Stories

Recently, I had the opportunity to give an uplifting message to some members of my ward. Nothing big, just a short story, a scripture reading, a message from a speech someone gave, or something small and meaningful. Well, while looking for something suitable I came upon these three stories. They made me happy.

One night, at 11:30 PM, an older African American woman was standing on the side of an Alabama highway trying to endure a lashing rain storm. Her car had broken down and she desperately needed a ride. Soaking wet, she decided to flag down the next car. A young white man stopped to help her - generally unheard of in those conflict-filled 1960s. The man took her to safety, helped her get assistance and put her into a taxi cab. She seemed to be in a big hurry! She wrote down his address,thanked him and drove away. Seven days went by and a knock came on the man's door. To his surprise, a giant console color TV was delivered to his home. A special note was attached. It read: "Thank you so much for assisting me on the highway the other night. The rain drenched not only my clothes but my spirits. Then you came along. Because of you, I was able to make it to my dying husband's bedside just before he passed away. God bless you for helping me and unselfishly serving others."

In the days when an ice cream sundae cost much less, a 10 year old boy entered a hotel coffee shop and sat at a table. A waitress put a glass of water in front of him. "How much is an ice cream sundae?" "Fifty cents," replied the waitress. The little boy pulled his hand out of his pocket and studied a number of coins in it. "How much is a dish of plain ice cream?" he inquired. Some people were now waiting for a table and the waitress was a bit impatient. "Thirty-five cents," she said brusquely. The little boy again counted the coins. "I'll have the plain ice cream," he said. The waitress brought the ice cream, put the bill on the table and walked away. The boy finished the ice cream, paid the cashier and departed. When the waitress came back, she began wiping down the table and then swallowed hard at what she saw. There, placed neatly beside the empty dish, were two nickels and five pennies - her tip.

Many years ago, when I worked as a volunteer at Stanford Hospital, I got to know a little girl named Liz who was suffering from a rare and serious disease. Her only chance of recovery appeared to be a blood transfusion from her 5-year old brother, who had miraculously survived the same disease and had developed the antibodies needed to combat the illness. The doctor explained the situation to her little brother, and asked the boy if he would be willing to give his blood to his sister. I saw him hesitate for only a moment before taking a deep breath and saying, "Yes, I'll do it if it will save Liz." As the transfusion progressed, he lay in bed next to his sister and smiled, as we all did, seeing the color returning to her cheeks. Then his face grew pale and his smile faded. He looked up at the doctor and asked with a trembling voice, "Will I start to die right way?" Being young, the boy had misunderstood the doctor; he thought he was going to have to give his sister all of his blood.

Be Happy

So, I was going to talk about the prodigal son, but I'm presently talking to a lovely new friend and have no desire to write about something depressing!

This is something I learned years ago, but occasionally forget. Every time though someone reminds me of it, either by being so disagreeable that I have to remind myself or by being so great that I can't help but think of them and it at the same time. Also, a book I read recently really emphasized it for me and gave me a new perspective on it.

You ever hear the secret to happiness is just being happy? Oddly enough, it is true! Well, kinda...mostly...pretty much. Most have spent so much of their life trying to be happy without realizing everything we need for it is right by us. Or in us. Or something like that. We've been born with certain gifts that allow us to find happiness no matter where we are. Well the book I read described it as the sin of five senses. I originally thought of it as simply choosing to enjoy enjoyment. I'm not sure what title to give it, but I feel it is the ability to be happy by choosing to, because no matter how dark a day is we can still enjoy the experience it gave us.

