Choreography of Life

The lights dim and the conductor raises his baton. The overture begins. The audience sits back in their seats, staring at the deep red velvet curtain. It hangs, still, from the high ceiling. The music from The Nutcracker Ballet continues. Anticipation grows as the music crescendos. The audience waits. Finally, the curtain begins its slow climb to the rafters, revealing a scene from a cold winter’s day.

* * *

A fouetté is a turn, propelled by the working leg whipping around in a circle. An experienced dancer can spin almost endlessly, balancing on one foot and swinging the working leg to begin each revolution.

* * *

I stare out the big picture window. Watching the snowflakes fall in the glare of the powerful lights on the tarmac, I wonder when our plane will arrive. I look to my mom and say, “Snowflakes.” We begin another round of 20Q. As the electronic purple circle asks us if it is an animal, vegetable, or mineral, the lights go out. I glance outside into the darkness, searching for our plane as the snowflakes endlessly dance toward the ground.

* * *

Onstage, a single girl beckons others to join her. Her navy blue cloak with silver buttons protects her from the cold. A few ringlets artfully escape her bonnet. The stage soon fills with dancers. The girls chassé on and off stage bringing accessories for their snowman. A light comes on behind the thin backdrop, illuminating a doll in a window. Feigning shock, the sisters run over to get a better look. Clara’s Uncle Drosselmeyer brings the doll to life. It turns around by itself. It sits down, the lights behind the curtain dim, and the sisters can no longer see inside. They continue to play in the snow.

* * *

A balancé is a traveling step in which weight shifts from one foot to the other.

* * *

Rehearsals for Aladdin take place in an empty store. The glass front opens to the mall, inviting shoppers to look inside. Most hurry past, looking only when we burst into song. One of my scenes come to a close, and the actors on the makeshift stage shift. I go and sit in the window, listening to actors reciting their lines, watching people go about their everyday lives. Others sit in this in-between space with me. I whisper with them as we wait for our cues, getting to know them. Caela tells me about her sister and Abi tells me about the middle school. Nicole talks about her dream of acting on Broadway. Krysta watches her sister hanging out with the high schoolers and takes mental notes on how to be cool. I sit, asking and answering questions, as the actors continue their dialogue in the background.

* * *

Clara’s off-white dress stands out among the bright colors her guests wear. She, her brother Fritz, and their parents mingle with the others. The Christmas tree twinkles in the background as Uncle Drosselmeyer presents Clara with a beautiful Nutcracker doll. As everyone admires the gift, Frits pulls the Nutcracker from Clara’s arms. She holds on, then watches in horror as her beloved Nutcracker falls to the ground, broken. Uncle Drosslemeyer wraps a handkerchief around the wooden jaw to fix it. After the party, Clara falls asleep by the Christmas tree. She protectively cradles her new Nutcracker doll in her arms. Suddenly, the clock strikes 12, bringing Clara out of a peaceful slumber.

* * *

A relevé raises the dancer from standing flat-footed to standing on their toes.

* * *

The music starts playing from my alarm at 5:00am. I sigh and roll over. Eventually, I get up, annoyed with the cold, the music, and the absence of my pillow. With half-closed eyes, I feel my way downstairs to my mom. Sitting at the dark wooden table, I eat the breakfast she made, and fail at an attempt to wake myself up. I drive to the school building, a tired menace on empty roads. Brother Smith cheerfully greets me as I walk into the room. I smile a response, and sink into the hard plastic chair in the back of the auditorium. As class goes on, I feel myself rising, cheering up, and getting ready for the day, despite the morning’s happy topic of defenestration in the Bible.

* * *

The Christmas tree grows as the music swells. Clara looks around, amazed as she sees a life-size toy house. Soldiers stand inside, with bright red and royal blue costumes. An overgrown mouse scurries by, and Clara’s face freezes in shock. The first soldier steps out of the box, saluting Clara, ready to defend her. As a mouse lunges forward to attack her, she gracefully runs away and jumps onto the sofa.

* * *

In an arabesque, a dancer stands supported on one leg, with her body parallel to the ground, face down. Her arms stretch out in front of her and her working leg extends behind her.

* * *

The weather finally cooperates, and I head outside for track practice. After warm-ups, I jog to the shed to pull out the high jump standards. My mentor graduated last spring, so now I am the one with the responsibility to teach. This thought jumps into my consciousness, unwelcome, as Andrea and I drag the heavy metal poles over the bumpy grass to the pit and set them up, only four feet high to start. I pace out my mark, put down tape, and run through a few times. Andrea, new to high jumping, mimics me. My right toe reaches toward my mark, searching for the perfect place to put my spikes. Taking a deep breath, I stretch my left leg out behind me. I move forward, counting my rhythm: 1-2-3, 1-2-3-4. I spring upward, raising my arms in front of me, letting the momentum carry me over the bar. I hit the mat, quickly becoming enveloped in yellow powder from the disintegrating foam. I blink, getting the debris out of my eyes. Andrea looks over at me, questions on her face; she had never seen the “mat dust.” I tell her to close her eyes and mouth as she lands, and she takes off running, attempting to high jump for the first time.

* * *

The battle continues, mice against soldiers. The soldiers advance, thrusting their swords forward. They surround the mice. A single gong strike announces the arrival of the Mouse King. The mice use this distraction to their advantage, jumping over the soldiers and brandishing their tails toward the center of the circle. The Nutcracker Prince strides in from the wings, immediately engaging the Mouse King in hand-to-hand combat. Clara looks around uncertainly, hoping the malicious leader of the mice will not injure her prince.

