Because I Can

"What are you going to do with these pictures," the photographer [Evette of Bella Photography] asked me.

"I don't know," I responded.  "I'm just going to have them."

Maybe I'll print a few.  Maybe not.  There was never really an end goal in sight.

The thought came to me last summer after I had worked really hard to lose some Dylan weight. 

I wonder if I can fit into my wedding dress?

And then the thought expanded.

Next year is my 10th anniversary.  Wouldn't it be fun to put my dress back and have the bridals I chose not to do back then taken now?

Well, guess what?  It was fun.  And now I have pretty pictures of me in my wedding dress, even if it was 10 years later.  What will I do with them? 

Blog them.

And then store them on my external hard drive.

And be glad I took the time to do something just because I can.

You Are Also Right

Today, I'm going to go somewhere I rarely go: politics.

In Fiddler on the Roof, the learned man Perchik says to Tevye, "He is right, and he is right?  They cannot both be right."  After a brief pause for consideration, Tevye responds, "You are also right."

This interchange pretty accurately describes my feelings about politics.  Put me in a room with two divisively opposite opinions, and I will no doubt see validity in both arguments.

I like to think it's not that I can't form my own opinions.  If you know me at all, you'll know I have plenty of those.  But when it comes to politics, the issues transcend my personal opinions as decisions and policies affect such a diverse population.  I often struggle to reconcile what feels right to me as what would be right for the whole.

I'd make a terrible politician.  I like the philosophy behind it all; politics makes for such interesting discussions.  But when it came down to actual decision-making and implementation, I'd just run the other way.

Unable to do much more than nod my head in understanding and agreement, I tend to shy away from political debates.  But as I read the post of a friend on Facebook (and the resulting comments), the topic struck a common chord with a book I just finished, Cry, the Beloved Country.

Set in apartheid South Africa, the book dealt with many issues surrounding the governing white people and the native blacks who made up the labor force.  A prevalent discussion was the benefits verses risks associated with educating the labor force.  The arguments for and against were framed by what would be best for the white citizens.  The main argument for education included a reduced crime rate and an increase in production.  Arguments against included the possibility of an uprising.

With that as my mental backdrop, I processed the political discussion differently than I might have otherwise.  I still came to no decisive conclusions, but I'm currently stuck in the mental process.  But it isn't really the issue (should states offer in-state tuition to children of illegal immigrants) which I found most interesting.  Instead, it is the perspective from which we view the issue.

Option 1:  How does it affect me?
- Why should I have to pay for their education?
- If I pay for their education, I am potentially reducing the crime rate making my state safer.
- I would rather pay for their education than their prison cell or deportation.
- It is in the best interest of our church [The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints] to have its people better educated and better able to support themselves.

Option 2: How does it affect them?
- (No supporting evidence from Facebook)

And a sidenote: Should there be a me and a them, or is it feasible to achieve some us?

And a derivative question: Should government concern itself at all with overall humanity and charity, or is it an entity created to simply protect its own?

I'm stuck.  Standing on a fence looking down at two beautiful pastures.  One where we can all walk around with Christlike charity.  One where the law is the law, and it protects the most honest and hardworking of us.  I'd like to live in both, but at my core, I don't think it is possible in our imperfect world.

And so who is right?

He is right, and he is right, and whatever comments you may have, you are also right.

Memory Space

To say I don't care about things would be inaccurate. 

But when the world or the nation or even a community is affected by some large scale event, while I intellectually comprehend the ramifications and am rationally concerned about the people affected, I rarely feel anything.  Unless my daily routine is affected by a tragedy, it is rare that I am able to connect with any sort of emotion.  I frequently joke about how cold-hearted I am, and - in truth - it takes a lot to penetrate through to that central core of my being.

Like the rest of the country, I remember where I was on 09-11-01.  I even remember feeling on that day.  However, that feeling was probably most accurately described as "shock."  I think I also felt a grand sense of loss due to the absolute enormity of American lives affected.  But because of the way I process things, that feeling was short-lived, replaced almost immediately with rationality and distant concern.

In the weeks leading up to today, then, I've felt a bit like an outsider.  Normal people feel something on a day like today, and I knew I just wouldn't.

In a seemingly unrelated event, I was also reluctant to go watch a friend of mine sing with the Utah Symphony Chorus.  Knowing my apathy toward classical music, he said via text, "I'd invite you to my concert, but you'd consider it 'boring music,' so I won't invite you."  I told him to give me the info and I would seriously think about it.  I decided that the importance of supporting him overrode the dislike of classical music, and I would go.  He was able to arrange two free tickets for me, and so I invited my good friend Arlee (my new concert/show date; we've been to 4 together in the last few months) to go with me.

