12.11.11

Excerpts from my journal

11.21.10:
Snow this morning, but not quite so cold as it has been. As I was walking, the mountains were half-covered in an elusive white mist framed perfectly by a grey sky - so powerful in their peaceful, dominating presence.
...
In short, I refused the Lord; I provoked Him - "Lord," I said, "maybe this isn't the right time for me; perhaps I can receive this blessing a little later?"
...
I tried for some time after to compensate by asking forgiveness, but the moment had passed, the door had closed with the opportunity behind it lost. I felt like I had betrayed a friend and left Him with a hurt and saddened heart.

12.5.10:
But there is a deep and subtle hope and indeed there has been during even the darkest hours of these past few days that has resided at the edges of my heart - a spiritual peace that has soothed, revealed, and reminded.

12.21.10:
The semester and its memories, both dear and terrible, seem so distant now. Perhaps this is the mark of entering new stages of life and my mind even begins to wonder if our passage from mortality would not bear the same transitory feelings.

1.23.11:
A joy and gratitude fill my heart this morning as I can hardly describe to you. I am sitting again in this small chapel in Ntinda during my first sacrament meeting back in Kampala. Can I but begin to tell you what immense happiness and sweet gratitude reside here? These beautiful saints and pioneers, how grateful I am for their examples of willingness and faith. How grateful I am to be here again.

1.29.11:
In the car of my dear friend Alfred on the road from Gulu back to Kampala.
...
There is an African tree which I have seen frequently on this drive whose bright red flowers are in almost full bloom. Other trees there are, like gigantic flat umbrellas, but my favorites are those massive round monuments standing in motherly superiority and teeming with life as though giant green beehives. The scenery extends outward from the road in simple, untouched magnificence. And people by the thousands; scarcely have we gone a quarter of a mile without passing a person walking, on bicycle, on motorcycle - in towns along the way or simply traveling to some unseen location.

2.20.11:
No church today as the Ugandan elections are taking place. Megan has been terribly sick the last few days and so it has been better that we have been encouraged to stay home; she has been able to rest and recover.

4.23.11:
It is my first Sunday back in Provo. It was cold this morning, but clear; it looks to be the beginning of a very beautiful day.

5.29.11:
I ask myself, when someone comes to you distraught, why do you not shed tears with them? Why do you keep yourself aloof from shared emotion? There are a few immediate responses in my mind; the first is: because it does not resolve anything - it doesn't accomplish anything to sit and cry with someone; to cry with them only makes the solution more elusive and unrealized. But this mentality highlights another immediate response - more of a feeling - which is of nervousness and fear. But what am I afraid of?
...
I think my mind thinks that empathy is a weakness; the potential, it posits, of a person is to overcome challenges and be consistently confident and at peace. Emotion, it says, is merely an obstacle to viewing these deeper assurances. For me, to be emotional with a person would actually be hurting them as it would not help them see the solution and, what is worse, would only be admitting to the fact that I do not already know the solution. I would be fatalistic and would actually make me a worse friend - why embrace someone lost in a dark cave? Does your embrace really help them find a way out?
...
But what do these opinions really come down to? Perhaps these logical thoughts are but a fearful escape. But what is it really that I am afraid of?
...
Someone's disapproval of my character is, I think, among my most prominent terrors. Even my spirituality, in many senses, can be so dangerously tied to my fear of the bias judgments of others; and not so much for them to think I am flawed or even arrogant, but for them to consider me weak in any way. For them to think I am what I passionately do not wish to be.

6.12.11:
To the addict, what hope is there of repentance?

7.17.11:
Perhaps the problems I have are a part of who I am; of course, this scares me to say because it implies that I cannot eventually purge myself of my issues. I'm afraid of not being rid of that part of myself because it is something that begets misery; and reflecting, I am all the more scared because of the variable nature of myself - I am afraid because I cannot have complete control.

8.7.11:
The pieces inside me do not cease their movements: although storms may rage at times, the weather never stops and this is, I think, an essential consideration. Perhaps emotions do not necessarily end; perhaps they are not, as I have been so apt to think, a virus to be waited upon as an exterior trial to be borne. The body never stops, while we live, breathing, beating, processing, moving, healing, regenerating, and so on. So too do we never stop synthesizing, thinking, analyzing, feeling, desiring, searching, wondering, and so on.
...
Emotions and thoughts: they are always moving and changing and developing.

9.11.11:
Ten years ago today, early in the morning, my mother was driving me to my friend's house to pick him up so that she could then take us both to seminary. When Nick got in the car, he mentioned something about the World Trade Centers. We switched on the radio and listened in horror as it was described to us what had happened, what was still happening.

9.18.11:
In a strange mood today; tired, but not necessarily apathetic or melancholy. Perhaps a little irritable as well, but also peaceful; there is also a little bit of nervousness and anticipation.
...
There is just not enough time: that is the feeling.

9.25.11:
So strange to think that God has the completeness of the human entity understood - that the entire range of the being is open to His vision. That its purpose and all its possibilities are known to Him and understood by Him - is there anything on Earth for which we could claim the same? Maybe carrots?
...
What comes first, lying or fear?

10.16.11:
This may sound extremely arrogant, but it has constituted a tender mercy for me that Noelle has often complimented me on things that I have tried to value about myself, but about which I have been constantly unsatisfied. I have been and am so grateful for her; this experience continues to be beautiful and a tender blessing.

11.13.11:
This journal comes to a close as does my time at BYU - something like 37 days.

11.20.11:
Less than 30 days now.

