100 Trees - Face Mask Tree

 A couple years ago I decided to write 100 stories, on a day, about apples.  Well, I've decided to try this exercise again, but this time with a tree theme.  Here is my story for day 3.

From the distance I could see the leaves blowing in the wind; large, symmetrical, pleated.  I walked toward the tree, wondering if I could pluck just one leaf for myself.

“Save the tree!” protesters shouted.  The stood around the tree, holding signs that said, “leaves are for trees, not for me.”  “No leaves leave trees,” and “tree lives matter.”  I didn’t want to hurt the tree, in fact, from what I understood, the tree wanted to give its leaves away, yet those who gave voice to the tree told me otherwise.  

I looked away, seeking other pieces of information, wondering where I got my information from, which news to believe.  I could see it from where I stood, another crowd marching, leaves covering their mouths, but not silencing their cries.  “All lives matter,” they cried, “protect others with leaves,” “Be selfless like trees.”  Caught between the two group, I didn’t know where to go.  If I wanted to join the one, I had to get past the other that blocked the leaves. 

My eyes were first to sense the smoke.  I heard others cough.  People looked in the distance, a flame, ever growing, was coming nearer.  They turned and fled past me, while I stood immobilised, realising the soon fate of this tree. The fire, with a flame for a tongue was coming to devour it.  Only then, with the noise of the protestors far in the distance, could I hear the whisper of the tree, “come, please, take my leaves.”  I rushed to the tree, taking from it its final gift, loving it for its sacrifice.  I wept, wishing my tears could form a river, and oasis to protect the tree.  I imagined a world with just me and the tree and no other voices.  The tears managed only to clean the smoke from my eyes for a moment, long enough to see how close the fire was.  I hugged the tree as I reached for one last leaf, and then I ran.  I ran to safety with both those who had protested “leaves,” and “no leaves.”

Elephant Sanctuary

Once upon a time there was an elephant sanctuary.  Within it were baby elephants and grown up elephants, maimed elephants and whole elephants, sick elephants and healthy elephants.  And each elephant had an individual diet according to its individual needs.  The owner of the elephant sanctuary would go on long trips, searching for injured or needy elephants.  Before a particularly long trip, he left his employees with specific instructions about caring for and feeding each elephant. 

In the heat of the day, the employees trudged away.  Suddenly, one came to a halt.  “I have a better idea,” he declared. 

“Let’s feed these animals only in the morning.”  Another naysayer jumped in saying “or open the gates and let the creature find their own food.” 

“No,” said a third employee, “we should feed them as instructed.”

“Why?” Chorused the others.

“Why don’t we feed them all the same amount of food?”

“Better yet, why not dump the food in the open area, and let the elephants divvy it up on a first come first serve bases?”

“Survival of the fittest.”

And on the employees went.  They crafted a circle of hay bales and sat upon them to discuss the issues further.  For days they went on debating which method of feeding the animals would be the most efficient, and how they could save money for other luxuries.  On they continued until the owner returned and found all the elephants uncared for and dead.

This parable was inspired by Doctrine and Covenants 101:43-62.  I do not share it to suggest that we should not have or ask questions.  No.  The quotation to the right by President Uchtdorf clearly states otherwise.  We shouldn’t stop asking questions, but we must keep working.  The issue here is expressed clearly in verse 50, “And while they were at variance one with another they became very slothful, and they hearkened not unto the commandments of their lord.”  We won’t always understand.  There will always be elephants.  We shouldn’t pretend they don’t exist, rather, we should press forward in the work to which the Lord has called us, and as we put our shoulder to the wheel we can ask the questions.  Hopefully the answers we receive will deepen our understanding of Heavenly Father and his desires for us.

On Things That Scare Me after Dark

I awoke to scuttling, scratching, gnawing sounds.  A mouse was in my room.  Immediately I thought defensively.  I tried to clap, to scare it away, but my hands were slow to move and the sound they produced was muffled by the covers.  The mouse continued his racket making.  The noise came from the foot of my bed.  I could only imagine that he was trying to make his way up there, turn into a monster mouse and attack me.  Or at least bite me and give me a deadly disease, rabies or something.  I started banging my feet against the bed, stomping, as it were, under the covers.  Surely that sound, and the movement  would frighten him away.  The mouse, however, continued unfazed. The monster mouse would be frightened by nothing.  I’ve never before been woken by a mouse, and yet the noise was vaguely familiar.  Since my best efforts to scare it away hadn’t worked, I stopped for a moment and listened.  Its scuttling was like fluttering, the scratching and gnawing like the taping of a trapped insect against glass, like a moth or a fly, exactly like a moth or a fly. And I, I have my roommate Charity to deal with problems like that.  I listened to the noise for less than a minute more, and then a reassuring quiet filled our room.  The creature lay caught in Charity’s web.

