the heels of what had become called "Pantsgate," about which you can read more here, here or here). It would have been easy to put this sister's comments to rest for curmudgeonly state, but her comment reached down deep and made me think. Her attitude was one that created a real "us/them" dichotomy that made me uncomfortable and actually excused the spirit from that meeting. I know many women who are seeking after righteousness and the Spirit in their lives who fit precisely in the crosshairs of this woman's frustrations. I know how deeply these sisters defy all that she has been taught was good and true, but they are still her sisters. I include myself on many points. While this experience happened before the Ordain Women movement really hit the ground (April 2013), there was a foment in the air. This sister's comment became linked, inextricably in my mind with the question of women and the Priesthood and it is the thing that has bothered me most deeply in the discussion at large: it is divisive. 

I sought first to dismiss the whole issue because of its potential to tear apart the tender and vital ties that create a sisterhood within the church- that is something that I believe in and value greatly. We are asked to serve one another, and we are very good at it. My mother is no longer active in the Church, but she often inquires, gratefully, about the service that the sisters in my Relief Society in Nebraska have offered me. They treat me, without hesitation or guile, as one of their own. They enjoin me to their hearts as any sister would, and the enquire after her. I rejoice in detailing the goodness of the women (and men) with whom I am blessed to associate. Service and charity always first.  Our work is service in the work of perfecting the saints. This is a part of the four-fold mission of the church, which is: to proclaim the gospel, redeem the dead, care for the poor and needy and the perfecting of the saints. I love that the emphasis is on the ACTION of perfecting rather than the admiration or adoration of the already perfected. That emphasis allows plenty of space for impetuous, imperfect, me. What greater principle can there be?

Our second responsibility as members of the church, is to ask questions and respond when prompted in the name of coming unto Christ and becoming Christlike in our attributes and in our attitudes. We seek further light and knowledge always. The entire church is founded on a question. We believe in continuing revelation even when it is hard to bear and the changes we are asked to make seem strange or incomprehensible. We have a very long history of making those changes anyways. It is a SUBSTANTIAL part of our faith narrative, and one which I embrace wholly. I admire the spirit of Mormonism for which the veil is thin and the Heavens are open, for which the tenacity to approach the God of the Old and New Testament is a daily practice. That is the geist to which I seek to join myself; this is faith enacted. It is faith that compels action and moves a people across a continent, across oceans in an attempt to make promises with their God in holy temples. It is the power of healing and of blessing and the encircling comfort of angelic sweetness. It is the vehicle of forgiveness. This is the power by which we are enabled, our faith finished. There are evidences of this faith that I cannot deny, and this is what keeps me in the church. 

If questioning is such a substantial part of our faith, then I applaud those who have fostered the Ordain Women movement. I wish only that they were carrying on a continued conversation about it. Perhaps there is a conversation going on, but it hasn't reached Nebraska yet (If you know/are an answer to this, please comment). I am grateful for the opportunity to ask what Joseph Smith meant on founding the Relief Society as a "Kingdom of Priests." I am grateful to ponder the thinness of the veil and the willingness of my God to hear my concerns and treat my questions.  I have been blessed in asking questions about the power and authority that come through receiving an endowment in the temple. It has been a noble course of study to seek to more deeply understand the priesthood at large as well as in the specific (I have LOVED Joanna Brooks for leading this). I believe deeply in questioning.

But somehow I'm not satisfied with the ordination of women as an answer to all of that questioningness (If you were looking for a simple take-away message, this is it: I am not satisfied with the ordination of women to offices in the priesthood as it has been presented). A persistent concern for me in this entire conversation and in the buzz surrounding mormon feminism's upsurge in the last few years, is a disquietude for other cultures and traditions. I believe that God is big.  Bigger than I can fathom. Yes, I believe that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints is the location of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. I do not, however, believe that Mormonism has a corner on the market of righteousness or of correctness in principle or faith. I easily dismissed the "wear pants to church day" as a day for a very specific subset of Mormon women in the western United States to voice their concerns and demonstrate their opinion and feelings. This was not an important day where I live- there hasn't been a Sunday that a woman hasn't worn pants to church in the two years I have lived outside of the Western U.S. Nobody has ever batted an eyelash. I believe that there are more important things about us, as children of God, than what we look like or wear. I wore a dress on that day.  I am still a Mormon feminist. 

