Eyes-ish

Our writing professor told us to partner with someone we didn't know. I stood up and looked around only to sit back down in my seat and partner with the guy in the desk next to mine, who I hadn't yet talked to. He introduced himself. Responded when I asked about his family. Otherwise, he didn't seem very keen on speaking.

The next assignment was rather surprising and most likely put a little heat beneath our cheeks: we were to sit as close as we could to our partner without touching and stare into their eyes. Just stare. Until the professor called time.

What.

Yeah.

So we did it. And for what was probably two minutes, I found myself an inch away from my brand new acquaintance, staring into his eyes. (They were brown, and quite lovely, by the way.)

I tried to create a cool experience out of it--"It was an intense moment"; "It made me ponder about life"; "We fell in love"; ANYTHING--but it was pretty tough. At one point, out of habit, I glanced away, but then quickly snapped back into position. The seconds went on. I took to staring at my reflection in his glassy pupils; it was easier than actually looking at him. His eyes flicked back and forth, back and forth across mine.

It wasn't until after the timer sounded that I really thought about it.

Back and forth, back and forth, what was he seeing? What was he looking for? And did he find anything? Was there even anything there to find?

It is difficult to give ourselves to other people. Awkward, too. Sometimes as awkward as staring into their eyes from an inch away. But if we tried to look, to see people just a little bit more--and to let them see us--maybe we'd find something worthwhile.

New-ish

He was a tall boy with a light blue shirt--almost purple in the shade--and light red cargo shorts, carrying a bright green game box. His father had a beard and sunglasses, and didn't appear to be impatient until the box opened and some cards slid out onto the sidewalk. Oh no, the boy said. Let's just go back to the car. His dad, frustrated, insisted he go pick up the cards. The boy obeyed, and as he leaned down to pick them up, more cards fell out.

A girl was walking toward them and turned to help gather the cards. The dad opened the box his son had set down and shuffled the remaining contents around. "Really?" he said. "You put them in like this?"

"They're Apples to Apples cards," the boy told the student. She smiled, replied with something I couldn't hear, and went on gathering. Together, they put the stack back in the box. The dad thanked her; she smiled some more, and walked away.

I see such acts of kindness more frequently than I ever have before (maybe because I pay more attention?) but they never get old. Kindness is always new, and bright, and good--sometimes too much to not notice.

Uke-ish

I had just spent the evening trying to learn how to play a song on the ukulele. My friend, who I was with, already knew it, and had to watch patiently as my clumsy fingertips tried to find the right strings to press.

The song is called "Les Champs-Élysées." It's a French song (if you couldn't tell) about someone's experience on the street with the same name in Paris. They walk happily along, meet a stranger, and end up jamming out all night with them and a band of random guitar-players. It's a fun song.

So, with my Christmas-gifted uke, I was trying to learn the tune, too.

The best part came when the night had dwindled away and we were about to get ready for bed. My friend suddenly suggested that we should go upstairs in our apartment complex to sing the song for our other friend. I agreed excitedly and, still carrying a mason jar of water, went upstairs.

We knocked and her roommate answered. We didn't disclose our plan, but asked her to get our friend and pulled the door to a mysterious mostly-shut position. When she appeared, we began! ...Aaaaand then the tempo was too fast, so we began again!

She played, I sang, she joined in on the chorus, and our friend's roommate recorded the whole thing on her phone. After the last note, we bowed to the roommates' claps and left to our respective apartments.

It was a good night.

Endings-ish

If there is one good ish about endings, it's that they make you appreciate things more.

I think of the people I know now and it's like, wow. Goodbye. Goodbye to them. Goodbye to this year, when I got to meet them and become a tiny part of their lives (or, rather, they became a part of mine). We have been happy and smiling and grateful and talkative and friendly throughout the year. But the end of the year makes us -er: happi-er, smiling-er, grateful-er, talkative-er, and friendly-er. Because we now see through the lens of the future, we are sad to see the past go. That's the funny thing about endings: you didn't realize how much you didn't want them to happen until they do.

I'm not saying I won't be happy when finals are over--good grief, that's just blasphemy. But I will be sorry to see these my friends and classmates graduate, move schools, move apartment complexes, and join the next part of their life while I join the next part of mine. Separately.

They've made my life good-er, though, and that I'd say is a happy ending indeed.

Easter-ish

This is from the view of the fictitious Rachel, Mary's best friend from childhood.

I had purposely stayed at the back of the crowd in order to avoid seeing Jesus. Watching them lay him there on the wood, seeing them drive the stakes into his hands—the hands I had seen and touched and held before—it would be too difficult.

            Mary’s lot was far worse, however, and she had surely kept as close to him as she could.

            I stared at the ground as I pressed through the alleyways, pardoning myself past the people milling about in the morning air. They didn’t realize that their Lord was dying right now, just outside the city. My swallows came more frequently as I tried to keep the sobs from spilling out of my chest.

            One broke free when I came to a crossroads. The dirt before me still bore an inch-deep scar all along the path through the alley and around the corner. His cross.

            I crouched to the ground and held my face in my hands. The people stepped on the fringes of my dress, stepped right on the cross-made furrow with their filthy sandaled feet. My Lord, I cried within my heart. My Lord, my God.

Spring-ish

In between the BIG good ishes (going to the temple, turning in an outline, registering for fall classes, watching the General Women's Broadcast) there is one itty bitty good ish that is yet impossible to ignore.

We call it

THE WEATHER.

Coming from a land that has little in the way of weather (*cough cough* Mesa, Arizona), it is so much more pleasing to come to March and April being in Utah. Even after an exceedingly mild winter, you can feel and see every change that marks the coming of spring.

The ducks waddle in pairs and nestle in the shadows in the grass. The popcorn trees exploded--overnight, apparently--with tiny round white petal-kernels that pepper the sidewalk and rain down whenever the wind blows. The breeze still has the slightest bite to it, urging you to stay in the sun's sight whenever possible. Green grass. Blue skies. Walks are perfect, as are short sleeves.

I call it

beautiful.

The loveliness thereof makes us think of the tie between spring and the Resurrection of Jesus Christ. And is it any wonder? With so much life bursting forth from the ground, the sky, the water, how could we not remember the One who created this beauty as a symbol of His own life and renewal?

Mother-ish

"Are you busy? Stressed? You never texted me back after I sent you the video of Kate. Just making sure you are okay. :-)"

You've heard this before: It's a mother's job to worry. I don't believe it. Not one bit.

It's a mother's job to love--to love so hard that the problems of her children get absorbed into her own soul. It's not her job to worry. It's her job to love, and love makes her worry.

It's good that mothers worry because then we don't have to worry all by ourselves. This is especially helpful when we are young, teenager-ish, and very unable to hold so much worry (or responsibility) at once.

I wish she didn't have to worry. Because I am young and teenger-ish, though, I give her much cause to do so.

Cause to send me a sweet text on a Friday morning to make sure I am doing alright.

I'm doing fine, Mom. Because of you, I'm doing just fine.