First, the sin of five senses. No, it is not actually a sin, but how often are we told not to feel? Stop and smell the roses is cliche, but it is true. Spending time to enjoy the fact that we can feel is one of the best ways to spend any day. Actually see something. Taste something new. Lay down on the ground and feel the way your bare arms brush the roughness of the carpet and the way your bones try to sink into it. One of the happiest days of my life was spent walking down Broadway feeling the wearied walls of whimsical wonders and sensing their stories, hearing the stories of dancers who had all their hopes on only their skill and luck, seeing them perform in the streets and stop traffic, smelling their sweat mix with the grim of a big city, and tasting the mixture of street food with smog and tainted light. Rarely have I been so thoroughly satisfied. I could have chosen to be angry. A bunch of gypsies jumped me and stopped me from getting someplace. I was forced against a wall. They refused to let me go and forced me to participate in their heathen ritual. They even held up traffic and caused a scene. I was overwhelmed. Had I chosen to see it as others on the street saw it, my day would have been ruined. We've got five senses, why do we ever not use all of them at every time we can. In many ways I believe sushi and sex are the singular greatest things this life has to offer. I love sushi! I probably will love sex! When I eat sushi I eat some ginger first. I like the flavor and texture and it smells great. When I plop a spicy tuna roll into my mouth I first let it sit. No chewing. I just run my tongue along all it's surfaces. The firmness of the tuna. The rigidity of the rice. The bumpy, sliminess of the seaweed. I don't chew my first roll of sushi, I slowly break it apart with my tongue enjoying the individual textures and tastes. The next roll is enjoyed in one delicious bite, combining the glories of each part. Sushi satisfies my sense of smell, taste, touch, and sight. The people I eat sushi with and being in a sushi bar satisfy my need to hear. Sex is very similar, just more intense. The physical intimacy of private touches. The smell of your partner's sweat. The sweet taste of their lips combining with their bitter sweat creating a flavor unique to each partner. Hearing them moan, simply talking to them, the creak of the bed, the laughter at being so happy, and hearing silence afterwards. Seeing them lay there in front of/next to you, bare emotions and body, with nothing but desire. If only their was a way to combine them...Sushi and sex that is.

Just a point of personal note. I feel sight is overused and thus the sense that provides me the least pleasure. At times there is someone so beautiful it makes up for the darkness of artificial light or a place so inspiring you stop using your eyes to see at all. My favorite sense is touch. Any touch anywhere. It is a treasure. My next favorite is smell, because they are so broad and they tell a story. I remember a night I was Sufi dancing I was partnered with a man I thought smelled. It bothered me for a moment, until I realized I had never smelled something like him. It was thick and based in sweat, but also had a hint of spices and hard-work. I began to relish every time I passed him in the circle.

We each have a choice. We always do. Choosing to not be angry or sad is good. Choosing to be happy is great. Granted, it is hard, sometimes life is hard and days don't go right, but it is simply a choice. If it's nature, my Jewish guilt bears harshly down on me for each moment I spend not smiling, because I may have ruined someone's day by scowling at them accidentally. If it is nurture, my LDS upbringing harms me each time I forsake another's emotions in favor of stewing in my own. Either way, I'm screwed whenever I don't try to better someone else's day. I'm okay with it, it makes me be a better person most of the time. So choosing to be happy is just dandy, but what about choosing to enjoy enjoyment? Emotions are great because they let us feel something. When you chose not to feel anything for years, they matter a lot to you, even more than your physical senses. Choosing to enjoy the little things around us. The sunrise and the warmth it spreads over us. The cool shivers we receive while star gazing. The smell of wet grass. We cannot enjoy life until we choose to enjoy the enjoyments we pass by every day. Little things pick us up. Little things keep us sane. Once we ignore the tender mercies granted us each morning the rest of the day goes down hill. My favorite thing of each morning is jumping out of bed, stripping down, going to the shower, and feeling the hot and cold of the shower (not by choice...the showers refuse to stay a consistent temperature...) run over my body creating red streaks and cold shivers while I wash. I get to wake up, get naked, and touch myself without any remorse. I look at myself in the mirror, dripping wet and only in a towel, and see who others will be meeting that day. It's fantastic. I get to enjoy the body I have and genuinely smile each morning.