* * *

Chaînés are a series of quick turns, completed one right after another.

* * *

School ends, and I head toward the library. My friend Bridget is already there, setting up our buzzers. I grab one and start untangling the cord. Soon, everyone is there and we have it all set up. Mr. Cooper, our coach, pulls out a set of questions and starts firing them at us, quickly making our heads spin. We settle in, listening and ringing our signals, Jeopardy!-style. For five minutes, we concentrate and try to accumulate as many points as possible. Then we relax and enjoy the time. Where was Napoleon Bonaparte exiled the first time? Buzz: Elba. Who wrote The Leatherstocking Tales? Buzz: James Fenimore Cooper. What scientific principle did Heisenberg come up with? Buzz: The uncertainty principle. Mr. Cooper asks the last question and we pack up. I grab my backpack and walk to the parking lot with my teammates. In the back of my mind I wonder, “Are we prepared for tomorrow’s match?”

* * *

As the audience enjoys intermission, Clara’s house turns into the Land of Sweets. Behind the curtain, a castle made of sugar crystals, lollipops, and gum drops replaces the Christmas tree. Red and white striped candy canes sleep, their heads resting on cupcakes and Hershey Kisses. The audience settles down as the orchestra plays the dreamlike opening notes of the second act.

* * *

In a plié, the feet stay in a fixed position and the knees bend to lower the dancer toward the ground. It often connects other movements in a dance.

* * *

I put together my flute and look at the music. I haven’t practiced nearly as much as I should have, and the day of dress rehearsal offers no time to fix that. We gather around the conductor, Mrs. Kuehner, as she gives us last-minute instructions. “Remember, the orchestra pit has done a good job if the audience forgets you are there.” Walking to the pit, I talk to Julia, the clarinet player. We lower ourselves down beneath the stage and half-heartedly attempt to keep quiet between the first songs. We gradually become silent. If I pay close attention to the actors, I see the small cues they give each other, the kind that can only come from months of practice and working together. After the dress rehearsal, all the actors chat excitedly, ready for the next day. Julia and I walk away, unnoticed.

* * *

The Sugar Plum Fairy greets Clara and the Nutcracker. She and the Nutcracker guide Clara through the wonderful new place. Performers present numerous dances to entertain them. Clara sits on her perch in front of the castle, whispering to the Nutcracker and learning about his magical world. She watches dance after dance, becoming more engrossed with each one.

* * *

An assemblé is a traveling jump. One leg brushes away from the body, lifting off the ground as far away as possible. The supporting leg then follows. The feet meet in the air, and land on the ground together.

* * *

My friend Alex and I pick our song in March. We know we need to start working early if we want a dance good enough to win the county talent show. The melody of “We Are Family” by Sister Sledge soon fills my house and invades my dreams. Pushing the furniture out of the way, we begin to choreograph by my fireplace. Serious work blends into giggles as I parade around the room like a pop star on a stage. We debate model-walking versus skipping, complete synchronization versus solos. Eventually, we come to a conclusion. Alex begins the dance, skipping forward by herself. I soon follow. For most of the rest, the left-handed Alex and I mirror one another. As we put together the finishing touches of our dance, we let the CD play the next track, “We Are The Champions”. The giggling starts all over again as Alex and I begin to dream.

* * *

I walk into the empty theater in my off-white dress. The open curtain leaves the candy castle exposed. I look at the blank space where we have danced for the past week. I climb onto the stage. Gazing into the vacated rows of chairs, I taste the rosin in the air. My bare feet feel the tape on the floor that marks center stage. So many times I have glanced at that red tape to guide my dancing. I direct my eyes upward. Backdrops hang in the scaffolding underneath the high ceiling, rolled into compact cylinders and tucked out of sight. In the wings, props sit neatly on a table, meticulously arranged by a friendly stagehand. The makings of Clara’s dream sit, waiting to help her enter the Nutcracker’s magical world. Months of hard work and practice pay off in the theater, as dancers seem to effortlessly perform complex choreography. I smile and walk out through the stage door, heading toward my own unscripted adventures.

Wavering Cadence

Wavering Cadence

Crowded air, in a meticulously perfect calculation of pounds per square inch, enlivens the manufactured core. The external majestic console harbors the gas before its mighty deliverance of regulated pressure, rate, control. The pneumatic force feeds, awakens as it presses through the array of hoses that enter the plastic, aluminum, and Dacron polyester machine . . . the tubes penetrating a human left chest.

***

We sit on top of Glen Pass with two other hikers I named the mountain goat and shepherd. The nimble goat had hauled past us earlier that morning, first to claim the summit. The old shepherd had made it last, struggling as he greeted our last sets of footprints. I sit next to my father on our granite throne, alien to Earth's conventional blueprint. The cool breeze splinters my face.

“So what do you guys do for food?” my dad asks. My eyes linger on the unraveling threads of the logo on his black fleece jacket serving as his shield against high air. To think he wears the same outfit out to dinner. The peak of a mountain, the ornamented lounge of the Grand China Buffet. I smile at his logic.

“Well, we got something from some guys we ran into. Stuff’s called Lardo,” the shepherd explains. “It’s a kind of delicacy in Germany, I guess, but it’s great for out here. Highest calorie food there is.”