I recently had the opportunity to travel to northwestern Montana to learn from the Assiniboine tribe, from which I am descended. I learned so much in my time there, and a study of gender was a crucial component. of my thought process (so much more to come on this later). As it pertains to this topic, I was entranced by the exclusion of women in the performance of ceremonial functions. The Assiniboine are a traditionally matriarchal society, but even still, women are not participants in pipe ceremonies or in the Sun Dance except as dancers. The women make the food and watch the children. Watching this gender normativity play out in an indigenous tradition provided a means for me to both greater understand, and forgive the misgivings of Mormon gender relations. There may be a leap in logic there, but my point is that the supposed exclusion of women in priestly office is not singularly the fault of the LDS church, but rather a larger practice that I do not purport to fully understand. I didn't understand it in the context of my tribe, and I don't understand it in the context of the church (my other tribe). I will continue my study on this topic, but I will do it with a gentle heart. I will do it with humility and forgiveness in mind. 

Two final thoughts and I will wrap up this longest-ever-post. 

One: I am not certain that women aren't priesthood holders. I don't know how to quantify this here, but I think that women are not excluded from authority. We do not hold office, but is this separate from holding the priesthood generally? We wield authority in the temples of our God in both initiatory and endowment work for our selves as well as for the dead. We have power when we bring humanity into existence (and yes, I believe that fatherhood, NOT priesthood is the equivalent of motherhood; I also believe in a Heavenly Mother. She is a major part of my belief system although I do not know her well; these are the questions that I am still seeking answers for, still studying). We have authority in our callings and the magnification thereof. I believe this and I have done this. We are qualified for the work to which we are called. I have been blessed by women both inside and out of our temples, and I can't deny the power that I have felt from them. I have learned about the Levites in Exodus, who were washed and anointed, set apart as priests unto God. We inherit their tradition. All of us. Certainly it is frustrating that I entered into this when I was 25 when my brother was ordained to an office in the priesthood when he was only 12. Yes there is a tinge of disparity. And yes, I feel that too. 

But that brings me to my second and closing point. Many of the people I talked to about this topic were women who felt already-burdened by the cares they are asked to have in the daily functioning of the church and their lives. How many times did I hear sweet, over-burdened sister say that they felt filled up in the demands of running their houses, their education, their travels, their concerns for the future and their negotiations of the past? We feel like we are running at capacity perhaps, and that an office in the priesthood would be nothing but an added level of care. To them, I acquiesce and wish them the help and comfort they seek in the held-by-men-offices in which they invest meaning. Others wish that there were more of an opportunity to serve. I echo this and I find ways to do it. I make the bread each week for our sacrament service. I provide service in planning uplifting activities for my congregation. I pay my tithing. I ask questions. The church is remarkable in the way that it works with individuals. If you haven't found this to be true, move out of the Western United States for a year and try to do your visiting teaching 100%. Your testimony will quadruple and YOU WILL BE CHALLENGED.  I recommend that we re-examine the basics before we demand the complexities. Milk, then meat. My wise friend reminds me of this often. And then she texts me nightly to see that I read my scriptures. It's really fun to get wrapped up in the complicated, heady matters of the gospel, but I think we need a moment to breathe and take in the simple purity of the gospel. The small and simple things, after all, are the means by which greatness is brought to pass. 

This is my friend Dana, modeling a shirt made for her birthday by our friend Justin. I love the message on it- "Real feminists visit teach 100%." Amen sister. Amen. 

some of the times

but not ALL of the times, you see,  it's real hard to be a good Mormon/example/disciple/person.

(there are so many things to be said.)

"She doesn't work here"

Tonight, I went to listen to good women and men speak to the world. It's part of my religious practice to, twice a year, listen to the revealed word of God, as given by latter-day prophets. The practice warms my heart as a certain specialty Mormon holiday-feel always seems to creep its way into my soul in the spring and in the fall, as I, along with all of the members of the church across the world, meet to think about our relationship with God. We meet and stand in support of the network that is increasingly spreading across the globe. It is the goodness of the gospel spreading forth. 

But that isn't what I want to write about tonight. That is a topic worthy of praise and awe. No- tonight, I want to reflect on two incidents that have effected me deeply. The first one happened  tonight before the broadcast, the other 1.5 weeks ago.

Tonight, my stake Relief Society decided to host a potluck for all of the women who live in our area TWO HOURS before the broadcast was to begin. I found the time-frame absurd, and so I decided to go late, believing that, certainly, others would too. I was only partially correct in that others also came late, but mostly they came without food. I brought some hummus and pita bread.

So I stood alone and late in the kitchen at our stake center, sawing away with the child-safe knives readily available in the unlocked drawers, at my pita bread wafers. The other sisters from the stake were already sitting down to dinner, and most of the food was already gone. I was attempting to make a million triangles out of four rounds of bread. As I stood there, an older lady rambled in, holding an empty water pitcher from her table. She slammed it down on the counter where I was hacking away. She glared at me, demanding my attention. I said hello as politely as I could muster through my obvious disgruntlement. She replied, "My water is out. I need it filled."