Puddle

The day is warm, but still very wet.  The melted snow has yet to find its way down a drain and into the river.  The sidewalk is mostly clear as I stroll home, but I watch my step.  A makeshift stream flows down the hill, first on one side of the sidewalk, and then the other.  I step over the water with ease.  As I continue along, the path flattens out, and I have only the occasional puddle to step around.  I carry on.  Suddenly I’m confronted with a puddle of a monstrous size.  It stretches across two or three sidewalk squares and is at least 5 centimeters deep.  The murky water stands in my way.  I freeze.  I contemplate going further; I want to go further; if I am ever going to get home, I have to go further!  But I can’t; I’m stuck.  I think about turning around, backing away, or calling a friend to ask for a ride home.  I can’t call a friend.  They’d laugh at my problem and say it’s small.  Besides, who would I call?  My problem isn’t small.  It looms over me, unconquerable.  I have to get home.  I can’t.  I can’t get home.  I’m never going to make it there.  I’m trapped.  My vision blurs.  I feel a tear sliding down my cheek.  I bite my tongue and blink away the tears.  There has to be away, I tell myself.  But, I cannot see the way.  I cannot see past the puddle that forbids my progression.  I’m ready to give up.  I sit down and wait for the puddle to dry up.  It might take days and I am helpless.  A sudden wind comes upon me, causing me to shudder.  I can’t stay here.  I can’t wait for things to change.  I have to do something.  Tears are sliding down my cheek again.  They’ll only make the puddle bigger.  I have to do something.  I stand up in search for another way around.  On either side of the puddle, the grass is saturated with water, marshland.  Walking there would be no better than walking through the puddle itself.  I look up at the sun, feel its warmth against my face and push aside the discouragement that keeps creeping into my mind.  When I look back down at the water, I see my reflection looking up at me.  She’s pathetic.  Her eyes red from tears, her hand clutching her phone, hoping that someone will call and help her along, or at least listen to her complaint.  “I’m here,” I tell my reflection.

“I can’t do this.”

“Come on.  We’ll do this together.”

I look again along the banks of the puddle.  A short distance to the right lays a strip of packed snow that I hadn’t noticed before.  If I can get there, I can follow it to the other side.  It’s not much of a leap, but I’ll have to jump.  I look around once more, but I have no other option.  I focus on the snow, bend my knees and then I’m in the air.  When I land, I left out a sigh of relief.  I follow the slippery island to its other end, and with one large step I am back of solid ground.  I glance at the puddle splotched sidewalk before me, hold my head high and carry on home.

Shameless Self-Promotion

remembering

One year ago from today my daddy died.  It's been hard for me to talk about him, and hard for me to share the memories I have of him.  So today, I want to share a story.
When I was a kid my dad would read to me every night before bed.  I looked forward to story time, and he read many books to me.  I remember when he read to me The Black Cauldron and he would call me Gurgi, the fluffy creature.  But that is not what this story is about.  This story takes place in the years before he read The Black Cauldron to me.
It began one night after he had read to me, and was reading to my sister in her room.  I was probably supposed to be sleeping, but I had to get my stuffed toy down from above the window.  I stood on my chair, but I couldn't quite reach it.  I grabbed my pillow, placed in on my chair and reached and reached, and did a little jump to knock it down, and me down.  I ended up on the floor.  It wasn't a far fall, and it wasn't all that painful, but as I made my way back to my bed I noticed that my foot was bleeding.  I started to cry.  I was crying to get the attention of my dad who was in the next room.  He heard me, but thought I was just crying to get attention (I was kinda) and so he let me go on crying for a while.  When I didn't stop he came to check on me.  He realised the cut was quite deep, so after cleaning off the blood, and giving me a band-aide he called my mother who was out curling, and asked her to bring home suture kit.  I fell asleep long before my mom got home.  When she woke me up at 1 am to give me stitches, she realised that she had forgotten the freezing...  So, I got a couple stitches in the middle of the night with no freezing.
I realise that is isn't primarily a story about my dad, so I am not sure why it is the one I chose to tell other than I was thinking about it the other day as I told a different story about my dad to a friend.  Sharing that story was one of the first times since my dad's passing that I felt comfortable as i relayed a memory of him.
Today I didn't write the story I told my friend, because it is located here: The Cavity

Insiders Club - My creative writing for the week.

We were all gathered in the meeting room.  There was chatter and laughter until Clement called order to the crowd.  I sat in the front row, pen in hand, ready to take notes.