In a few spare moments, I decided to see if I could find anything out about the concert.  Poking around online I discovered it was to be a 9-11 Memorial Concert featuring an original composition by John Adams which had been commissioned to be played at a memorial concert the year following the attacks.  Then I started to remember a few of the details Skyler had told me about the piece, and I actually started to get really excited about going.

In all aspects of life, the more educated I am about a subject, the more enjoyable I find it.  Knowing something about the history of a football team or player makes even football seem more interesting.  So when we arrived, I looked specifically for the displays the website had mentioned which would explain John Adam's The Transmigration of Souls. 

My anticipation built.

A few quotes by composer John Adams:

"I want to avoid words like 'requiem' or 'memorial' when describing this piece because they too easily suggest conventions that this piece doesn't share. If pressed, I'd probably call the piece a 'memory space.' It's a place where you can go and be alone with your thoughts and emotions."

"I was touched by the fact that when people are deeply in shock over the sudden loss of a family member, they don't express themselves in fancy language. They don't start sprouting sonnets or highfalutin verse. They speak in the most simple of terms. When we say 'words fail,' we really mean it."

He also described how, in watching footage of the day, he was overwhelmed by the papers floating down from the two towers.  He felt - in their overwhelming numbers - that they represented the totality, the scope of the loss.

Arlee and I entered the concert hall and sat, continuing our discussions of literature and musical theater and education.  At last, the lights dimmed and the concert was to start.  An announcement was made:

"To honor the heroes and in memory of the victims of the attacks of September 11, 2001, we ask that you refrain from applauding during the first half of this evening's program, including Maestro Thierry Fischer's entrance.  Thank you for observing this as a moment of silence."

The Maestro entered.  Papers ruffled, patrons fidgeted, but slowly that noise dimmed and it seemed no breath was even drawn.  A pre-recorded tape began to play. 

Footsteps. 
Sirens. 
Sounds of the shuffle that is New York City.

And then a voice:

"Missing.

Missing.

Missing."

And then the voice began to read names.  Names such as:

"Missing:
John Florio.

Missing:
Christina Flannery.

Missing."

The choir, getting their note from an "A" embedded in a siren call, added their voices to the tape.  The symphony began to play.  The haunting melodies and discordant harmonies blended and wove and rose and fell and circled around the tape, and in the quiet moments, I could hear:

"Missing.
Domingo Benilda.

Missing.
Kevin D. Marlo.

Missing."

The Madeleine Choir School provided a childrens chorus whose tone and talent could not be beat.  Their pure voices provided an intense contrast to the thicker, more developed voices of the Utah Symphony Chorus (USC).   The two choirs together sang words taken from "the words scribbled on posters at Ground Zero by families searching for and mourning their loved ones."

Words like:
Jeff was my uncle.
She looks so full of life in that picture.
I loved him from the start.

And it was beautiful.  Breathtakingly beautiful.

And then the children's choir sang:
The daughter says: He was the apple of my father's eye.

And the USC men sang:
The father says: I am so full of grief.  My heart is absolutely shattered.

And the choirs took turns singing:
The young man says: He was tall, extremely good looking, and girls never talked to me when he was around.
The neighbor says: She had a voice like an angel, and she shared it with everyone, in good times and bad.
 
And the women sang:
The mother says: He used to call me every day.  I'm just waiting.
 
And that phrase hung in the air.  "I'm just waiting."  And I felt something.  A deep, raw, honest emotion connected to this huge event. 
 
They continued:
The lover says: Tomorrow will be three months, yet it feels like yesterday since I saw your beautiful face, saying, "Love you to the moon and back, forever."
 
And I thought about how Kirk's cousin said something very similar at the funeral of her sister.
 
They continued:
The man's wife says: I loved him from the start...
 
And then the volume and intensity and dissonance increased as the choir repeated:
 
I wanted to dig him out.  I know just where he is.
I wanted to dig him out.
I wanted to dig him out.
I wanted to dig him out.
I know just where he is.
 
And I didn't just feel something.  It wasn't a small crack in the defenses around my heart.  Now, ten years later, I finally broke down the whole and total loss into its component parts.  To the mother.  To the sister.  The daughter.  The friend.  The neighbor.  The uncle.  The grandfather.
 
And the piece began to descend from its cresendo, fading back into the sounds of the New York streets and the voice:
 
"Missing.
John J. Lennon.
 