I had no idea how to reply. Was it not apparent that I was busy? That I wasn't her servant? I went through an entire range of emotion: rage, confusion, bewilderment, frustration, impatience. As this encounter was happening, another sister had entered the room. She saw what was happening, and quickly attempted to intervene. She loudly told the first lady, "She doesn't work here, Norma!"

And suddenly, it struck me. No, no, Norma. I DO work here. This is PRECISELY where I work. This is how I can serve and lift where I am standing. Tonight, I was standing in the kitchen hacking away at pita bread that would hardly be sniffed by the carnivores in my stake. Tonight, I was needed to refill pitchers for seemingly incompetent old ladies. Tonight, I needed to lift chairs onto stacks after frail ladies had sat on them to dine. Tonight, I was needed to crawl under the stage to retrieve somebody's purse that had mysteriously gotten lodged. Tonight, and maybe every night in my entire life, I was needed. I think I have been missing this somehow.

I filled the old timer's pitcher as she stood there scowling at me with such impatience. I returned it to her, and she continued glaring. I went back to my pita bread, hoping she would just go away when she said, "What about ice?!?!"

I felt completely floored. I was reminded of a story that my dad loved to tell me while growing up,  about a time that an older gentleman was rude to him and cut him off while in line at the temple. He was so enraged and irritated by the old man that he felt he had lost all of the goodness he had generated that evening. A temple worker, standing nearby, sought to help my dad regain his peace, and said to him, "I'm so sorry! That's too bad!" Instantly, things were put into perspective. It's remarkable how having an innocent- someone who will intervene can restore peace like that.  I think the point of this story is the message of the Savior, the message of forgiveness and patience in learning to love one another. I forget sometimes how that applies to every person. I get blinders on and focus on the people who I know need love, the ones whose need is apparent. But I forget that I have committed to act to serve even the least of people.

It was a really weird moment, because it was so incredibly inconvenient to have this demand placed upon me. And why couldn't the other sister find ice for her? The old lady demanded MY attentions, MY service, MY action. It was a time that I wasn't looking to learn a lesson, an instance wherein I didn't feel like expanding or softening my heart. I turned to look for ice for the lady, and I walked to the fridge with the most bitter wrestle in my heart as I felt it tempting to melt to her needs. There was no ice, and I felt a little vindicated in invalidating her demand for cold. She sauntered off, grumbling, and I kept thinking.

I have been accused (more than a few times) before of thinking too much and too deeply about things that might be insignificant. But there was something about this instance that won't leave me. It is a lesson that has been sitting with me for some time, and one that I am ashamed has taken me so long to learn. I will be 27 in a month, and I should like to think I had know this sooner. But alas, I am humbled... yet again.

The other incident coincides beautifully with the lesson that was given voice tonight.

A week and a half ago, my battery in my car died. I had to borrow money from my dad to get a new one which is humiliating in itself, but even worse to know that it meant that there was ZERO dollars left for the rest of the month (this was around the 15th). So that. But then, I was asked to buy some supplies for the ward activity, which, being broke, I could not do! It was so embarrassing, but I had to call my relief society president  to have her come buy the things because I didn't have the $20 to front the bill. She came and paid and all was well. A few days later, she texted me and asked if she could visit for a minute.

Then she said she didn't want to offend me but that she was worried about me. I really wasn’t feeling all that sad about being poor because… well… I always am, I guess.  At first, I was sort of defensive and nervous because, you know… pride. But I decided to be soft and let her visit.

She came over and she didn’t say anything really, just hugged me and gave me an envelope full of money and left. I have never been in a situation where I needed help so badly, but I didn’t ask for it. I felt foolish for not asking, but at the same time completely humbled that I didn’t have to. That I mattered without announcing it. (Sidenote: There is a pattern I see emerging with my recent thoughts about Charity, and in particular, with this one incredible person. I have more thoughts on this topic, but those will be saved for a later date!)

I guess I spend a lot of time feeling like other people’s problems are worse than mine are, and I still suspect that is true. But even still, it was a big lesson to me that EVERYONE matters, and that really, in very real and practical ways, true charity cannot fail.

[It's also really weird, if you are able, listen to the last sermon that was given in that link up top... The one by the man (President Eyering)- it is the section of the conference through which I wept. Everything fits, everything is teaching me about this right now. ]

I guess the end result of this (these) lesson(s?) is that it's maybe time for me to stop pulling away from God. It's time to come back and find out, earnestly, what He/She/That is all about. I think it might be time for me to "be as childlike as my education has taught me to be tough-minded—wise as serpents and harmless as doves, I believe the Savior called it."



