Duty

Indeed, no part of life, whether in public or in private affairs, abroad or at home, in your personal conduct or your social relations, can be free from the claims of duty; and it is in the observance of duty that lies all the honor of life, in its neglect, all the shame. 

Cicero

Wherefore, men are free according to the flesh.

2 Nephi 2:27


We are free to choose, yet we are bound by duty.  Interesting dichotomy.  Perhaps one way to say this is that we are free to choose what will bind us.  I can only speak for myself; and I know that I feel bound by my sense of duty.  Because of the faith and principles I have chosen to embrace, I believe there are proper ways for me to act in every situation.  Granted, in many occasions, there are numerous right ways to act.  Some times, there is a good way, a better way, and a best way.  And there are the times where this is only one right way.  Am I still free?  Of course I am.

I never thought about the part of the above scripture that reads "according to the flesh".  What does that mean?  Is that a significant choice of words that delineates some difference between the freedom of our flesh and the freedom of our spirits?  I don't know; but it is something I can ponder.

Do I sometimes wish to be rid of all my duties?  Yes!  Temptation lurks everywhere, and the pleasures of the flesh bid me to forget my duties and do what feels good.  I can say with absolute certainty that I have never experienced joy from giving in to temptation.  Momentary pleasure, fleeting pleasure, yes.  Not joy.  In fact, the misery that comes from giving in to temptation is simply not worth the pleasure derived from the sin.  Some have suggested to me that guilt is a manmade construct, based upon our upbringing (those that subscribe to this view can present their argument much more eloquently than I just did).  Funny, this argument is highly logical, and it makes sense in a mathematical sort of way; but the Holy Spirit constrains me to believe otherwise.  The uplifting and encouraging feelings I experience when I do what I believe is right is as tangible to me as anything.  The same people from three sentences back have a way of explaining away the feelings of the Holy Ghost, too; something about feeling validated for following through on what I believe.  Running with their logic for a moment. . . so what?  That I feel good for doing good, and that this reinforces my belief.  That's fine.  I am reminded of a video I watched that was circulating on Facebook this past week:

A couple of days ago, The Boy Scouts of America celebrated 100 years with a huge event in downtown Salt Lake City.  I wish I could have been there, but I did watch it live at the local church.  Amazing evening, and it made me grateful for the contributions of the millions of Boys Scouts throughout history.   At one point, they recognized Thomas S. Monson for his 44+ years of service on the national board of Scouting.  I am reminded not only of his example of duty, but of many of his talks on duty.

On my honor, I will do my duty, to God, my country, my wife, my children, and my fellow men.


 

Victor Hugo

I am at the part of Les Miserables focusing on Marius.  I am excited to learn more about him, because in the play he is not highlighted much.  I came across this paragraph at the beginning of a chapter.  Wow.  Hugo is great writer.

Life became hard for Marius.  It was nothing to eat his clothes
and his watch.  He ate of that terrible, inexpressible thing that is
called de la vache enrage; that is to say, he endured great hardships
and privations.  A terrible thing it is, containing days without bread,
nights without sleep, evenings without a candle, a hearth without a fire,
weeks without work, a future without hope, a coat out at the elbows,
an old hat which evokes the laughter of young girls, a door which
one finds locked on one at night because one's rent is not paid,
the insolence of the porter and the cook-shop man, the sneers
of neighbors, humiliations, dignity trampled on, work of whatever
nature accepted, disgusts, bitterness, despondency.  Marius learned
how all this is eaten, and how such are often the only things
which one has to devour.  At that moment of his existence when a man
needs his pride, because he needs love, he felt that he was jeered
at because he was badly dressed, and ridiculous because he was poor.
At the age when youth swells the heart with imperial pride,
he dropped his eyes more than once on his dilapidated boots, and he
knew the unjust shame and the poignant blushes of wretchedness.
Admirable and terrible trial from which the feeble emerge base,
from which the strong emerge sublime.  A crucible into which destiny
casts a man, whenever it desires a scoundrel or a demi-god.

Brilliant paragraph and amazing last sentence.

A pretty harsh review. . .

Alert:  If you plan to see Wicked, don’t read this.  If you say Wicked and you loved it, I warn you that you may not like this piece.  Read at your own peril.  

Second alert:  I didn’t feel like polishing this writing.  I am feeling too lazy.  It’s a bit sloppy and rambling. . .

Everyone told me it was awesome.  Amazing.  I heard the hit song and I liked it pretty well.   Tickets go for about $400 here in SLC, so I figured that might be evidence of it being a good show.  So, when I had the change to see Wicked in Minneapolis for under $100, I jumped at the chance. 

My co-workers and I anxiously awaited the time for our conference.  Sure, it would be a good conference; but we were super excited about our “treat”: Wicked on Wednesday night.   We took pictures outside the theatre.  We go there early.  We admired the beautiful old building (The Orpheum in Minneapolis). 

Then.  I was disappointed.  It didn’t deliver.  Not even barely.  Were my expectations too high?  What was I expecting? 

