Of Melting Faces and Divine Potential

I'm constantly struck by the singularity of individuals. I mean, there are certain people who use the words "awkward" and "random" to excess; or who say "amazing" to describe everything until the word no longer has meaning. Some people are all about mustaches of the handlebar variety (can we stop with that already?); some get crazy with the emoticons (on the interweb computer system [Please read in George Costanza's mother's voice]).

Where was I going with this before I started making fun of hipsters?

Oh, yeah-- individuality.

***SPOILER ALERT***

Though, to be fair, the movies discussed have been available for private use for some time. Also, if you've never seen them THIS LATE IN THE GAME, you can't have had any semblance of a decent childhood/young adulthood, depending, of course, on how old you are.

Last weekend my nieces came over. They wanted to watch a movie. The Bug had picked out Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. As I wondered why we even own this movie (I guess to complete our set...), I steered her towards the much more quintessential-- and much more palatable-- Raiders of the Lost Ark. She asked me if there were any scary parts.

We had previously viewed The Temple of Doom and I think she was worried about a similar experience.

During that movie, the Bug had an episode: squealing and writhing, almost as if in pain, and-- at one point-- leaving the room for the safe haven of Grandma's bedroom.

Lest you think I'm a horrible person and even worse aunt, none of this happened during the part you're thinking; the scene pictured above.

Remember the part where Short Round and Indy find the secret passage in Willie's room and follow the tunnel deep under the palace to the catacombs, until they accidentally get trapped in the room with the collapsing ceiling studded with spikes?

You may or may not remember that the tunnel was no ordinary tunnel; no sir. It was a tunnel filled with large, crawly bugs.

It is these bugs that Willie has to slog through in order to pull the lever-- the chamber of which is likewise full of many-legged insects-- in order to open the door to the room and rescue Indy and his side-kick.

This whole two minute sequence was WAY too much for the Bug to handle (she's six). I didn't think she would have a problem with it. She watches Shark Week and River Monsters with genuine excitement and glee. Glee, I say!

All of this notwithstanding, I think her trust in me was so shaken that when the part I was initially concerned about her watching came on (the heart-ripping, sacrifice to Kali scene), she immediately booked it into Grandma's room. She could just tell it was coming and she ran.

There was also a moment of panic when she witnessed the child slavery. ("WHAT ARE THEY DOING??!!!"; but she had a comparable experience while watching Joe Pesci pull a gun on Macaulay Culkin in Central Park in Home Alone II, so I really should have seen that one coming.)

Her four-year-old sister, the Bean, on the other hand, watched the entire movie, start to finish, from the same spot on the couch, her face impassive.

"Are you okay, baby?" I kept asking her. She barely moved her field of vision from the screen to nod her head and grunt, "Mmhmm."

So when the time came to watch Raiders, I knew I needed to think a little harder about what the Bug might possibly consider "scary".

After giving it due consideration, I answered, "There's one part at the end that you might think is scary. Just close your eyes when he tells Marion to close her eyes."

"Who's Marion?"

"Just his girlfriend in this movie."

Satisfied, she skipped to the Blu-ray player and started the movie.

They kept asking me about "Mary"-- "When is Mary gonna be on?"; "What is Mary doing?"

I reminded them that her name is "Marion", and told them to "Just keep watching; you'll see later."

The whole thing went off without a hitch and, finally, we were at the end of the movie.

When the time came, Bug clapped her hands over the top half of her face and said, "COVER YOUR EYES, SISSY!"

Bean remained as she was, eyes fixed on the screen. The Bug kept urging her every few seconds to cover her eyes as she peeked through her own fingers.

The only change in the Bean was that she uttered a "HA HA!" as Arnold Toht's face melted off. The sort of mean, teasing "ha ha" that has the same cadence and modulation as "Na na nuh boo boo" (a taunt that the Bug insisted was, "Na na nuh goo goo" until fairly recently; but that's a story for another day). I didn't have a problem with that. The guy was a Nazi.

It hit me then, and a few times since, how very unique and individual we all are-- in our circumstances, experiences, and reactions. And it starts so young. The girls' eight month old sister, Baby V, is already starting to exhibit her own preferences, characteristics, and mannerisms-- mostly sassy (why is it we only get the sassy ones in our family?). Eight months isn't a long time in which to develop all of those things.