If you only choose one link from this post to listen to, choose that last one.

new

Let's remember what it is to be new.

Pablo Picasso, Woman with a Yellow Hat (Jaqueline) ca. 1906

I sat next to a man at church yesterday who asked me where the priest was. I explained how we have bishops in the church an a little bit about the organization. I am not confident that he understood all of what I was saying because I was whispering to him during sacrament meeting, a time when we're supposed to be real quiet. In a ward the size of mine, it's easy for people to notice when you are un-quiet. He started me on a vicious cycle, and my defense of things that smaller and newer than I am kicked in right then and there. I wanted to ask the speakers to be kind and non-jargony. I wanted so hard for them to remember that "initiatory" and "baptism for the dead" and "celestial kingdom" are things that sound scary to people who aren't us, but are curious nevertheless. Those things are scary for the uninitiated. The man sitting by me (we'll call him Charles, because that was his name)   looked to me several times, imploringly seeking validation and a glance to know that he would be ok. He would be ok. I was reminded of sitting in my dad's ward in California as a teenager. I always remember that ward as a ward where I was watched nearly constantly by the children of the ward. I think they liked me because I liked them openly. I remember how they often would watch me while I sat in sacrament meeting. It's a weird feeling to know that you are being watched like that. I'm not trying to say that I was a perfect example all of the time. In the contrary, I was often the one who supplied those babies with coloring books and dinosaurs to distract their attentions. I know what it is to be new, and to not know what big words mean. I know what it is to not know where I could set my backpack. I know what it is to not speak the language, and not know who I could sit by in the cafeteria, or when it was appropriate to ask a question. I know what it is to be new.

I got a text this last week that has been sitting deeply with me. It said, "disciples are not people who never doubt. They doubt and serve and help each other with their doubts. They doubt and practice faithfulness. They doubt and wait for their doubts to be turned into knowing."

I don't know who said it originally, but I am deeply moved by the concept. Is that not precisely what we promise to do every week? Is that not what it means to bear one another's burden?

I had to leave the sacrament meeting about halfway through because I was so overwhelmed in looking at he meeting from the eyes of the new. I am new to some ways of seeing things, I suppose, as things have shifted in my family lately. My dad is getting re-married next month, and I don't really understand how all of that works. I am sort of in a mess about how things will straighten themselves out. Where do I fit? And what of my parents' temple sealing? I don't know how to sort things out, and the talks given were almost exclusively about the topic of marriage (aren't they seemingly always about that topic in singles' congregations?). I felt remorse for leaving Charles to his own intellect to understand all of all of the things. I went into the hallway and cried and cried. I felt abandoned again. Felt lost again. Felt new and scared again. I felt like I didn't belong. Again.

And it is truly by the grace of God that I was joined by one of the kindest women I have ever known in that hallway. My relief society president wept with me. She shared her love and compassion and empathy with me. She showed me how to be Christlike. And man! What an incredible thing!

She literally embodied the spirit of the Relief Society in that instance, that selfless moment of reaching out to me. I shouldn't have needed it- I should be one of the strong ones. But she didn't care. She didn't want me to cry alone. She didn't want me to sink. And she reminded me that it's okay to be new. It's okay to not know, and to re-asses and ask again and again and again. There are always answers. She reminded me that charity never faileth.

Let us have patience with being new, and kind to those who don't yet know.

believing

I need to write this down so that I don't forget it. It isn't for you, it's for me. If some kernel of it touches you, that's great, but I need to write it to remember.

I have been troubled lately by the trend of Mormonism-discussing articles. It seems like people who have had an experience with the church are using their experiences for capital. Perhaps it is the fervor surrounding what Newsweek and the New York Times last year called, "The Mormon Moment" that has sparked the interest. Perhaps there are political motivations. Regardless of the motivation, it appears that my religion has become fodder for articles and columns rather than a means to access God. Honestly, it's why I won't be voting for Mitt Romney this fall. I want my religion to stay peculiar. I want it to stay out of the mainstream. We have never been mainstream, and I am not ready to apologize for that. It has become a cultural stamp to say "I was once Mormon, and here are all of the reasons why I was wrong and I am stupid for doing it". I am tired of reading those things. I am tired of hearing the reasons why these people think I am stupid for remaining active in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.

I understand the implications.