My dad’s laughter shakes the air. I see his mind glitter at the thought.

“We’ve been 3000 calories in the hole for the past couple days, though. We’re just trying to cover too many miles.” the shepherd adds.

I look over at my father. His eyes search the rock. Our thoughts waltz along the same lines. “Well we’re going to head out today, right dad?” We had covered almost half of our miles already, and the daylight was still hovering in the east. We could make it to Onion Valley by five o'clock, our car and a warm pizza dinner awaiting. He pauses. His tame eyes continue prodding the rock.

“Yeah, we’ve got food. Yeah, let’s get rid of it. Makes the bear can lighter for me anyway. Go get the can out of my pack.” I morph out of my crouch and lumber over to my dad’s pack. It lays on the rock, a giant next to mine. My hands grasp the top of it, and I try to lift it up. It comes off the ground for just a second and sinks back into its place. That’s heavy. Isn’t his shoulder? I struggle with the consideration. I recall his bike riding trips, his nights of arm wrestling with Kelly. The shoulder operation had disabled him, frustrated his desires. He could no longer lift my heavy suitcases and stow them away in airplane overhead compartments. He would chastise me if I gave his left arm a playful shove. Tilling the earth in our humble garden became an endeavor, and operating on his patients at the hospital, a biweekly routine, became an unexpected uncertainty as the means to support our family. I unbuckle the straps, loosen the drawstring, and search within. Finally, I cradle the bear can. The pink nail polish letters “R.A.” still label the can as my father’s. I remember the day I spent in the garage labeling the cans for my dad’s boy scout troop, something I’m sure no son of his would have ever done. I walk back over to where he rests.

“Don’t use the sharp end of the knife,” my dad corrects me as I try to unlock the lid. “You’ll ruin the blade.” I flip the knife over and insert it into the groove, twisting it in line with the imprinted dashes. I dismantle the lid, and rummage through the can's contents, finally retrieving Saturday's dinner.

“Beef stew.” I announce as I toss the package to the mountain goat. The red bandanna tied around his disheveled ringlets the only form of fabric concealing his upper half. The perfect armor for a mountain goat, I silently observe. “I kept asking the guy at REI about chicken and rice, but he would not stop talking about the beef stew. It’s supposed to be the best.”

“Oh. Mountain House. I’ve heard these are good.” the mountain goat remarks.

“They are.” I enthusiastically confirm. His eyes scan the small print on the label.

“Oh no. These would be great,” he explains, “but, we’re kind of out of fuel.” My excitement retreats and quickly fades. Then I hear only his voice.

“I’ve got fuel.”

***

Two segmented polyurethane diaphragms fill the void of expelled, degenerate ventricles. The spheres' housings host the twenty-seven millimeter inflow valve and the twenty-five millimeter outflow valve. Seventy milliliters of blood fully fills the lobe and is magnificently ejected per beat.

***

The orchestra of insects invades my space. I stand at the water’s edge. The fresh scent of morning greets our new day. He’s kneeling on the marshy grass, leaning over the lake. His strong fingers fumble with the water pump. He always called the task one of the necessary evils. I thought I would stand by to support the one-man job, until he would undoubtedly usher my turn. I reminisce my 14 year-old days with that same pump, filling our reservoirs with Guitar Lake's water. Soiled water fills the tube, and is ejected, a pristine purity, into our plastic water jugs. Purity at its best and created anywhere. Purity that we need this morning. He clenches the handle and launches an upward stroke on the pump. He pushes downward only to be interrupted by the spray of a chaotic spasm of water from the pump’s middle. He scrunches his eyebrows. It must be a mistake. He repeats. The upward stroke, the downward failure. His eyes tighten on the machine, and he disassembles it. Not the filter. Not the fittings. The o-ring. He takes out the broken circle. His lips roll inward, his teeth clenching on their inner side. I hear his voice in my head, “Be prepared. Be prepared.” The boy scout motto. The emblem engraved on his personal crest. When had I ever not seen him prepared? He was always ready, for anything, everywhere. Would we leave early? It was only our first day out, but we couldn't do without it. The weeks of planning, the hours he spent on his computer tracing terrain to map out the perfect trail. The time I had spent organizing our food supply, buying gear and studying the chapters of text in advance for the test I would barely arrive home in time to take. And then suddenly, the rigid slogan became a long sought after goal, one that my father strived diligently to achieve. The value existed in his aim and purpose. Whether straight from the bearings of Earth or from the synthetic filters of our failed pump, water is water.

***

On December 2, 1982 , Dr. William DeVries from the University of Utah implanted the Jarvik-7 total artificial heart into Dr. Barney Clark, a retired 61-year old dentist. The implantation of this engineered marvel promised the lifetime of freedom from an worn heart.

***

His labored exhales fill the silence. He firmly grasps onto his trekking poles. There is a tranquility in his pause. The mountains around us fixate on his moment. The sunlight dilates, broadcasting the aging of the day. He stands still. Nature sings. He trudges another few steps forward, and then pauses again at the side of a small creek. Another stop? I wonder. Newborn flowers adorn as fringes around the stream; their lives flourish in the plenty. Bending over, my father removes his hat and douses it in the cool water. He replaces it back on his head. A pleasant sigh escapes, forgiving the heat. His labored breath sounds persevere. I want to hush them away. Summers ago, when we climbed Mount Whitney he didn't have to do this. There were no breaks, no delays. He was the one shoving me along as I shuffled along the trail chowing down Cinnamon-Sugar Poptarts as quickly as he’d let me have them. He turns around and bares a plaqued smile, breath again escaping through his lips. Seconds pass. His breathing gradually slows. He puts one trekking pole in front of the other, initiating another start around the bend of another switchback. His feet follow, slowly.

