Antonio-ish

Tuesday I headed out of class to head to the Joseph Smith Building, where the weekly devotional would play in its huge auditorium. I was tired and not looking forward to writing a rough draft research paper and creating a PowerPoint presentation for Thursday. I was tired. I was...tired. The auditorium (how many seats does that thing have? At least 500) was almost completely empty.

Good ish #1: I opened my email to find a video of my niece from my sister. I plugged my earphones in and eagerly listened. Repeating after my sister, the little toddler told me "hi" and that she loved me. I watched it over and over and over and over and over.

Good ish #2: The devotional started, and I kept my earphones in to block out the way-too-loud volume they had goin' on. The speaker quoted the most amazing quote from George Eliot, referring to the famous violin-maker: "[God] could not make / Antonio Stradivari's violins / Without Antonio." (Listen to the whole talk here. It's worth your time.)

Why, that's blasphemous! I thought at first. Then I was like. Wow. Wait. That's. Actually true. I was amazed, because we all know that Antonio couldn't make Stradivarius violins without God--but do we ever consider the reverse? That He needs to use us to make wonderful things? Not because He is weak or incapable, but because He wants to do great things with us.

He wants us to do great things.

Drive-ish

This week I got to drive ten hours from Utah to Arizona.

Weeeeee.

But really, it was actually quite nice. The scenery through the mountains is positively serene, and every time I go through, I want my own log cabin snuggled up against the green hills and some cows nibbling the green grass. I want to stop and do everything that the little signs advertise: fly down the zipline, explore Moqui Cave, take a gander at Montezuma's Castle, eat at the little diners that beg you to try their "Ho-Made Pies." All I've ever done is drive past.

Driving past is nice, too, though. We go from the verdant hills of northern Utah to the brush of southern, to the pink and orange strata of northern Arizona rocks, to the cactus of the Arizona desert. Ah, yes. I love it all, green to brown and trees to bushes.

What was especially lovely about this trip was a period of a few hours where me and the driver sat in silence. Not uncomfortable silence, just...quiet. Quiet punctuated with light conversation and laughter every once in a while. But mostly just quiet--quiet, and the breath of the scenery pressing lightly on the car's window glass.

It felt like a moment of slowness in the middle of an 80-mile-per-hour life.

Lion-ish

Today I went to a lovely devotional that gave me just what I needed.

The lady who spoke began with a story about a zoo in Argentina. It wasn't a fancy zoo. It was a dirty zoo. And it was a petting zoo. At least inasmuch as you could PET THE LIONS. The reason why this wasn't dangerous (well...it was probably still dangerous) was because these lions ("kings of beasts" she called them) had been trained since birth to cower to these annoying yappy dogs who would nip at their heels whenever they flicked their tails or shook their manes.

We have yappy dogs at our heels, too, she said. Dogs that keep us from living up to our potential and being happy in life. And she listed a few: lack of confidence; incomplete knowledge; the thought that it is "too hard, too far, or too much"; and feeling unworthy or beaten down by life.

Her message was the same for each doggy annoyance: take your massive, king-of-beasts-ly paw, and swipe those tiny things aside! "Chase 'em away," she said, "you're the king of beasts." You don't have to pay attention to them. You are so much bigger and so much more powerful than that.

I decided to be braver and do something new. It is something that will be hard for me, but really, not that hard, and it will make me better. I'm not such a cool and fancy lion, but that doesn't mean I can't push away one yappy irritation at a time. Indeed, I never was a fan of those types of dogs.

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.