A silent summer

 Hello darkness, my old friend.

That's how I greeted most mornings during the Covid summer of 2020. It's the opening line of a song everybody but me knew, "The Sound of Silence," until a TV show educated me. It's been reverberating in my brain ever since I heard it on Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist in April. It haunts the silence of my quarantined life.

Working from home full time while living alone was never a lifestyle I wanted. It's the main reason I never seriously pursued a full-time freelance career because that much aloneness, even for someone who is 92% introverted, is not a healthy way to live. But as a society we've decided that the only definition of health that matters right now is being virus free. 

So my life entered a silence I've never experienced before. The pandemic took away most of my reasons to leave the house and all the variety that comes with each excursion. Live TV entertainment went away for a while, unless you were desperate enough to watch corn hole or golf. (I was not.)

Something had to fill that void, and the void was too big for me to fill with hobbies, exercise, and family visits. 

"Fools," said I, "You do now know
Silence, like a cancer grows"

I had a job, my health, my family, and my faith. A solid foundation for a good, happy life. But the quarantine lifestyle hampered my ability to focus, to be content, to find any silver lining. I wanted to create and learn during my quasi house arrest, but that meant facing the nihilistic boredom first. Something I did not have the energy for.

People writing songs that voices never share

Life was about surviving now, not living. 

But my words like silent raindrops fell
And echoed in the wells of silence

These are not silent times we live in; we've been shouting at each other for months about masks and Black Lives Matter and the 2020 election. 

People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening

The silence I'm talking about isn't a simple lack of noise. It's merely the result of exchanging a complete life for a lonely, unfulfilling one. Our weapon against COVID-19 demands that we do something humanity is not evolved to do: stay away from each other. For months. And months and months. 

In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone

This kind of silence consumes you, defines your very existence. 

Until one day you start to believe what you've been telling yourself all along: this, too, will end. Nothing on this earth lasts forever. Not happiness, not suffering.

The song that narrated your life will become a memento of your past. Your favorite season will begin and you'll start talking about the hard times in the past tense. You'll finish the blog post you've been writing for weeks.

You'll find that you can, in fact, manage the silence, even if your situation is unchangeable. And, like this flower in my home-office window, reach through the shadows for the life-giving light.

The great creativity drain of 2020

Document what you're going through, they say. Future generations will want eye-witness accounts of these—here comes the overused phrase we all hate now—unprecedented times.

As someone who writes as a way to navigate through life, I want to regale you with worthwhile reading about challenges we're facing in 2020. But my creative ability has been yet another casualty in a year that has been defined by loss.

But wait! they say. Now you have the time to do all the things you always said you'd do! Power through and make the most of it while you still can!

Instead of jumping aboard the productive optimism train, I fill my free time indulging in comforting activities. Watching TV shows like Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist and Schitt's Creek. Baking bread. Gardening. Walking. Reading the books. Sleeping, even.

That's my contribution for prosperity: I got through a pandemic by making the most of the solitary, no-thinking-required activities available to me. Without feeling guilty about it. Because #Selfcare.

Let someone else write the next great American novel. I'll be outside pulling weeds.

How COVID-19 made Harry Potter more relatable

I allow myself the pleasure of revisiting the Harry Potter series for one of two reasons: 1) the strong desire to be transported back into the wizarding world becomes too distracting to ignore, or 2) I need to escape my present circumstances.

For the reread I just finished, it was the latter. Starting a new job during a pandemic hasn't exactly been a picnic; almost as stressful as the brief unemployment stint that preceded it. "Hogwarts will always be there to welcome you home," J.K. Rowling says, and I needed home—a familiar home unaffected by personal and world events—in a big way.

But still the coronavirus would not be ignored. Not only had it changed my work life, my home life, and my social life, but it was bleeding into my imaginary life, too. I started seeing Harry Potter/COVID-19 parallels everywhere. 

Book 2, for instance, might as well be a COVID-19 allegory. Hogwarts is threatened by a monster no one understands. Quidditch is canceled. (I feel your pain on a whole new level now, Oliver Wood.) Lockhart is that guy who thinks he understands what's going on better than people with PhDs and decades of experience. Ernie Macmillan echoes what everyone has been preaching lately when he says, "We're all in the same boat."