How to get people to join the club:

-Step 1: Become friends with outsides.

-Step 2: Invite outsiders to our fun events.

-Step 3: Make sure they listen to the twist.

-Step 4: Get them to say the commitment.

-Step 5: Invite them to club

-Step 6: Repeat.

I had heard the steps before.  Somehow they always broke down.  I’d make a friends and invite them to an event.  Most often they’d turn me down and I move on.  Some have come to the events, but they don’t say the commitment.  Then I think back to my friend Billy.

*****

I met Billy in my Economics class.  That evening we were having a fun fest, so I invited him to come.  I started introducing him to my friends as we hung out, played games and listened to music.  I kept glancing over at Billy.  He was having a good time.  I saw the smile growing on his face, and light in his eyes.  It was time for the twist.  We sat together as Jeremy explained the tenets of the club.  All Billy had to do was believe and then say the commitment.  I looked over at him.  His eyes were fixed on Jeremy, his hands still.  It was as if every pore in his body was listening.  Billy nodded his head slowly to the rhythm of Jeremy’s voice.

Jeremy’s message was smoother.  I swelled with pride as he explained the great club to which I belonged.  He ended his thoughts with an invitation for outsides to join the club.  I nudged Billy; he put up his hand.

I had done it!  I had lured someone into the club.  When the fest was over I said goodbye to Billy, and stayed to help clean up.  I celebrated with my friends.  They cheered and gave me high-fives.

I was excited to see Billy later that week in class.

“Are you coming to club today?”  I asked him.

He shrugged, “What’s it about?”

“We’re going to talk about counter-arguments against those who don’t want to join the club.”

“I’m not interested in that.”

I was shocked!  He had said it so offhandedly.  “What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to argue people into the club.  I am not even sure if I want to be a part of it.”

I gasped in unbelief.  “How can you say that?  You said the commitment!”

He looked down at the ground.  “It was all in the moment.  I don’t even know what the club is about.  Does it do any good?”

“Yes!”  I exclaimed. “We exist to tell others about the club.”

He looked like he had bitten into mouldy broccoli. “Why?”

That was obvious.  “So that others will join the club.”

Billy shrugged. “I’m not interested,” he said, and he walked away.

I stared blankly after him.  I wanted to chase him down.  I wanted to get him to stay in the club.  I thought I could talk to him in our next class, but he avoided me.  He avoided me for the rest of the year, and then I never saw him again.

*****

I tuned back into what Clement was saying.  He gave three reasons we could give to people for why they should join the club.  I wrote them down.

My Other Abusive Relationship

When I first moved here it was without specific ambition.  I spent the first few months floating around with no certain idea of what I should be doing.  I had met you briefly years ago, and fallen in a childish love.  Since I was not sure what I should be doing, I sought you out, wondering if you’d remember me.  I thought you might be able to help me fulfil my dreams.  For a month I relentlessly pursued you until we finally had the chance to meet face to face.  I was nervous.  I was sure you wouldn’t remember me from our first meeting; I had been just a kid.  I told you what I wanted but you offered me something else.  Desperate, and having no other options, I took it. 

I dearly wanted for thing to work out, but we were not communicating well.  I brought this to your attention and we came up with a solution.  Then things were really good.  I enjoyed my time with you.  You bought me a phone, having paid for my plan ever since, so that we could stay in contact.  We had great conversations.  We laughed together and worked together.  I felt like I was getting things done, and enjoying the process.  But it was like I only knew one side of you and that side left.  You changed and suddenly I felt lonely.  I worked alone, and you didn’t even seem to care what I was doing.  I tried to motivate myself, but I wanted more than anything for you to come alongside of me and tell me I was doing it right.  Even if you had told me I was doing it wrong that would have been better than the silence with which you punished me. 

Then she came along.  I am sure she was quite nice, but I could never overcome my jealousy and befriend her.  She was needy and you looked after her.  She liked Boston Cream doughnuts so you always brought them for her.  She didn’t know much about the transit system, so you bought her a bus pass and showed her around.  You invited her over for supper.  You joked with her and took care of her.  You watched over her every need.  I know I’m fully independent.  I know how to buy my own bus pass, and yet how I longed for you to buy one for me.  How I wished that you would take the time to bring me my favourite food.  I wanted to be thought about.  I longed to be cared for, but I felt neglected, just as neglected as I had before, but now I saw you pouring your energy into her.