I have read the history, I have intimately known the racism, the sexism, the bigotry. I understand that heritage in proclaiming my love for and adherence to the church. I can see the danger in accepting that.

I am not blind in my faith.

But when it comes down to it, that is precisely what I have: faith. I often think that the only things I have are faith and an enduring hope that faith will be rewarded. I am increasingly comfortable with that. I do not know many things. I am constantly impressed to think about how little I actually KNOW for fact. It seems that there is always another modifying element that comes along to challenge my certainty in all things. I'm not just talking about churchy things here: social, emotional, academic, secular, scientific, etc. Knowledge seems to work as a manner of disproving past theorems, asserting the rightness of new ideas to replace old ones. It's the work of so much philosophy and science. I respect that, but I am not going to root myself in it as absolute truth. I spend a lot of time at church asking questions and challenging the knowingness of my fellow Mormons as well. I don't direct my frustrations with knowing at the secular world alone. I want to push to see if they really know, and if they do, how it can be so. I rely a lot on Alma to back up my challenge here. Is their belief mistaken for knowing?

I want us to become more comfortable with faith. There are so many things that we cannot know, and I am happy to accept the limitations of my capacities. I can acknowledge my weaknesses. In so doing, I also must assert that there are many who seem to know more than I do. I wear my questioning nature as a badge of faith. I believe that the gospel of Jesus Christ can withstand my questions, and righteousness will reign. I believe in absolute truth. I do not know it for certain, but I believe in it. There is power in belief.

I am increasingly comfortable with not knowing. I am increasingly comfortable with relying singularly on faith. I am, herein, seeking to praise that virtue. I want to hear more people in the church stand at their pulpits on the first Sunday of the month and tell me what they BELIEVE. I am tired of hearing what they presume to KNOW. I am saying that there are limitations to what we can know, but there is not a limit to what we can believe.

I study systems of value in the history of humankind. I have seen empires fall and rise based on the certainty of particular systems, assertions of knowledge. Assertions of knowledge lead to dangerous, hateful places. In so studying, I have come to the conclusion that we are all different. We are all trying to adhere the most to the things we want the most, the things about which we are most certain, the things which congratulate us the most. We are all seeking for the best situation for ourselves and for those we love. We use logic to deduce the best possible means to accomplish our goals. I will never deny the power of logic in decision making, but I would really like to introduce and affirm the power of faith in decision making. Not in knowing, but in believing. Faith, inherently, has uncertainty built into it. That's why it's scary.

I went to the Nauvoo Pageant this past weekend. I have to insert here, that I have found a lot of ways in my life to disconnect from Mormon culture. I hadn't ever seen Saturday's Warrior. I never fell for any of the missionaries who visited the wards of my youth. I didn't own a Jody dress with an ugly pastel floral print. I didn't plan to marry until after I had graduated from college. I have friends who are homosexual, and I had stepped foot in a bar before the age of 22. I enjoy a nice Diet Coke now and again. I unapologetically pepper my language with swears. I didn't want to go to BYU, and I have never been to a Cougar's football game. I only ate at Brick Oven in Provo once (it was gross). I often forget what happened in Kirtland, and couldn't name the prophets in order for you. I sought to defy the faith of my ancestors in a lot of venues, sought to differentiate myself from them for a long time. I went to the Manti Pageant a few years back as a tongue in cheek, semi-ironc statement. I can take responsibility for those decisions I made.  I was defensive against an institution that sometimes manifests human insecurity and selfishness. I was defensive against a culture that sometimes moves in ways I think of as unholy, ungodly, monotonous and harmful. I was defensive against institutional harm that has been done to my people. I was defensive. And I accept that.

I hadn't really wanted to travel to Nauvoo with my ward in Lincoln for the utter cliche of it all. But my heart was softened while there, as a piece of the evolution of my faith. I was in conversation with a friend from the ward here who was baptized a few months back. He thinks really deeply about things, and so is interesting to talk to. He is pretty logical about most things, and it's refreshing sometimes to hear things from a Spock perspective (I function mostly as a Captain Kirk). But after we watched the pageant, he told me that he felt like his heart grew three sizes bigger, that the hair on the back of his neck stood up, and he felt overwhelmed with peace. I felt like he was witnessing to me the meeting of the head and the heart. Together, they testified to him and allowed the Spirit to teach him about the Gospel. He told me he felt like the Grinch in the cartoon version of How the Grinch Stole Christmas, when he goes into the town and everyone shares their canned food with him. When he feels bad about them all being hungry, but still celebrating Christmas, so he gets the "roast beast" they had prepared- while he is slicing it, his heart grows too big for the frame. That part. He felt like his heart was going to burst with love.