***

On December 2, 1982, Dr. Barney Clark died. The Jarvik-7 had pumped his blood for 112 days.

***

I weave the laces. The clownish footwear laughs back at me. I thought I was every shoe size back then, and now I was geared with the seven and a half size hiking boots for my six size feet. If they took me to Whitney, they can take me to Rae Lakes I kept telling myself. I start toward the trail head. “Shall we take a picture in front of the sign?” I ask him.

“Sure.” His voice is the warmth of escaping colors. I smile next to the wooden marker. The shutter clicks. An image is trapped in the cogs of the machine. He looks up and I notice a gentle wave of hesitation. His eyes, framed with creases, radiate emotion. I wait. “You know . . . it's hard to get a bad picture of you.” A laugh escapes from my throat.

“Oh please, dad.” I turn to the path, a different smile on my face, as I begin to lead the way.

***

I once stood a reverent onlooker of the engineer’s design. The intricate methodical workings testified of the perfection of machine, spellbinding my every sense, as I held the experiment in my humble hand. Thump-thump. The human heart beats 2.5 billion times in a lifetime. The Jarvik-7 total artificial heart pumped 9.6 million times. Thump-thump. Are there answers in numbered beats? My father, once so glorified as a flawless man, has climbed higher. His real heart has already beat 1.7 billion times. Thump-thump. I now find hope in a human heart, a worn heart. A heart that faces trials. Thump. A heart that makes mistakes. A heart—thump—that grows weary. Thump-thump. From investing years in the abstract, I now conceive the precious essence in frailty, a wavering cadence.

Unsaid

By the time I was done mowing the front yard, sweaty and with green grass blood splattered on my old running shoes, I decided to go inside and find Dad, to see if I could talk myself out of mowing the backyard. I knew my plan of attack: It isn’t that bad, I would tell him smoothly. It can wait until next Saturday for sure.

It turned out that I didn’t have to mow the backyard after all. I never found Dad. Instead, I found a bloodied, bruised, freshly-fallen-off-the-roof version of my Dad. His unrecognizably swollen and scraped face made me want to never have to remember what I had just seen. Twenty minutes and a 911 call later, my mom had rushed home, Dad was being urgently loaded onto an ambulance, and I was left to myself for a couple minutes.

My six-year-old sister Sami, who (despite our efforts to prevent it) had accidentally seen our broken Dad, was huddled in her room, sobbing, “I want my Daddy to be okay…” I was thinking the same thing. But I was too old to say it.

* * *

There was a time, though, when I wasn’t too old to say it. As long as I can remember, my dad was always my hero. He would do anything for his ‘little boy.’ When I was seven years old, Dad surprised me one Friday with a night of camping. I had been begging for weeks to go camping. “Maybe sometime,” he would casually tell me at dinner. I came home that Friday to find Dad in our front yard, setting up his little blue tent. The charred, black marshmallows (the results of my novice wilderness cooking skills) mingled with the stripling warriors story that my dad read to me. We were only twenty feet from the house, but we were rugged mountaineers, pitting our raw willpower against the unrelenting elements. The next morning, my mom came outside and took a picture of Dad and me standing in front of our tent. I still have that picture. I am a scrawny little kid with a Batman t-shirt and wide smile, giving my dad a hug.

“So, did you have fun?” my mom asked curiously.

I jumped up and exclaimed, “That was the best night of my life!” I was seven years old; I wasn’t afraid to say it.

* * *

“He has no idea how much we’re going to miss him. Our house is going to feel so empty with him gone.”

Was this my dad speaking? Of course not. It was somebody else’s father.

Tonight was my home ward’s “Graduation Night 2009,” where everyone got together to watch slideshows of baby pictures and have fun in honor of the ward’s graduating young men and women. Ice cream and nostalgia mixed deliciously as each parents got up in turn, to talk about their child. Everyone from the ward had showed up to see us off.

“I love you so much. You’re better than I am, just like I always hoped you would be.”

I’m not even going to pretend my dad said any of that.

All of the other parents let the tears flow freely as they shared stories filled with diapers and tears. It was the kind of awkward that everyone secretly hopes for at big events like graduations. It was the kind of awkward that lets you know that you will be missed.

It was my dad’s turn to get up, and somehow I sensed that he wouldn’t stick to the “we’re going to miss you so much” script.

“Well, J.J. has lived with us for eighteen years, and I guess his bedroom will finally be clean now.” I shouldn’t have been disappointed, really. I wasn’t expecting anything more emotional than his usual jokes. But, surely there had to be something my dad would miss about me. Wouldn’t he miss getting amazing, thick cookies and cream milkshakes after priesthood session? He’s going to be going to those alone now. We always had the exact same sense of humor. Wouldn’t he miss joking around, sitting on our regally fluffy leather furniture and just laughing our heads off at something on TV?