Missing.
Jorge Luis Leon.
 
Missing."
 
And the choir sang:
My sister.
My brother.
My daughter.
My son.
Best friend to many.
I love you.
 
And the Maestro held up his baton and the audience held its breath and the tape faded and no one dared move and even though the house was sold out we were not a group, but individuals lost in a memory space. 

Today, as we as a country reflect, if you struggle to feel, you may wish you join me in this incredible space John Adams created:

 Part 1 of 3 - Listen to the street sounds of NY

Part 2 of 3 - @ 3:09 - "The sister says:"

 Part 3 of 3 - @5:00 - sounds fading to silence

Being a Casdorph

Why I love being a Casdorph:

I walked outside my parents house to grab something from the car, and there I met two boys wearing hearing protection and riding the scissor lift (which is on a slightly slanted trailer) upwards as quickly as it would go.

And my only question, delivered straight to Adam's ear as I held one ear muff away from his ear, was,

"Do you have permission?"

The Pink Stuff

Alex, describing what he learned in school today:

"Well, there's the bones, and then there's the pink stuff what helps you bweave."

"Lungs?" I asked.

"Yeah," he responded, eyes huge with amazement.  "How did you know?"

"I went to school, too," I said.

"Well," he continued, "when your lungs aren't working right, you cough."  (He pauses to legitimately cough, a side effect of his asthma which is flared up at the moment.)
 
"See, I coughed," he commented.  "So my pink stuff isn't working very well."
 
Only a few minutes later, he started singing a song under his breath about bones.  "Did you learn that song at school?" I asked. 
 
"Nope.  I just made it up.  It is from my song bwain.  I have lots of bwains.  There's my Wii games bwain, and my 'we have a Ben 10 game' bwain."
 
Maybe the reason he hasn't managed to eat his dinner yet is because he's just too full of creativity.

Best Buddies

I mentioned it yesterday, but I was just as thrilled when these two new best buds continued to play side by side all morning.  Okay, maybe it is a bit annoying that they've figured out how to go through my linen closet to get into my bedroom when I tried to lock them out.  Perhaps I'm concerned that my two trouble-makers have joined forces and managed to escape downstairs with a whole container of cookies yesterday.  And their closer proximity was definitely instrumental in Dylan's fingers getting closed in the back door this morning.

But to see Alex offer a hug and a kiss to a sobbing redhead?  To watch said redhead (who shares nothing) offer one headphone, completely unprompted?  To see them sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with no screaming, whining, or disgusted grunting involved?

So worth it.

First Impressions

Adam waited anxiously as all his friends went back to school.  His new school, Navigator Pointe Academy - where I teach, did not start until yesterday.  Depending on the day he was apprehensive, excited, nervous, or grouchy with me for expecting him to change schools.  Thankfully, on the big day, he was just excited.  "Mom, I'm not scared or nervous or anything!" he announced to me as I did his hair.  He was also careful to point out just how daddy had taught him to line up his belt with his pants.

I saw him twice during the day.  I passed him once in the hall, and he smiled an adorably full-faced smile but dutifully remained quiet.  His class visited the music room, and I was very proud that he did not loudly announce that Mrs. Fife is his mom.

Apparently he also passed Grandma Casdorph in the hall.  She must be cooler than me, because he did say, "Hi, Grandma," to which she replied, "Hi, buddy.  But remember, there's zero conversation in the halls."

After school, upon careful questioning, he reported the following:

Favorite part of the day: "Recess"

Favorite part of the day besides recess: "Lunch"

Favorite part of the day in the classroom: "Mo-om, lunch was in our classroom."

He also mentioned that he didn't have many friends.  "At this school, I only had five friends.  At my old school, I had like ten friends."  But it wasn't in a complaining format.  He simply stated it as observation.  I encouraged him to give it a few weeks.

As for Alex, I explained to him that while Adam was gone, he would get to be the big brother.  He exclaimed, "You mean I get to play whatever games I want to?"

And Dylan has taken to following Alex around like a shadow.  I am loving this, because until this time, I wasn't sure Dylan knew Alex existed for any purpose other than to be screamed at.  This morning when Alex was pouting with his back against the door, Dylan turned around and backed himself up so his little back would be against the door, too.

And for me?  I love being the first person to see Adam after school.  Even if I am technically still at work, I can take a second to greet him and get his stories when they are fresh on his mind.  And we get the drive home as just the two of us.  

So first impressions of first grade?  I'd say favorable!