I love that feeling.

I am also completely terrified and addicted to that feeling.

I cannot explain the logic in it, and I want to assert the power of feeling the Spirit. I want to acknowledge the courage it takes to act on faith. I want to sing praise for my pioneer grandparents whose exodus makes no logical sense. I want to give love to the polygamist sisterwives of my ancestry, who resisted based on logic, but committed because of faith. I want to thank all of them for their humility and willingness to build, what they believed, was the kingdom of God on the earth. I think I am coming to understand why there is such a focus on pioneers at church. I always hated how much of a focus there was on that... It seemed like ancestor worship that detracted from a testimony of Jesus Christ, which is the center of my faith. But I think I am coming to know the principle that is at work in those stories of which there are not a few. I am coming to see the common thread that knits my heart to theirs. I am coming to know that it is precisely that testimony, that faith to act on the mission of Jesus Christ is what provokes the focus. We liken the past unto ourselves.

I believe that faith leads to action. I am trying to resist the demand to know, and trying to be content with the power of faith.My sweet missionary baby brother directed me to this talk today. It has a lot in it that I find applicable to my assertions, queries and ideas here. The gospel is amazing. I believe it to be true.

The Big Three

Remember this?

Well today I am feeling grateful for prophets who answer my questions and try to push me to meet my needs. Yep. Grateful.


Jeffrey R. Holland | How Do I Love Thee? | February 15, 2000 | BYU Broadcasting

today was okay.

First I woke up pretty early and went to the Temple. gosh, I love that place. I could talk more about it, but I would rather tell you in real life. You should ask me sometime.

And then I came home and read books forever. I literally CANNOT wait until I get to choose the books I read again. It's not that I DIDN'T want to read these books, it's more that I wouldn't choose them... ever.

And finally, I went to a roller derby. Hello cool, and HELLO to my new favorite sport.

And now my boobs hurt and are tired of being looked at and it's time to go to sleep.

Happy Easter.

Sincerely.

FOODIE

 

This is some local NE chevre with some herbes de provence and peppercorns, a slice of homemade wheatberry bread, a mason jar with Spanish olive oil and the core of a locally grown green pepper.

hi, lunch. 

 

These are some cookies I made for Purim, the Jewish traditional holiday where the Biblical heroine Esther is celebrated with exchanges of good fortune in the form of cookies and other foodstuffs. This sounds like my ideal holiday: the celebration of a righteously diplomatic, kind and principled woman and food (specifically cookies, my kryptonite). 

Yes. 

...................................................................

Sometimes I pride myself on being a little bit of a foodsnob, and other times I am more humble because I occasionally want a bowl of cheerios at midnight (albeit they are usually the artisan local variety adrift in locally sourced soy milk). And sometimes (usually at the end of the month), I feel a slight sense of remorse at the goodness a new paycheque has brought me in the form of ingredients and fixins. This article helped me gain a little bit of perspective and guidance, although the author's focus was on food associated with hanging out with other 14 year olds and my problem is focused on food associated with afternoon walks in suburbs of Paris, mistakenly delicious alleyways in Brugges, and markets in London. That's not even to mention the cafes in New York or even The Garden. 

(OH! That Garden!!)

Like I said: I'm a snob.

The same basic principle applies in the long run I guess:
Be more humble.

.....................................................................

CONSTANTLY:

Nourish your body: nourish your spirit.

Nourish each other.

Subvert the system that is feeding you garbage.

Fill with love.

(that was to be read as a command)

Crossroads (But Not The Brittney Spears Movie)

  My mom keeps trying to get me to try online dating. The concept feels so inauthentic to me that I hardly give it a second thought. After telling her about my stresses about school, being awoken by gunshots at 4 AM, and the terror of having a human body found near my house, she wanted to know my romance-related woes. Could the demons lurking under bridges in my neighborhood and in my intellectual spaces not satiate her? She needed more. Like a soap opera to which she is addicted, She wanted me to tell her everything (about one narrow topic, hitherto only a small sliver of a [my] very rich life). 

  I told her everything there was to tell. I spare no detail with her sometimes.

  And then she (again...) asked if I thought online dating wasn't a good idea. After all, she found her last few boyfriends on various websites. My sister chimed in, for she too was an internet success story. They even offered to craft an online presence for me. While I think their concern is somewhat warranted and their offer indubitably kind, I'm just not convinced that a website will fit the bill.  Is this what we have come to as a people? Are we so replete with authentic human interactions that we are capable of boiling ourselves down to a webpage and advertising the hell out of ourselves, pimping our education and our favorite films, music and qualities about ourselves? I guess I just think some things require actual interaction. Some things must be felt.