Even after she left I was too badly hurt to say anything.  I knew largely that I had been in the wrong and so I couldn’t accuse others.  My jealousy was venom that ate at my soul, not something I was proud of.  It was over a year after she left that I had the guts to mention to you that I felt abandoned.   You never knew where I was, and as far as I could tell, you never cared.  My heart slipped further and further from you.  Occasionally you did things to get my hopes up.  You’d take me on trips, take me out for supper or hand me cash.  At times I’ve felt like I am using you.  You don’t ask me for much, but you give.  Sometimes I wish I had more to give you, or rather, I wish you wanted me more.  I wish you valued me, or even needed me, but you don’t seem to care if I come or go.  I’m not a better person because of our relationship, and I don’t think it will affect you if I leave. 

I keep looking at the door.  I imagine getting off my chair and walking out.  What would it look like if our relationship ended?  How will it change the way people look at me?  Most people, except those who know me well, think our relationship is healthy.  They think I’ve made a godly choice in choosing you.  The people who know me tell me to get out of the relationship.  They see it sucking away my life.  They think I can do better.  The reasons I have to stay are increasingly poor reasons.  I’d have to pay for my own phone bill.  No more free trips.  In the fall, my laptop died.  You gave me a new one.  Would you want it back?  Laptops, a phone, trips; those are no reason to stay in a relationship, but I am not sure I can be independent.

I keep hoping our relationship will mend itself, but I haven’t done much to aide in its healing.  Your apathy towards me causes me to cease caring.  I want out of this relationship.  I am not sure when to leave.  Neither am I sure how to leave.  I don’t want to cut ties completely.  Slowly I’ve distanced myself from you more and more.  I think I’m ready to say goodbye, but something keep holding me here.

Married Life- An Allegory

For twelve years I’ve been married, half my life.  I couldn’t have known what I was doing when I first agreed to the idea.  I thought he was my only chance.  It hadn’t occurred to me at the time that other men might come along and sweep me off my feet.  They haven’t.  I’ve been true to my husband through the worst of it all.

The first few years I was his willing slave.  Like a young child willing to do the most ridiculous tasks to please her heartless older siblings.  My husband said jump, and so I’d jump and high as I could, over and over again.  I became so tired, so lonely.   

I was a marvellous wife, doing my best at everything.  I served him well but I wasn’t sure that I was loved.  I let painful thoughts enter my mind.  If I died would anybody care?  Was I valuable at all?  I was told I must trust my husband.  After all, he loved me.  It was his job.  So, I told myself that, and when I was feeling alone, I would talk to him, though I was never sure he was listening.  I knew he must be, but his body language never communicated that.  When he didn’t reply to me I’d read something that he had written to me long ago.  I started writing notes to my husband.  In them I’d let him know how I was feeling.  I’d talk about my friendships and ask for advice.  Maybe he thought I’d learn better if he didn’t tell me what to do.  He let me discover things that he already knew. 

                For the first six years of our marriage I spent time with him every day.  I convinced myself that he was interested in what I was saying to him and even more committed to me than I was to him.  I wasn’t sure how that was possible because I vowed, in my young age to never leave him.  No matter what.  So committed was I that I dedicated the whole of our seventh year of marriage to getting to know him better.  I wanted to know the things that made him happy.  I wanted to know how I could serve him.  I wanted to know the things he liked, but ultimately I didn’t want to just know information about him, I wanted to know him personally.

                I cannot lie.  That year was filled with many things.  I spent much effort trying to please him, but also trying to please a friend of mine.  Though it was a friendship with a boy, I don’t believe it hindered my relationship with my husband.  He was well aware of the friendship, and often invited hang out with us.  Ultimately the friendship wasn’t healthy.  I wanted the boy to be more like who I thought my husband was.  I had ideals and he did not live up.  Eventually I asked the boy to leave my life.  I didn’t need that friendship, I reckoned, because I had my husband as a friend.  I clung to my relationship with my husband, hoping that it would fulfill me, but it didn’t.  I pursued him.  I wanted to get to know him better, but I got only more knowledge and nothing intimate.  I thought he was supposed to be pursuing me.

                I moved to a new city with the hope that there I’d be able to serve him better.  I had hoped that there I might be able to spend more time with him.  I was willing to move where ever he wanted.  Nothing changed.  My husband had told me to jump, and so I spent day after day jumping, but eventually I got tired.

                When a man is never around it is easy for a woman to start wondering if he really loves her.  I remember one special moment we spent together in the past few years, but there should have been many more.  Or am I too demanding?

Sometimes people talk about my husband.  They’ll mention a nice thing he’s done for them.  It makes me angry.  Don’t get me wrong, I am glad he is doing things for other people.  I once thought that was all that mattered.  I didn’t care if he spent time with me if he was helping out others.  But I want him.  I want him to do something for me, just once.  I want him to take the time to be intimate with me, even if it is only for a few minutes.  I want him.      