“I will admit that I am going to miss being able to watch him be stupid. You were always good for a laugh, J.J. How about the time you thought the trees at your high school were made of plastic? Or the time you though marshmallows grew on plants? Sometimes I wonder how you could possibly be my son.”

The let-down was starting to sink into my chest. I was doing a good job of acting like I was laughing hysterically with everyone else in the room, even though I sort of felt like I had missed out on something important. I shouldn’t have been disappointed, because I knew he would never say the things that the other dads had. I wish he could have said them, though.

* * *

Anyone who has seen the TV series ‘Psych’ could tell you exactly what my relationship is with Dad by watching Sean Spencer and his own dad harass each other every episode. You can tell they love each other…they just have a weird way of saying it. My dad and I are like that, too. When Dad took me to have my wisdom teeth removed last May, I blurrily woke up from the anesthesia in the recovery room to see him sitting across the room, sending work emails on his smartphone.

Anesthesia usually has a weird effect on people, and I was not spared. My jaw felt like a balloon filled with mashed potatoes. I remember stupidly reaching up to touch my numbed jaw and exclaiming slowly, “My face! I left it in the operating room!” My dad laughed. “I’m serious!” I yelled. “I need to get it before we can leave!” My dad was still laughing. “Stop it! If I don’t get my face back today they need to mail it to me! Make sure!” This whole ordeal was just too much for my dad. By now he had pointed his phone’s camera at me and started recording every stupid thing I said in those two blurry hours. Of course, Dad made sure none of the young women in our ward missed out on that story.

* * *

I will always remember the time Dad’s old mission president came to our house for dinner. They sat around the table for hours, laughing and joking. They were like two Army veterans who had run into each other years later. Memories swirled in the air like cigar smoke. I could tell that my dad respected his mission president—he had made it very clear that if I embarrassed him anytime that night, I would be in big trouble. He knew I didn’t need the threat, though, and I knew he was mostly joking. Actually, I thought his mission president was smart and interesting to listen to. He was about 60 or 65, bald, and slightly taller than my dad. He told us gripping stories about his adventures in Moscow where he had served as the Church’s temporal administrator for all of Russia. They wandered through a vast expanse of conversation topics for hours, even delving into politics momentarily.

Towards the end of the night, he turned to me and said, “J.J., I just want you to know something about your dad. He was one of the best missionaries I ever had because he had integrity. There were some missionaries who I had worries about, who were sometimes in places where they shouldn’t be or doing things they shouldn’t. I never had to worry about your dad. I always knew he was where he was supposed to be.” Dad laughed and said something modest, but he didn’t fool me. I looked over at him and thought, “I want to be just like my dad.” I didn’t say it, though. Guys don’t say stuff like that.

* * *

“Okay, so are you all set?” my dad asked. We had just unloaded all of my assorted junk and trinkets into my prison-like white-walled dorm room, and had walked around campus together. Now was the inevitable time for us to separate. I knew my dad wasn’t necessarily eager to give up his only son, regardless of what he told everyone in our ward. “Oh yeah, we will definitely have a lot less laundry on the bathroom floor!” Everybody would laugh, but I knew that he was going to miss me.

As we stood in the parking lot next to the rental car, both of us knew that we were separating. From now on, I would only live with my parents for a month or two at a time, perhaps between my mission homecoming and the next semester of college. This was the start of a new act of my life, and it was just starting to hit me that my parents didn’t have as big a role in the next part as they had in previous chapters. The awkwardness hanging in the air was screaming. It felt like a cliché ‘man-hug’ moment. But nobody ever hugged in our family.

I sort of felt obligated to tell Dad something sentimental that would be emotionally meaningful and perhaps tear-jerking later. But it didn’t come. I was too old. I said, “See you at Christmas,” and he got in the car. There were a bunch of things we could have said, but we really didn’t need to. He had smiled at me. I got the message.

* * *

One of my favorite pictures was taken when I was about three years old at my grandparent’s house. Looking at the picture, I can still smell the cold bite of my grandpa’s basement where my cousins and I would explore my grandpa’s tools and old toys for hours. In this picture, a young man is sitting with a little boy on an easy chair. I can see myself in the clean-shaven, naturally funny and unfailingly easygoing young man that I know is my dad. Everyone tells me I look (and act) just like my dad did when he was young. He is smiling warmly at his son. The little boy is wearing a baby blue plaid tuxedo, with a golden-brown bowl-cut.

I love that picture because of what I can see in my dad’s warm smile, looking at his only little boy. He loves me. He doesn’t need to say it. A picture is worth a thousand words. If I have learned anything from my dad, it’s that sometimes using words only messes up what you are trying to say.

(Image from http://blog.americanfeast.com/images/Father%20&%20Son.jpg)

The Pain of Happiness

“The Pain of Happiness”
Natalie Michelle Ulman

“A person has no religion who has not slowly and painfully gathered one together, adding to it, shaping it, and one's religion is never complete and final, it seems, but must always be undergoing modification.” –D.H. Lawrence