There are little moments scattered throughout the series that brought me back to reality, again and again. Witches and wizards just trying to get their essential shopping over with so they can return to their homes, away from the boarded up shops and worried shoppers. Dementors making everyone more stressed, worried, depressed. When the trio is camping for months, Harry feels the isolation deeply, even though he knows his isolation is necessary for his safety and, ultimately, the liberation of the wizarding world. Fred and George can't go to work with Death Eaters after them, so they try to run their business via mail order from their aunt's house. 

Art reflects life, and in this case art became an unwelcome prophecy fulfilled. A picture of what life would become when our world was threatened by something so big it would change even the smallest details of our lives. 

But at least in Harry's case, he got a magical education and exciting adventures. We only get the residual effects of a contagious virus, without J.K. Rowling's hilarious asides to lighten the mood. Harry had foes he could go out and fight, while our best defense is to hide, knowing that there will be casualties whatever we do.

But what I envy most about Harry Potter is this: his battles had endings. He left the Dursleys and found friends. Love. He won Quidditch matches, the Triwizard Tournament. He escaped Voldemort several times, and eventually defeated him. He made mistakes and sustained heavy losses along the way, but always, he got an ending.

What we're dealing with right now doesn't feel like a story with an ending. It feels like a new reality that we're just going to have to get used to. People keep talking about "when life goes back to normal," but the normal we remember may be gone for good. 

We're living in unprecedented times. Not the kind of historical moment that captures people's imaginations and inspires novels about time travelers. But the kind that people read about in history books and say, "Boy, I'm glad I wasn't alive for that."

Closing Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows for the last time always leaves me aching. Not to mention reluctant to return to my world. Even more so this time, since the thing I wanted to escape when I dove into these books just over a month ago is still here. Harry's story ended, but ours is still going, frozen in an unending stream of gray days.

Nobody really wants to live during hard times. Harry didn't particularly like living through unprecedented experiences, either. But he survived it. The bullying, the dangers, the pressures, the heartbreak—all of it. And what are stories for if not to remind us of the resiliency of the human spirit? Maybe we don't get an ending just yet. Maybe we have to settle for a simple reminder that we have what it takes to keep going until one day things are better.

It doesn't seem like much. But, as Harry learns, it's "the difference between being dragged into the arena to face a battle to the death and walking into the arena with your head held high. Some people, perhaps, would say that there was little to choose between the two ways, but Dumbledore knew—and so do I, thought Harry, with a rush of fierce pride, and so did my parents—that there was all the difference in the world" (Half-Blood Prince, chapter 23).

I'll leave you with a few more stray thoughts before I resume my Potterless life.

• This reread was unique because I read the UK editions. I figured it was time I experienced the books in their original language. The differences were most prominent in books 1 and 2; by book 4 the only differences I noticed were spelling and punctuation/grammar. For the most part I loved the covers, but I did miss the Mary GrandPré illustrations. Something to look forward to next time.
• My favorites order has been disrupted again. It's now 7, 3, 5, 6, 4, 1, 2. (My last reread left me at 7, 4, 3, 6, 5, 1, 2.) 5-7 were especially good this time.
• My new favorite character is Harry. That boy doesn't get enough love from the fandom. 
• It took me 20 years to get here, but I finally started to develop some sympathy for Percy. Not joining a Percy Weasley fan club any time soon, though.

Why the shallow things matter

"It's just a game."

"I'm not saving lives, just serving coffee."

"Why don't you get a real job?"

It's hard to argue against logic. A person's life is more important than a basketball game. Doctors do save more lives than servers do. There will always be an easier path to making a living than the starving artist route.

It's true that we don't need sports, dine-in restaurants, conferences, entertainment events, and social gatherings to survive. Technically we only need food, water, and shelter, and the money to pay for these things. A network of loved ones helps, too.

But when life becomes about just the essentials, like it has with the spread of the coronavirus, logic doesn't have as much of a leg to stand on.

I was gutted when the NCAA basketball tournament was canceled. My evenings feel empty without Jazz games.

And while the countrywide quarantine is basically an introvert's dream come true—stay home? I was born for this!—I miss having the camaraderie of coworkers. I was already between jobs/working from home for five or six weeks before everything was canceled and was very much looking forward to face-to-face workplace interaction again. Got two days of it, and then was banished back home indefinitely. Since I live alone, I likely won't talk to a human being in real life until Sunday when I go to my parents' house for home-based church.