That's how I know that there's more to us than just this life. We were definitely around before; and if that's the case (which it is), we will definitely be around when our life here is over. We are eternal beings, with the opportunity to progress eternally. There is so much more to us than here and now. While our circumstances and experiences here contribute to our whole selves, I know that this life is not the beginning of who we are, nor is it the end.

As we learn to recognize, and be more cognizant of this fact on a regular basis, the less frustrating this mortal experience will be and the more we'll be able to gain from it.

Who's Afraid of a Rorschach Test?

I returned a few books and DVDs to the library today. After paying the late fee on the DVDs, I decided to pick up a few books for myself (the returned books were leftovers from a recent baby-sitting outting). 

I can't remember the last time I read a book that wasn't canonized or written by a General Authority or prophet; which most decidedly is not something to be ashamed of. But I LOVE to read. I used to read all the time; anything and everything I could get my hands on. But my last "extra-curricular" reading was probably for my last English class, which I finished at least two years ago. I hadn't even had a library card before last week (barring the one I used to have in elementary or middle school) so the whole situation was rather tragic when you think about it; especially considering the close proximity of the public library to my house. I did manage to find a couple of books and finished a good portion of the first one this afternoon.  As I bookmarked it with an Aldi receipt from my more than obliging wallet, I remembered something; I mean, really remembered it: 

I LOVE to read. 

Why haven't I been checking out books all this time? I should be reaping the rewards of some kind of frequent-borrower program (someone should put that in the suggestion box; it would be, like, a free cup of frozen yogurt for every fifth trip within a month's time--or maybe that's too frozen yogurt-based for bibliophiles? Perhaps the only reason this promotion hasn't taken off...). 
Back to the point: I also realized that as much as I love reading, I love writing even more. And I definitely haven't written anything since my last English class, aside from a few sporadic scripture journal entry. Which is fine, but not fulfilling. Not as fulfilling as writing what I think, anyways.

See, half the time I don't know what I think about something until I write about it-- and then it's obvious. I'm very opinionated but also quite empathetic; I can see both sides of things. So unless it's written down in a hard-copy for me to read back to myself, it's hard to sort out my feelings. 

I love the self-discovery; the feeling of knowing that I know myself. It's the most basic of all starting points but-- or maybe because of that basic-ness-- crucial to reaching the full measure of one's creation.

So why the long sabbatical? What am I so afraid of? 

Lots of things, I guess--serial killers, public speaking, that Hillary Clinton could actually run for the presidency and win...

The thing is, the past few years I haven't particularly wanted to wade into my feelings, which is what writing is for me-- a very personal journey into the very depths of my (often) labyrinthian mind and heart that leaves me, my very being, splayed across a page for God and everybody to see, including me. I guess these past five years or so I've been afraid of what I'll see in the splatter. But that's silly. Who's afraid of a Rorschach Test? 

It's the height of ridiculousness to not do something you love because you're afraid that you're not  perfect or that you aren't reacting to personal trials the way you know you're supposed to; that you haven't reached the smoothed down version of yourself that's supposed to result from the tumbler of personal difficulty. Just because you're not at Point C yet like you want to be doesn't mean you need to ignore Points A and B; you can't even get to Point C without them. Because the purpose of this life is not to Be right out of the gate; it's to Become. There is no perfection without the journey; without the trial; without the experience.

How can I ever be an influence for good in the world so that there are less mentally unstable people who end up as serial killers, or more people who come away from communicating with me feeling empowered and uplifted and educated (so they don't vote Clinton 2016) if I can't even get past this stupid thought process I have where I can't even look myself squarely in the eye when I feel like I'm struggling? 

Recording my thoughts, even the not-so-great ones, on this blog is my way of sticking it to myself, then I guess. Not the self that I always am or want to be, but the self that tells me I can't or shouldn't. That stupid-- yet persistent-- voice that always decides to rear its ugly head the minute I'm feeling down or overwhelmed with this experience called mortality.

So what am I so afraid of? Nothing. Not even a rambling, unedited blog post.