He lay on the bed bent like a twig: old, broken, and deteriorated. A fallen hero dying in the bedroom instead of the battlefield; cancer crawling in his body, destroying every piece of humanity left inside of him. He was a man full of so much happiness and life, and yet at these moments was unrecognizable and a stranger to my eyes. My entire family surrounded him silent, unwilling to believe that this was the last time we would see him. The thought of losing my Babba was too hard to bear. How could God be so cruel to a man with so much faith and pride in his Abba? His life began with suffering and it was about to end synonymously in pain. How could God give one man so many trials and so little in return? As these never ending thoughts devastated my brain I noticed my grandfather’s eyes close for a final time. I ran to him and grasped his hand in mine, clinging to him for fear I would lose him. My tears began to sprinkle onto his hand like rain falling onto flower petals. I choked out an incomprehensive “I love you” while holding tight to his sickly body. In return he whispered, “You might have a life full of hardship and sorrow, but it is merely a test. In the end it is all worth it. There is more to this life than what you see. Have hope.”
*****
The sun transcended through the ancient stained glass and magnified the colors of magenta, indigo, and royal blue. I could feel incense burn on my skin as mass commenced. Crucifixes, crosses, and archaic stone created a feeling of reverence. It was a place of history where men suffered and sacrificed to build an immense and magnificent cathedral so that future generations could worship God the Father. I was standing in an ancient place built thousands of years ago to praise Jesus Christ and love our Heavenly Father. I was standing in Notre Dame de Paris. I went to a pew, knelt, and listened to the priest recite mass in beautiful French. I could not understand everything he said, but as I listened I felt a calm spirit of happiness enter my body. I had never been more proud to be called a Catholic. At that moment, I knew that God lived. Then, as I looked up at the haunting yet exquisite crucifix in the middle of Notre Dame I realized what Jesus Christ suffered for His people and His unshakeable love for us. I did not need to understand the words of the priest. Christ’s pierced hands and feet said everything.
*****
The air tasted of potato latkes and freshly brewed matzo ball soup. I could see the Rabbinic hymns playing in the background and could feel the energy of the Jewish holiday beginning. It was the first night of Hanukkah: the menorah was lit, yamakas were worn, and dreidels were spinning. As we sat down, we began the dreaded hour long Shabbat before the meal. With the savory food tempting our eyes we began with the typical “Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha-olam…” On it went for hours as our hunger increased and our stomachs yearned for warm beef brisket and kougel. My mother, sister, and I looked unknowingly at each other as the Hebrew prayers were continually recited. As Catholics we knew little of what was being said; however, we admired my father and brother as they faithfully recited several scriptures and prayers. And then I could finally hear the beautiful words of my Babba, “Let’s eat!” We filled our faces with traditional Jewish fare and never ending conversation. In thick accent Aunt Lisa proclaimed, “Why is she not marrying a Jew? What happened to tradition?” My cousin Mark and Monica were discussing liberal politics, and my brother, Brandon made fun of my new and supposedly fashionable outfit. “Hey,” said Alanna, “I bet you three chocolate coins it will land on Gimel.” The candles on the Menorah glimmered hopefully that night.
*****
Looking out of the window I saw rain cascade onto the ground and lightning illuminate the sky. I desperately wanted to go outside. I had been stuck in my grandparent’s house for days, and the smell of mothballs and boredom had gone to my head. I sat by the window praying for sunshine when I heard footsteps: in walked my Babba. He came to the couch and put his comforting arm around my shoulders. I looked into his wrinkly face and wise eyes and proclaimed my boredom. He laughed cheerfully and in a strong Yiddish accent asked, “Do you want to hear a story then?” I smiled and nodded. I was willing to listen to anything that would occupy my time. He carefully looked into my eyes and stated, “I have never told you this story before, but I think now is the time. You are old enough to know what I went through for our God.” He proceeded to tell me his experience of the Holocaust. At age ten he witnessed his entire family murdered before his very eyes. After seeing his family shot to death he narrowly escaped the Nazis and boarded a train to Russia. He remained in hiding with a Catholic family for years. Once he was old enough he joined the Russian infantry against Nazi Germany. As a soldier he fought and then was captured and sent to a concentration camp. He was one of the few that did not die of starvation or cruel punishment. At the demise of his story my wide eyes looked unbelievingly into his. He rolled up the sleeve of his shirt and revealed dark, black numbers upon his forearm. Those numbers represented the grief of a Jewish people, the cruel nature of humans, and the suffering my grandfather had to bare. How could a man still believe in a God who made him go through such suffering? I asked how he still had faith. He answered, “The world is cruel, but God is just. Hope for a better life and the knowledge that one day I would be happy is what got me through the Holocaust.“
*****
As I lay in my bed studying The Catcher In the Rye, I suddenly heard my door burst open. My brother came in screaming, yelling at me. “What is wrong?” I cried back. My brother came to my bed, grabbed me, and thrust me against a wall. He grasped my wrists and shouted, “Why would you tell people you were half-Jewish? Now everyone knows I am a Jew!” I yelled back, “Why do you want to hide it? Six million people died because of it! Our Grandpa fought for us, so we could freely say we were Jews and not be persecuted!” He cried, “You do not understand what I have had to go through because of it! No one makes fun of you because you are Catholic. I was exposed to anti-Semitism everyday for three years, and I finally wanted a chance to start over!” I responded, “Why are you afraid to admit to our heritage? So what if people judge you! Be proud of who you are.” He glared at me viciously and stormed off. My wrists were numb.
*****
It was fast and testimony meeting at the Mormon Church and the missionaries convinced me to drag along my uninterested sister, Alanna, and my cousin, Alex. I had been attending Mormon Church for about a month now and I was not prepared to take my cousin and sister to church with me. Alanna and Alex weren’t too excited either; I think they were expecting animal sacrifice and chanting church leaders dressed in black cloaks. As church began, Alanna and Alex stared at me questionably not knowing what to expect. I was honestly a little nervous myself for what was to come. Then, the testimonies began. Suddenly, I felt that I should go to the pulpit. I ignored the prompting. I wasn’t even a member and what would Alanna and Alex think? However, the feeling did not go away. Finally, I walked down the middle of the chapel and up to the pulpit---a never ending journey of curious stares and questioning murmurs. And then I began to speak: “I would like to bear my testimony that I know the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints is true. I feel it with all my soul. I feel peace at this church, but more importantly I feel hope. Hope for a better life. I am not a member, but I want to be. I can testify that Christ lives and miracles do happen. Finding this church was my kind of miracle.”
*****
A Bar Mitzvah in Jewish culture is symbolic of when a boy becomes a man. Today is that day for my brother, Brandon. As I sat in the pew waiting with my family, I did not know what to expect. My brother had never been one to follow through with anything or finish something he started. One day he would be playing the trumpet, trying the guitar, or attempting karate, and the next he would be focusing on baseball or trying to become America’s next biggest white rap artist. Could he finally finish something and go through with his Bar Mitzvah? Just as I was contemplating this, Brandon appeared at the pulpit. As he stepped forward, he looked mature and intelligent in his dark blue suit and styled hair. Soon, he began to read from the Torah. He read the Hebrew beautifully, fast-paced, and faithfully. Once he finished everyone commented on how he would become the family’s next great Rabbi. I had never been so proud of my brother in my life. After the service I ran to him and embraced him tightly. “You were amazing!” I proclaimed in ecstasy. He just smiled back.
*****
My family is quite dysfunctional; it is an awkward mix of Jews, Catholics, Native Americans, homosexuals, Buddhists, and Atheists. But somehow we all fit together. As I sat in a lonely chair waiting to get baptized into the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints with only my sister for support I realized that I was betraying my family. I was leaving the Jewish culture my Babba had fought so hard for and the Catholic heritage I had grown up with; I was going to be alone in my family. I started crying out of fear and guilt. I had to leave this room. I had to get away. I ran, tears prickling down my face; I could hear bewilderment and murmuring in the background, but I just kept running. Finally, I went into the chapel, kneeled, and started desperately praying. “Heavenly Father, should I get baptized? Should I betray everything my family has worked so hard for?” As a pleaded alone in the chapel I felt the spirit of my Babba, and my despair converted into comfort and peace. My Babba’s words came and wrapped themselves around my heart: “You might have a life full of hardship and sorrow, but it is merely a test. In the end it is all worth it. There is more to this life than what you see. Have hope.” That was the answer. There might have been no incense, crucifixes, or yamakas in that chapel, but there was hope. It was hard betraying my family, but I wanted happiness and eternal joy: that is what the gospel of Jesus Christ gave me. It was going to be hard, and there would be many trials ahead, but I knew that this church was true. And although there were no stained glass windows or menorah to illuminate the chapel that day, I saw the sun.