Tears

He tiptoed, not wanting to be caught, through the soundless aisle filled with the wooden epitaphs of great men and women. Sacred, final words which spoke of emotions and experiences he had never had lay all around him. The straight golden hay on his head was too long and was tossed back carelessly as he sought his treasure. His heart raced and his forehead perspired. He felt he had reached his destination and began to dig, his shaking body struggling with its load. Dust startled his eyes and he almost cried to cleanse himself, but knew the consequences and simply wiped his eyes off on his tattered sleeve. Finally, after half-an-hour, he heard the familiar thump for which he had waited. He gently pried open the cover and began to read.

A young lad, he was content with his situation. He was more experienced than most his age, but he never knew. He was weaker than most his age, but he never cared. He had been hurt just as much as anyone of any age, but he never cried. Crying always led to pain which he couldn't control. He had learned early on and had spent great labors to not cry, no matter how much it hurt. Unfortunately, any loss is a loss and what he lost took more than he had thought.

Every hello makes a goodbye more meaningful. Every failed chance for a kiss makes the real thing more magical. Every sunset makes the sunrise more monumental. The end requires the beginning and the beginning requires the end, otherwise we'd never notice. Sex occurs after birth and birth after sex. Each storm needs a sunbeam to cheer it up and each sunbeam needs a storm to cheer up. Love requires two people and two people require love.

The smudged symbols gently caressing the tome's skin with lips of pure intent gave him innocence. They were not an escape as they had been to his mother, but were instead a device to control himself by relinquishing his control. He was not guilty of his actions if he was not the cause of them. At least that is what he had told himself at the time. He would learn that inaction to prevent a known outcome was just was sinful as causing the action to occur yourself.

Tears, no matter the reason, made him want to punch something; it was not anger or frustration, but a pure desire to hit something. Fights rarely occurred, but injuries were common. A shun from a brother, a split knuckle, or scalding shower usually satisfied justice. He never knew why he cried, but he did learn of some stimuli that made him cry without fail. Well, they worked most of the time. He figured if he released his tears on purpose, he could control the outcome.

Necromancy raised by thorough study of the magical combinations of symbols invoked the resurrection of long dead emotions. By blaming their existence on a book, he managed to never let them leave his safety. They were reburied in the tomes each night as the light went out. He cried when he read of the fall of Cain, when Samwise became mayor, when Daisy held Benjamin in his last moments, and when Henri stabbed the heart of Villanelle, because he gave himself to the story. His empathy made the story real. He told himself he had control, because he gave control to the stories meaning. Even if it appeared he did not have control, he claimed to choose what controlled him.

He was not unhappy. He was never sad even when he cried. He never smiled; he was never happy. He relinquished control over himself in order to stand blameless. Unfortunately, the blame had always been his, because he chose to do nothing. He never helped himself. One night he accidentally slept with his book and was buried with it once the light came back.

If there wasn't a first, everyone would be better off

Blast it all. I just feel sappy. I try to write, but nothing wants to be said, well, not entirely true. I tried saying it twice, but I fear I will not only fail to communicate, but also offend and alienate. Metaphors are gone, rhymes are overused and weak, and no muse is mercifully minding my aching need to know that now is the right time to write totally meatless morsels of well-meaning messages. I've got nothing. I want to say something about choices, because every choice we make is really our existence voicing its opinion of what we feel the future should hold. Each decision commissions the Earth to build another wall, wrapping mortals in another rather righteous round ring, defining us, masking us. But we can't leave it all up to chance, because chance is just a fancy way to say that our voice concedes to the deeds of previous needs. I'm just sick of being told to bleed for the deeds of dead men and chancing my life to the insane antics of anglo-saxon angels told to teach timid little me to finally find faith in their ideals. Do we allow ourselves to be defined by our actions or do we let chance decide the actions and we decide the possibilities? Do we accept that we are who we act out? Do we let fate or predestination or flipism shape our road and if we do, do we watch each other or the road shift? Is it fair to let our choice be taken from us in the attempt to clean off the makeup masking our minds and bodies? When does a mask stop being a mask and actually attach itself to its owner?