All of these non-essential things are feeling pretty important right now. When the world is chaos and nothing feels normal, you need an escape from reality more than ever. But the escapes many of us have relied on to complement our normal lives are no longer available to us.

Only time will tell if we overreacted to the coronavirus or we averted a deadly crisis. But right now, the prevention feels like it's hurting more people than it's protecting. I understand the importance of protecting our vulnerable populations and know we should continue to do so, but we're all missing something right now—because of a virus. My heart goes out to those who aren't getting the income they need right now. To those whose dreams have been shattered because of a pandemic no one understands. To those who are extra stressed because there are fewer things to turn to to help manage that stress.

The shallow things matter. They help transform us from living husks to human beings. They bring us together, give us something to share.

So check up on your neighbors with one of the many virtual tools we're blessed with. Stop hoarding toilet paper. Read a Harry Potter book. Stream a forgotten classic on Disney+. Buy a gift card from a local business. And when there are no more restrictions on public gatherings, show some appreciation for those who live off-the-beaten-path lives so we can be entertained. Enjoy the freedom of being able to hang out with people, even if you hate crowds.

Things suck right now. But life will be extra sweet when we get the missing pieces of our lives back.

Hope vs. despair

"Seek ye out of the best books words of wisdom."
–Doctrine & Covenants 88:118

It's not a shocking revelation that the scripture above is one of my favorites. Literature exists so we can learn about ourselves. We write things down to document what we've learned.

Which is why I want to start writing about nuggets of wisdom I find in books I read, as a sporadic feature on this blog. It's not like I ever talk about books, anyway.

And since I opened this post with a scripture, I thought I'd kick off this series with a book many consider to be scripture: The Return of the King.

The entire Lord of the Rings trilogy explores hope and despair, but it's illustrated most beautifully in Book V after the Battle of Pelennor Fields. It's the calm before the real battle starts, a battle that makes Pelennor Fields and Helm's Deep look like warm-up games. They know what's coming because the Palantir has shown them what would appear to be their doom.

Denethor takes this information and despairs. He saw what Mordor was about to throw at them and came to the logical conclusion that humanity could not possibly overcome such odds—and gave up. He justifiably assumed that the only choice left to him was when/how he would die. So he died by fire before the bad guys could take him.

Aragorn and Gandalf saw exactly what Denethor did and came to the same conclusion: we can't beat these guys. But instead of succumbing to despair, they chose to have hope that perhaps not all was lost. Perhaps they just weren't seeing the entire picture. So they drew the armies of Mordor out, that massive army they knew they couldn't defeat, for the sliver of hope that it would help Frodo destroy the ring of the enemy and the source of his power.

We all know how it ends. Frodo succeeds, the world is saved. All because of hope.

I've gotten a lot more cynical as I've gotten older. One side effect being that I've started to view hope as a useless emotion. Hoping for the best is not a plan. Saying "hopefully" before the thing you want will not make it happen. The hope you feel about any given situation will not spontaneously change said situation.

Despite Denethor being the Worst Dad Ever™, I sympathize with him more than I ever have. He gave up when he knew he couldn't win—isn't that the smart thing to do? What can man do against such reckless hate, after all?

Movie Aragorn has the answer: Ride out and meet it.

The king is here to remind us that that's the moment hope changes from a useless emotion to an action. Being hopeful about a situation may not change it, but your actions can. Even a fool's hope can change how you react to a challenge or setback—and as we see with Frodo's quest, that makes all the difference. The Lord of the Rings trilogy would have had an ending similar to Denethor's if Aragorn and Gandalf had chosen to act on their despair rather than their hope.

It's much easier to let despair dictate our actions. You're much less likely to be disappointed that way. But the changes that needs to happen in our world will only happen if we allow hope to drive our decisions.

It all started on a farm

There once lived a young boy who lived in a simple log cabin with his family. He worked hard alongside his siblings and parents and was generally considered a good kid.

But like most teenagers, he had questions. One question in particular troubled him, so one day he went into the woods by his house in search of an answer. What he found there would change the world.

If you've ever read a fantasy novel, this story should sound familiar. It's almost always about a youth who lives in a small town who discovers a dragon in the woods and goes on to fulfill a great destiny and save humanity. It's a formula that works—people just want to see the little guy win.

The origin story of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is similar. Joseph Smith went from a country farm boy to the founder of what would become a worldwide religion. One that has millions of members today and that blesses the world with its message of Jesus Christ and its charity work fueled by tithes and an admonition to serve others.