Prevailing Westerlies

Friday night, my parents came to see me for the last time before beginning the long drive home. Visiting hours mandated that my mom couldn’t come back into the dorm room, so Dad travelled down the hallway alone. I let him in, and he looked around at the newly organized living space, seeming to approve for a moment. “Do you have everything you need?”

“Yeah, I think I’m pretty well covered.”

“Are you feeling any better today?”

“Yeah, I’m doing fine now.”

“Well, come on out and see your mom, so we can say goodbye.”

I flicked the lights off and shut the door behind me, keeping my keys close. We met in the lobby and did just as Dad had suggested. After our farewells, Dad rummaged around his mind, trying to find something invisible. A piece of clarity. A contact lens for me to see this new world through, perhaps. He finally settled on a regret:

“I think one thing you kids missed out on that I had growing up is moving a lot. There’s something to be said for going to a new place, where nobody knows you. You don’t have to be the same person all the time. You can be anyone.”

He meant that I should still be “Me,” of course, but no one here knows who Calvin Neal is. I have no past to answer for. “Me” can be anyone. It is curiously empowering.

-o-

Wind is always a foreigner; it has no resting place of its own. It pays visits to me like the favorite uncle everyone talks about – the one who drops by of his own volition with surprises in his pockets and wild new stories to tell. I can sit for hours and listen to the sounds of the sky bluster by, always rushing somewhere, but never arriving. It is this wind that pulls the cool Canada air southward, lifts the crisp ocean currents, then heads inland until it collides with the Cascades – solitary white peaks that bar its path. The only way to pass them is to go up, dropping dead weight on the people below – a people who don’t even bother with umbrellas any more.

Four weeks ago, I crossed those mountain passes and came to live in a desert. The trees here spread their branches wide, broad leaves facing upwards in their prayer for liquid nourishment. I dread the day when these leaves give up the faith, crumple, and drop to the ground in exhaustion. I dread that day, because I have always related closely to the nature around me. One summer, we bought an RV so we could still attend all five family reunions without severe discomfort. It was always the plan to resell it in the fall, until it wasn’t. This decision didn’t greatly affect me, though, because unlike the rest of the family, I still slept outside, closer to nature. The red-winged black bird knows just when to wake me and the wind breathes itself into me. I am alive.

