Saints and Poets

This morning I was reminded of that haunting scene in Thorton Wilder's Our Town: Emily Gibbs has just died, and she decides to revisit her twelfth birthday. Though she relives the beginnings of the day with fresh wonder and excitement, she ultimately can't bear it. "I can't look at everything hard enough," she laments. Frustrated that that the participants of the day seemed incapable of appreciating what lay before them, she asks to go back. On her way she asks the stage manager "Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it? -- every, every minute?" "No," is the cold answer. "The saints and poets, maybe--they do some."

I thought on that scene this morning as I made my children oatmeal, and particularly as I looked over a gift my father gave me for Christmas. This year he gave us a compilation of his journal entries covering the early part of the lives of his children. The first entry in the compilation is from 1977, when he and my mother learned she was pregnant -- with me. Those entries offer a glimpse of past events akin to Emily Gibbs'-- though perhaps simply in taking the effort to record them, Dad came a little closer to "realiz[ing] life while [we] lived it."

It didn't take long before I thought on my own children, and I considered what it was I wanted to be able to remember about them -- and what I wanted them to be able know about themselves [at this age] when they are my age. So I tried paying closer attention at breakfast:

There was Jared's prayer this morning. Instead of blessing the food, he prayed "Please bless Emily that she'll stop touching the Christmas tree."

Then, in the middle of breakfast, Jared asked for more brown sugar on his oatmeal. I denied the request, explaining that I had already put a little extra brown sugar into his oatmeal since it's Christmas Eve. At the words "Christmas Eve", Emily spontaneously shouted a cheery "Ho, Ho, Ho!"

Finally, as breakfast was ending, Jared noted: "I hope it's a long time for us to die, Dad. Do people come off the ground when they die?"

The noteworthy moments multiplied -- exponentially -- as I looked for them, and I very quickly found I could not look on them hard enough. I could not hold my children tight enough to keep them as they are. In fact, I could not even hold onto today's priceless breakfast scenes. It is not in my power.

Instead, my only hope seems to be in recording -- in my journal entries or this blog -- what few experiences from the day are deemed important enough to preserve. If my responsibilities take me too long into the evening on any given day, they risk cursory treatment, or, far more often, simply getting skipped entirely. If I happen to miss the mark one day and dwell too much on the unimportant, time still passes unforgivingly. At best, I find that mildly distressing.

Neal A. Maxwell once noted that we humans never seem to feel quite "at home" in time. We too often either find ourselves wanting to hold onto certain moments longer, while making other events pass more quickly. He mused that the discomfort is evidence that we are eternal beings. I suppose that doctrine has never seemed as clear to me as over a bowl of oatmeal this morning with my kids.

At any rate, Mr. Wilder, it seems that "saints and poets" may not be alone in realizing, in some measure, "life as they live it." Instead, for what it's worth, my money's actually on those who diligently keep a journal.

On the Tenth Day of Christmas...

My true love threatened mutiny if forced to listen to any more Manheim Steamroller.*

With only a few days to Christmas I am already lamenting the passing of the Season. That it must end at all means it must end too soon. I am starting to tire, though, of my Christmas music collection.

Tonight Michelle and I will finish reading A Christmas Carol -- a Christmas tradition we started years ago (to keep up with President Monson, who apparently does the same). At under 100 pages, we read a few pages a night during the month of December. For those who've read the story, hopefully you'll agree that, as fond as we are of some of the movie versions of the story, they can't match Dicken's narration in the book itself.

By the way, I am still waiting on some sugar cookies, though I have it on good authority that Michelle and Jared will be making some for Santa tomorrow. They are, after all, Santa's favorite. Hopefully he'll appreciate my contribution as well -- cookie decorater -- since it'll be my job to make sure that his cookies have just the right amount of frosting, and that the frosting is just crusted over by the time he reaches for them. I suspect that my attention to detail in this regard will be handsomely rewarded.

Lastly, thanks be to President Bush, whose December 6 Executive Order has allowed me to spend Christmas Eve at home. I intend to make good use of the day by investing a few extra hours in Super Mario Galaxy on the Wii.

* And were we relegated to the music that has come after their first two CDs, I'd have to agree.

On the Sixth Day of Christmas...

Ah the Christmas season. Since last Friday's office holiday party (and the accompanying office dessert contest), I've daily given up more and more ground to the sugary treats set before me. By tomorrow I'll have lost control completely, and by Friday, I'll perhaps be in an insulin induced coma. Hopefully I'll wake up in time, though, for some sugar cookies on Saturday.

On the First Day of Christmas...

Twelve days left until Christmas, and the Clarks are in full Christmas mode. Christmas music, presents under the tree, We've even had some nippy weather the past few nights to justify it (in the 40's). Knowing that Santa is among my avid readers, I thought it prudent again to post my letter to him this year, which I wrote in conjunction with our home evening activity on the subject.* I'm sure you'll sense the more concise (and modest) approach this year. I'll let you know on December 25th how Santa took to the letter:

Dear Santa,

I have been the best in the family, so I deserve the most.

I trust you Santa. You've never let me down (except that one time).

Love,
Aaron

* By the way, Santa, Jared's more focused letter has already been posted on Michelle's blog.

But I Did Stay at a Holiday Inn Express Last Night

I got to argue an appeal before the Ninth Circuit today. That was cool.

While some of my colleagues stayed at the Ritz-Carlton, I opted for the more functional Holiday Inn Express (in a much sketchier part of Pasadena, CA). Anyone familiar with this blog might guess why I went out of my way to stay at such an admittedly inferior hotel: The Holiday Inn Express offers complementary warm cinammon rolls for breakfast -- as many as you can eat.*

I started staying at the hotel a few years ago when the firm I was working for sent me on a series of business trips the took roughly six weeks. I ended up in the nether parts of the country and stayed of lots of different hotels of varying quality. Quickly enough, though, I started searching out the Holiday Inn Express because I knew that, if all else failed, those cinnamon rolls would be waiting to greet me the next morning.

Granted, the Holiday Inn Express cinnamon rolls hardly register on my list of top pastries, but as part of a free breakfast -- with a glass or two of skim milk -- they've found a warm place in my heart, and with that small gesture have perhaps attracted a lifetime customer.

*After speaking with my colleagues it would seem the Ritz doesn't even offer a complementary breakfast, much less warm pastries and milk. They also charge $9 for daily internet access, whereas the Holiday Inn Express offers complementary wireless access. How do ya like them apples? By the way, for anyone interested in knowing how many I actually ate this morning -- only two. I thought it prudent given that a pastry induced coma might've detracted from my arguments this morning.