12.4.11:
As the newness of recent discoveries wears off, I fear that I have begun sinking back into old habits of fear, doubt, and judgment. I feel tired - the weight of melancholy thoughts bearing down upon me; questions steeped in ambiguity surface from deep within and surge and fade in a pacifying, almost apathetic desire for unknowns.
...
Sometimes I think my emotions are completely separate from myself and a disease that I have to deal with. Sometimes I think my emotions are myself and that what I feel defines who I am, for better or for worse. And sometimes I think that my emotions are a part of me, an important piece of my being that can provide me with information about myself, kind of like me talking to me; not something that defines me or my value, but something that moves within me as an important piece of who I am.

12.11.11:
The last page of this journal as I enjoy my last Sunday here in Provo. I think of my first Sunday here, the many, many Sundays I have spent: in the Riv, at the State Hospital, at the Branbury, at the Riv again, Carriage Cove, the Crestwood, and now DeVere. I think of Ethiopia and Uganda - the gorgeous Sundays I was blessed to have spent with some of the most faithful, beautiful people and friends I have ever met. My heart travels to all these Sundays and the years that have passed in between them - it makes me simultaneously grateful and terrified. The weight of those years, their teachings, their people, everything, bearing down upon me as though afraid to be ignored, afraid to be forgotten. And I am afraid to forget, and yet, so am I afraid also to remember, and attempt to process the profundity of emotions that surge within me, again and again like waves upon an empty beach.

12.4.11

I listen to the song Street Spirit (Fade Out) by Radiohead followed by Dissolved Girl by Massive Attack - a gin and tonic mixture that pulls to the surface of my thoughts the heavy elements of myself. "Immerse your soul in love," the one says. And then the other, "say, say my name; need a little love to ease the pain." The rending pleas of the first song melting slowly into the smooth trip-hop vibes of the second; hurting and then meditating; exhausting and then resting.

My body accepts the sounds and meanings with varied opinions. I find it strange how it seems like I am so many people at once.

My feet can barely hear the music - the right foot curls its toes under and then stretches them back again, the left lays silent with the chair leg wedged in between the second and third toe. They remind me that they are bare and cold, but they do not complain, they simply inform. After several minutes, I notice that my right foot has been softly kicking to the slow beat; seems like it could hear after all. As for the left, the chair leg is now wedged between my fourth and pinky toe and the foot is jittery - it gets like that when the silver bell from my privates starts ringing.

My privates, at regular intervals, are tapping on a silver bell to signal that a trip to the toilet is preferable. However, I will ignore the bell for another 30 minutes or so during which time the bell will slowly transform into a large campanile and my small intestines into a gigantic metal hammer, pounding in less frequent, but more violent intervals until I finally traverse the 10 ft. or so from where I sit to the bathroom. Due to the distraction, my privates are not very responsive to the music, though, ironically, my efforts to soothe their insistence largely involves rocking and swaying to the various beats. I wonder if my privates are fooled. Probably not. That's okay though, I have other techniques I can use if things get bad.

My hands hear the music and are occasionally given to tapping, but they are mostly involved in typing, scratching my scalp, supporting my head when it bows to the side to think, and waiting. Other less frequent occupations include scraping at the small scabs on my face, pulling out loose eyebrow hairs, rubbing my eyes, texting, dislodging earwax, and cracking my knuckles; picking and rubbing my nose is also a favorite, but my nose seems pretty clean at the moment.

32 minutes later and the bells have stopped ringing, the alleviating comfort of their echoes fading into a peacefully empty rest.

My nose itches. My nose always itches. And what is more, my nose and I hate each other. Well, I guess that's unfair to say: I'm not completely sure as to my nose's feelings toward me. I posit one of three scenarios:

1. My nose does, in fact, hate me. Like Satan himself, the little devil lives to annoy me and buffet me with its itching, hurting, flowing, snotting, sniffling, aching, sneezing reminders that it, like a malignant tumor, has attached itself to my face in order that, one day, it might destroy me. It cackles and giggles in disgusting evil as it sucks dust and pollen into its ample caverns, purposefully looking for excuses to produce exorbitant amounts of snot such that any normal activity becomes a red-nosed, red-eyed, red-tempered venture into hay-fever hell. Even as I type, I can feel the demon cantering through the my nasal causeways, wielding a cheese grater the size of a thimble and scraping it against the interiors of my sinuses. "Curse you!" I say as I sniff, rub, and type some more.

2. My nose has severe mental challenges. This is the more benign ascription of my nose's pitiful attempts to actually be a nose. Perhaps it just doesn't know quite how to do it: wet and weepy it tries it hardest to smell and breathe, but for some reason just doesn't make the connection that its constant flow of secretions just doesn't help. It's like a toddler making a magical potion using all the things he or she can find in mommy and daddy's medicine cabinet - the sentiment is pure, but the methods and result disgusting, terrifying, and infuriating. To be honest though, I tend to lean towards this explanation only when I am seriously considering blowing off my nose with the nearest handgun.

3. My nose is a melodramatic manic depressant. Like a teenager alcoholic, my nose weeps with a deep sense of loneliness and confusion as it throws up again and again into the nearest toilet. Though sometimes cheerful, my nose has only to think about the crunching of fall leaves or fresh cut grass in order to fall back into and wallow through the mire of mucus and allergenic sobs of an addiction-inspired depression. It can't help itself and yet wishes it could, and it doesn't know why. The poor soul is doomed to a life of noncommittal solitude as it drinks glass after glass of Benadrylic cocktails only to vomit their contents in violent retribution once the non-drowsy buzz has worn off. This explanation can provide some pity and even empathy, but you must understand that patience soon wears thin when you're the one being puked on.

The music is over now and I must leave: a different kind of bell is ringing. More of a gong, actually.