Whether you believe that prayer is a way to communicate with God or a useless waste of breath, there's no denying that the result of Joseph Smith's prayer regarding which church to join made an immediate and lasting impact on the world.

The Sacred Grove, circa July 2018.

President Russel M. Nelson has urged members to ponder the First Vision story and how it's affected them personally. Trying to figure out where I would be without the founding of the church that is the central focus of my life can be fun to think about; it also makes my brain hurt.

But thinking about who I would be without the gospel isn't as fun of an exercise. It's hard to imagine who you would be without your core foundation. I know many, many wonderful non-members who don't need religion to make them better people and who don't need faith to drive their everyday lives. But as for me, I need these things. And most importantly, I don't know how I would make it through difficult trials without access to all the gifts the Restoration of the gospel provides: prayer, priesthood blessings, knowledge of why we're here and where we're going, even callings. Life is hard enough with the peace and hope the gospel brings. Take that away and life would just be unbearable most of the time.

I visited the Sacred Grove a couple of summers ago with my family. I always find nature peaceful, but this grove of trees took that feeling to a whole new level. Even as I was being eaten alive by mosquitoes, I felt the sacredness of that space. We Latter-day Saints love our historical landmarks, but this one is especially worth visiting because of the question that was asked in these trees that shaped the lives of so many: "Which church should I join?"

Joseph got more than he bargained for when he asked that question. I wonder if he ever had a Frodo Baggins moment, wishing the monumental task of restoring the Church of Jesus Christ upon the earth could have fallen on someone else.

"I wish the Ring had never come to me," Frodo said. "I wish none of this had happened."

Gandalf likely expected Frodo to be discouraged and afraid, so he was prepared with a response Frodo wouldn't forget. "So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us. There are other forces at work in this world, Frodo, besides the will of evil" (The Fellowship of the Ring, Book II).

Joseph knew he had seen God the Father and his Son in that grove. He knew it wouldn't make his path any easier, and that many people would remember him for evil instead of good. But he stayed the course, sealed his mission with his blood, and the gospel he restored lives on today.

Even for little old me, a tiny speck in the universe who doesn't have a grand destiny. The church was restored for everyone, but after pondering how it's blessed my life for 32 years, it feels profoundly personal. No gift could be better.

Good news, indeed.

New year, new things

"How do people do this professionally?!?"

That's the question I asked my brother as I stepped onto the ice at Seven Peaks Arena, clutching his arm as my legs attempted to find firm footing on a surface that's meant to reacquaint you with the consequences of gravity. We were there for my niece's 5th birthday party, and I hadn't ice skated since I was a teenager.

It wasn't just like riding a bike, in case you were wondering. But it was a blast.

Ice skating is a strange sport for the casual skater. All you do is skate around in circles, but it's essentially a free-for-all obstacle course. Everyone starts at level one, where you shuffle your feet along until you gain the confidence to take longer strides. If you can progress that far, you get a variety of new challenges, depending on your preferred speed. Dodging the people who fall down in front of you. Swerving around groups who are going slower than you, now a pro, want to go. Flailing in panic as you try to figure out how to avoid a collision—a common occurrence when the rink is crowded.

Perhaps the biggest challenge of all is taking a not-blurry picture while skating.

Repeat, repeat, repeat.

I survived almost an hour of this without falling. I was on my last lap, headed to the exit, when it happened. My traitorous shoelace on my right skate got caught on my left skate—one minute I was skating, the next I was airborne. I figured since I was going down anyway I might as well go out flying—literally—so I stretched my arms into a dive formation and sailed through the air. I must have gotten 15 feet of air before I bellyflopped on the ice, landing smoothly in a shower of white stuff.

(My dive probably didn't look as graceful as I imagined it, because a guy who witnessed my epic fall was laughing at me as he skated by.)

It's a fitting metaphor for the new year. Jumping into something new with confidence only to fall flat on your face an hour later. But that fall was the most thrilling part of the afternoon. It was the only moment I wasn't playing it safe and it was the part of the day I talked about the most afterward as we ate our unicorn and rainbow-themed birthday cupcakes.

Try something new this year. Fail at something new this year. It might end up on your 2020 highlight reel in December.

Moments after the fall, miraculously uninjured, aside from a few bruises that showed up the next day.