-o-

I have never felt entirely prepared for the “Real World”. The skills my parents taught me were practical, for sure: I will forever be a master dish-washer and toilet-scrubber. Despite this, the feeling I’m often left with is that I don’t know enough about the world to make sense of it. I resolve to ask Dad.

I come into the den and make eye contact with Dad, who sits in a large black swivel chair, working on his laptop. The room is a collision of office and intimate. A single ceiling light fixture casts its yellow-tinted glow about the room. A single row of wallpaper marks the boundary between ceiling and wall – its blocks showing faded caricatures of continents, outdated maps with no countries or boundaries. The walls are a rich beige, and the carpet deep green. The centerpiece is a massive, red oak desk that only fit in the room after Dad and I removed the door and sanded away bits of the door frame. This is weighed down by stacks of file folders, loose pages, and a single accounting calculator. Paintings cover the walls: a print of Howard Chandler Christy’s Scene at the Signing of the Constitution, a rendition of the Capital Building in Washington DC where Dad served his mission, and two nature scenes done by his father, John Calvin Neal, who hunts, fishes, and admires Kinkade. Behind his chair is a massive window that looks out to the trees and a dark night sky. To the left is a steel file drawer.

“Are you doing anything right now?” I ask, unsure of how to start the conversation.

“Not really. Do you want to talk?” An invitation.

“Well, I’ve been wondering how a 401k works…”

Not the deepest of philosophical topics, sure, but this is something we can connect on. For over an hour, Dad and I talk about taxes and retirement, and I learn for the first time that we can talk about anything. A cool breeze rustles the branches outside.

-o-

Westbound I-84 closes after harvest as farmers burn their fields and the wind dances its autumn rituals in the smoke. A dry gust whips over plateau and effortlessly sails to one of the Blue Mountains’ many peaks where it perches to watch the engine in my grandfather’s truck overheat, then it races down the opposite side, trekking eastward.

I went walking through my aunt and uncle’s neighborhood on my first day in Utah, looking at the houses as I went. Their fences began to tug at me until they finally seized my attention. Each new fence was a stark contrast to the last: metal links, plastic slats, false picket fences, and cast iron gateways. Strangely unsettling was the absence of the one material that should make up most fences. Where is the wood? I asked my aunt about this and she reminded me that lumber is an expensive commodity – a sure reminder that I’ve come a long way. Three days later, I head south again.

An alien landscape surrounds my new home. This is truly a mountainous civilization. Everything is made of stone. Even the threshold of my floor’s public bathroom is white marble. Where there should be rolling hills draped in pine and fir, I see only barren, rocky bulwarks. A brown, foreign landscape. And yet, these hold their own beauty when the sky turns red, and the rainbow of a faraway storm splashes across them. These are their own cathedrals, echoing perfect voices singing prayers to their Lord.

-o-

For most of my childhood, the same portrait hung over the family room couch. We were slow to replace that photo of a young family. Dad had a dark, full beard then, and my mom’s red-rimmed glasses were matched only by her equally-red hair. My brother and I smiled in front, hair combed and shirts pressed. I wore a black turtleneck.

Last summer, I grew out my beard in a last-chance effort before BYU and before my mission. For a time, rekindling the habit of shaving was difficult, but now I shave every morning again. Dad once told me that while he was courting my mom, he would shave twice a day: once in the morning, and again at night, before a date. Every afternoon now, I stand in front of my mirror, wondering where this extra stubble came from.

-o-

A storm came in the afternoon. After two weeks of living the exact same sunny, cloudless day, I took the chance to go outside. I barely remembered where I had been walking to, but I reveled in the experience of the storm. Wind had arrived, and it electrified me.

Young trees took on their customary bows as air rushed through them and water pounded down. Sidewalks revealed their hidden designs, rich brown lines beneath their drab grey exteriors. The raindrops greeted my uncovered head and shoulders, filling me with moisture. This rain was warm and soft, though. I miss the stinging sensation of raindrops never quite frozen, tumbling from a blanketed sky. The wind has transformed, but so have I.

Getting Started

It's a Tuesday or Thursday morning, and I'm slowly feeling my way on black roads to BYU's campus. It's a lonely business. At 7:00 A.M. the only thing alive in my office building is a vacuum. It's operator is still asleep, so I wave hello to the vacuum and settle into my office to prepare for the day's writing lesson. It's a delicate balance, teaching: one part magic show with high jinks to two parts labor and delivery. Today I have to jiggle the scales to make room for a research lecture. I make notes, print copies, cue clips, and then I whisper a prayer into the corner of my cubicle: "It's so early. Please let them be awake. Please let me be awake. Please help us learn something together today . . ." At 7:58 a.m., I unfold my spirit and walk across the lawn to the Maeser building. Campus is different now than it was an hour ago. Feet fall. Bicycles spin. Doors sway in open-and-shut rhythm. And suddenly, I am no longer alone. I am in room 211 and five rows of eyes follow my satchel to the front of the class, trying to decipher what it holds for them for the next 90 minutes. Today we spend the first 10 minutes of class the same way we do every class class period. "Take out your journals," I say. "Today I want you to write . . ." I want them to write and write and write. I want them to make their fleeting world a tangible one. I want them to etch their hearts and minds into that paper so they can see the people they've become. I want them to write and I want them to learn. Because somewhere in that early morning dialogue between pen and paper, when the skies are still flannel and their eyes are still heavy, the sun rises. And then everything looks different.