As his wife I feel expected to tell stories about him that make him look good.  But I either have to make them up, or rely on stories that others have told me.  Sometimes I don’t even believe their stories myself.

One thing I must mention.  In the past 12 years I have never gone hungry.  There has always been money in the bank and food on my table.  When I thought my husband was hinting that I should get a job, I did and I hate it, but I know I have more money than I have earned.  It is possible that my husband likes to do things for me without me knowing and so all these years I have credited him for the food in my belly.  But now, I am just not sure that it was him.  I know many kind and generous people who continue to care for me, and it easily could have been any of them. 

                I’m still lonely.  I thought I’d never be lonely if I married.  I thought my husband would be around all the time, making sure I was okay.  I was counting on him.  I thought it would be wrong to rely on anybody else.  Now I am not sure that I ever should have relied on him.  I’m trying to make some new friends.  Not just people I think he’d want me to be friends with, but people I want to be friends with.  Not just people whom I can serve, but people who might serve me.  Maybe it's selfish, but I don’t want to be lonely anymore. 

                I thought once I was married that I would be able to curl up in my husband’s arms and rest, but my to do list keeps growing.  Whenever I have a moment to breathe, he is never around.  I try to enjoy the time by myself, after all, I am an introvert, but I keep looking to be fulfilled.  Maybe it was foolish to trust that he would satisfy me, but he promised me an abundant life together, joy and peace.

                I’m miserable.  It’s not my fault.  I keep trying, and I keep waiting, hoping that today will be the day he shows up and does his part.  I fall asleep alone.

                This year my dad died.  I begged my husband to show up and comfort me, but mourned his death alone.  I hardly mourned it.  Within a week of his death I was back to work, trying to serve my husband. 

                I know I shouldn’t blame my husband for my dad’s cancer.  It wasn’t his fault, it is not like he caused it or anything, yet a lot of my anger is directed towards him.  I hoped that he would have done something, anything.  He never showed up.  I can understand if he is busy with work or something, but I’m his wife!  Isn’t that a reason for him to come by and hold me? 

                I’ve been wondering if I’ve been lied to.  Maybe he isn’t the kind of guy he claims to be.  I don’t know why I’ve been fooled for so long.  I should have figured it out long ago.  I keep giving him the benefit of the doubt.  I keep hoping that he will come by.  I keep wishing that this year will be different, better.  Our relationship stays the same.  I’m not even sure it can be called a relationship, but a relationship with him is all I’ve ever hoped for.

                I promised myself to him.  I’d feel bad giving up now.  He might have good reason to be so distant, or maybe he is not as distant as I make him out to be.  I always try to justify his actions to myself and to others.  When he doesn’t come to an event with me, I tell others that he must have known it was for the better.  I’m tired of making up excuses for him.  I’m tired of giving him the benefit of the doubt.

                I’m still young.  I don’t think I can remain in this marriage for the rest of my life.  Would I be wrong to call it unfair, or even abusive?  I’ve trusted in his love, but I’ve never seen it.  I suppose there were a few times, but 4 times in 12 years is not enough and now even those times seem blurry.  Maybe I just gave him the benefit of the doubt before because I wanted to believe.  I wanted to believe that he planted the flowers for me, but maybe it was just the wind that blew the seeds into my garden.  Wanting to believe isn’t enough for me anymore.

                I wonder what my life would be like if I divorced him.  I know, it is wrong to even entertain such thoughts, but I can’t help but think.  Would I be able to form meaningful relationship after suffering in my marriage for so long?  Would I be able to heal?  Could I ever trust again?  There are some things I’d like to do.  Things I don’t do now because I know he wouldn’t approve.

                I’m tired of playing his game.  I’m tired of living by his rules.  And when I consider that he might be holding my back from real joy, from true love and from lasting peace, I don’t want to believe anything he ever did was good.  If he really is an evil husband, then it would be good, even right, for me to leave him.  I start looking for things to incriminate him, but whenever I find one my mind fights back.  It is as if I’ve spent the last 12 years of my life brainwashing myself to believe I have a lovely husband for it is impossible for me to hold other thoughts in my mind.  I’ve been living by his rules for so long that I need someone to tell me what to do.  I want someone to tell me to leave him.

                But I won’t.  I won’t leave him.  I am trapped.  I am his.  It is all I have known.  I cannot imagine my life without him.  Even though he has so infrequently been present, everything I do is for him.  I base my life on who he is.  I am his slave forever.  Somebody, please, come save me.