We then got into a discussion about what was wrong with me. 

  The topic did not help me feel too nice.

  WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME!??! 

  Time to say farewell to my pride. Yet again.

 Historically speaking, my family hasn't really been one to put much pressure on us for not dating or being in a relationship or being married. I have spent time being grateful for the breathing space. This was especially poignant after my parents' marriage dissolved after 27 years. I too needed to give myself time and mental hiatus. But looking back, I think I may have stopped pushing myself, stopped progressing and learning how to trust and interact appropriately with the male sex. I have installed mental blocks that are making it really, really hard to jump beyond myself. I want to jump, but those blocks are making it hard for me to see that I might land on the other side. They make it hard to see if it's worth it to try. I am not interested in blaming others for my lack. I want to feel empowered to act on my own behalf.

  And maybe now, my parents are beginning to feel the fact of the time-lease that is their daughter's female body. My body. The prospect of progeny is an enticing one for them, it seems; perhaps I do not provide them with enough charm any longer as a 26 year old child.

  I read an article about the word gals. The word, as the article's author seems to understand, is... well... stupid. But she makes a point in saying that, 

that mantle of womanhood can be too heavy—many of us who are the right age to have sympathized with Britney Spears when she sang "I'm Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman" in 2001 are still stuck in between (I was 16 at the time that song came out) . As a 20-something female, there are moments, romantic and professional and Shania-Twain-approved, when I feel like a woman. Other times, I really do feel like a girl (though not as often as I am called one). I never feel like a lady except in announcements made also to gentlemen and I only feel like a dame when I watch old movies. What I feel like most of the time is a guy. A female guy.

  This comes, appropriately, on the heel of hearing a lecture last week entitled "Guyland" at a gender studies conference at which I was a (grown-ass-woman) panelist. The lecture was largely casually written off as pop-sociology. But to some extent, my attention was caught in the idea of extended adolescence and the allure of irresponsibility, ad infinitum. The prospect of being a "forever-dude" is certainly an entertaining one that smacks of fountains of youth and promises eternal springtime filled with "going to shows, bro", and staying up until three AM eight nights in a row. Filled with the stuff of college and flexing your wings for the first time, rather than learning that wings were meant for long-distance, stamina- requiring flight. Wings are meant for adult things like paying bills on time and regularly brushing your teeth before going to bed. Wings that are meant to bear and teach babies.The guyland appeal fights with my determination to age honestly and gracefully into a wise, wizened, and self- actualized old woman one day. I can see myself as that: I'm old and wonderful and kind.

  But for now I am 26 years old.

  Today.

  And today I wrote a professor from my undergrad to see if there would be a teaching position for me in the summer. That's right. That's me today: actualizing real, grown ass-woman, careersy aspirations. I don't know if I will get the job. I will keep you posted on that, but I am making strides.  This is one of those "Shania-Twain-approved" occasions. My mom never asked about it. I didn't push the topic.

  I understand that my zeal for education and a career might seem antithetical to the accepted roles outlined here. I don't know to what extent I am prepared to submit to those fully just yet, but I think that I want a family. I sometimes see babies and want to cry at how much I want to touch them. I think I would be a good mom. I think I have the capacity to love small things and make real food for real small humans. I am good at comforting babies and helping them feel loved. I am good at teaching them about the world, how wonderful and full it can be; I am good at inspiring wonderment and imagination. I am good at playing with them and helping them laugh. I want to make real promises to a real man human and make real things happen with him. I want to do that in a certain sacred place, wherein we will incur the permission of Heaven. I really do want that.  I feel it very deeply and feel powerful in writing that down.

  But I also can admit and embrace that my career-related aspirations might be somewhat intimidating to real human men/potential marriage prospects (this isn't the appropriate place to discuss my opinions about men who are intimidated by successful women, but know that I have a few). And my object in clinging so desperately to the hope of career opportunities is not grown from subversion, rebellion or even in doubt or fear. It's rooted in the feeling of ability and control (it is somewhat vulnerable-making to explain this here). 

  My career is the only thing in which I feel validated to satisfactorily control. It is the one thing in which I feel a degree of autonomy based on my own abilities and skills; the arena in which I can thrive at being ambitious and definite in pursuing the thing that I want. I do not feel this validation in my relationships with men, nor in my friendships with human beings of either gender. I frequently take the role of passive acceptor. This role often leads to being alone, and sometimes (not always, but sometimes) being alone leads to being lonely. I am learning that I cannot be antonymous on a project which inherently requires the contribution of two. There is certainly pride tied up in the focus on education and career. Pride, of which I am leery, as I know the dangers and pitfalls of pride intimately well. I read stories about it every day from this book that I'm kind of in to. I need to move and be moved, see and be seen. Perhaps that is the key to finding a successful relationship; admission that I cannot control things/others/fate?

  It's time to say farewell to my pride again. 

  How do you submit to waiting?

  Is there a better location than Guy/Gal Land? My lease here might be up; rent certainly is cheap, but there are too many dead bodies showing up in ravines and shooters lurking in the neighborhood.

 

december: a review, etc.

Phew! December was B.U.S.Y.
so a few MAJOR things happened December 2010.

I graduated from BYU with a BA in Art History and Curatorial Studies. Want to hire me?
I went to the temple to be endowed. It was incredible and beautiful and overwhelming and great. So great. BFF Kara came with me- the perfect choice.
My dad moved to Mexico.
My dad's BFF died tragically of a heart-attack while mountain biking (SUPER awful).
My baby Brother landed in and began his mission in Germany. He is in Bamburg currently.
I became unemployed.

that's basically it. I guess it's sort of a lot for one month. Oh yeah- add that to Christmas and New Years with all the hubub that entails. New Years was A.W.E.S.O.M.E. this year (usually one of my LEAST favorite holidays) because it was rather low key, and somehow really incredible and fun. You should find an excuse to have a dance party in the street sometime. It's great.

This new year is going to be full of adventure. I'm feeling a little apprehensive about things as I write this and come to the realization that a lot of things in my life depend on other people's acceptance of me as a person:

+I am applying to 5 graduate schools. So many people will be judging the paper representatives of me in the coming months.

+I given pressure for the first time EVER over Christmas festivities about not dating anyone/being wed. The prospect of dating someone is intimately tied with another person's acceptance and love of me.

+My house has taken a dramatic shift; the end of an era, some have called it. Three new random housemates incur a great deal of stress in the notion that they might hate us and our house's culture.
   -one of them flirts with every male-type who has entered our house thus far- 
   -one of them I have never seen-

In the meantime, I am working at the Central Utah Arts Center. It is Awesome. You should probably check it out.
I write press releases for their shows, and sometimes do other stuff. I'll post the latest.

why I did it

I submitted my thesis for publication this week.
I got an email (so much less classy than a letter) that confirmed receipt of my "manuscript".

I would like to review the events that led up to this event in hopes to assuage the sudden and immense sense of dread that I am presently feeling about the whole debacle.

Since I got back from Europe, I haven't really done much of anything except attempt to recover my

a. sanity and 

b. regular pace. 

Now that I have finally gotten those back, it seems that my last semester is begging for me to loose them again. A grad seminar class (there used to be two of them, but I realized I was in over my head), three undergrad classes, a brand new (sort of intimidating) calling in church, a position in a presidency at school,  prepping for the GRE and praying with all of prayer parts to get into a good grad school, a baby brother leaving on a mission, the garden, and any attempt at a social-life-outlet are all semi-huge demands. Oh. And my family is crazy, in case you forgot that little detail.

Fortunately, It's fall. For me, fall is a time of total rejuvenation and preparation. I feel the best in the fall. Maybe because it's the last vestiges of summer, and maybe because I was born in the fall. I take a lot of cues from trees (it seems to be sort of a theme for me on this here blog thingy...). In the fall, trees drop all that stuff that's not super important for their survival (fact: trees drop their leaves because if they didn't, the dead weight would tip them over. That is neat: also a fact.) I like the way fall shakes things up. I want to shake too.

So there I was, talking with kb about nothing in particular. I love that girl. We were laughing, and I felt a sudden sense of urgency, like, I hadn't done enough yet, and if I didn't act RIGHT THEN, my opportunity would be lost.

I came in my room and for an hour (1am-2am...) figured out what to do to submit, tidied up an abstract I'd been mulling over, and sent them away into the void of the internets. Goodbye, forever? Maybe...

To be totally honest, I didn't think about it. I just went and brushed my teeth and went to bed. It wasn't until I got this stupid email confirming that my "manuscript" had been received that I began to freak out. Talk about inopportune timing, universe. Jeeze. I was having a really good evening too!

Anyways, now I am feeling really nervous and self-conscious about everything.  I guess I don't really ever put myself into situations where there's a slight chance that I could be rejected. This was probably a good step for me. But for the moment, it sucks.

ps. Doesn't the term "manuscript" usually connote something a little more like this:

than this:

 

yeah...

My Baby Brother...

...has been called to serve a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints in the Germany, Frankfurt Mission.

God speed, buddy.