I am not a theatre aficionado.  The only big time professional productions I have seen are Les Miserables (twice), Phantom of the Opera, and Joseph .  In addition, I’ve seen Westminster College’s production of Man of La Mancha, and a couple of HS musicals.  So, while judging Wicked, I didn’t have a ton to compare it to.  I did find myself comparing it to my favorite musical: Les Miserables.  Is that fair?  Does any play compare to that one?  I don’t know—maybe others that have seen more plays might be able to help me out. 

At any rate, here’s my take on Wicked, primarily contrasted with Les Miserables.

Storyline:  Okay, maybe the book is good (I have no idea)—but the writing for the play left much to be desired.  Few poignant lines in any of the songs.  I enjoyed Defying Gravity, and the one song where the Glinda and Elfaba detest each other is funny.   I remember one line that made me think: yeah, that’s true!  In the song Popular, sung by Glinda, she sings: “It's not about aptitude, It's the way you're viewed.” 

There are too many threads in this story, where none is fleshed out at all.  I understand that in 2-3 hours, there isn’t a lot of time to do that, and perhaps the writers are depending a bit on the audience having read the book (I don’t think so).  Wicked tries to pull off a love story, but it flops big time.  I don’t know these people, and it seems too forced.  They are characters made up for the specific purpose of teaching me a lesson, and I know it—so it has no power over me whatsoever.  When the main star says her climatic line: “For the first time in my life, I feel wicked”, I just rolled my eyes.  It was pretty lame, really. 

I didn’t fall in love with any of the characters.  Here’s the kicker for me.  I felt like the writers were trying to shove a life lesson, or a moral of the story down my throat.  It was simply too elementary, as though a 7^th –grader wrote it.  Simply shallow.

In Les Miserables, I am told a story about people and their lives.  I fall in love with the characters.  The music is moving.  My blood is boiling at points (Red and Blue, One more Day) and I am crying at other points (Bring Him Home, I Dreamed a Dream).  The songs’ lyrics tell me more of the story.  It is truly masterful.  Sure, I don’t know Marius enough from the play, nor do I know the grown Cosette, but that doesn’t bother me because I know Val Jean, Javert, as constants.  The writers of Les Miserables don’t shove anything down my throat.  They tell me a story of people—and I am left learning lessons over and over again on my own as I ponder the story and sing the songs. 

Music: This was very disappointing.  Good music could have made up for the choppy storyline, but that didn’t happen.  Both in Phantom and Les Miserables you can easily feel the theme in the music throughout the entire production, each number being a brother, sister, or cousin of numerous other songs.  I couldn’t detect any common musical theme.  If there was one, it was way too subtle or sophisticated for me to notice.  None of the songs were catchy.  Frankly, I think the songs from Phineas and Ferb and Veggies Tales are a whole lot better musically and lyrically.  Some might think that’s sad or harsh for me to say; but have you listened to Silly Songs from Veggie Tales?  Those guys produce some amazing music.       

I laughed genuinely about 3-4 times at Glinda.  She had some good lines.  But they were lines I would expect from a sit-com, not a musical production.   Furthermore, I do concede there is a nice cluster of take-away lessons about history, revisionist history, politics, and power.  But those lessons are not worth $400, or even the $75 that I paid.

There you have it.   Don’t waste your money.   My money will have been well spent if I can but save a couple of people from wasting theirs! 

I bet he holds his spoon improperly. . .

Still further, it is in bad taste to talk about one’s self, especially to lie about one’s self, and with the derision of the audience to play the part of the Braggart Soldier.
-Cicero

Well said, Cicero.  It does bug me that our current President seems to use the words "I", "me", "mine", and the like more than anyone I've ever listened to.  Just yesterday (speaking on the new [un]Health[y] [un]Care[ing] Law: "It's fair to say that nobody is more disappointed than me. . ."

Not everything is about you.

To be fair, I'm not sure he can do anything that would please me.  Kind of reminds me of a magnet on the fridge where I used to work: If I like you, you can pour your bowl of soup on my head and I would be just fine; if I don't like you, I can find fault with the way you hold your spoon.

And he's not the only one who talks about himself all the time.

But now I've strayed from Cicero's comment.  .  .

Silence

According to John Adams, Thomas Jefferson spoke hardly at all during the Continental Congress.  Jefferson's earlier views on political participation are summed up in his own words (from one of his letters):

When I hear another express an opinion which is not mine, I say to myself, he has a right to his opinion, as I to mine.  Why should I question it.  His error does me no injury, and shall I become a Don Quixote, to bring all men by force of argument to one opinion? . . .Be a listener only, keep within yourself, and endeavor to establish with yourself the habit of silence, especially in politics. 

Should I be content to cast my vote, and be done with it?  Where, and when should I debate or offer opinions?  If Jefferson didn't see the need to speak up in the Constiutional Convention, of all places, maybe there are more times than not to be silent. 

*Quotation taken from John Adams by David McCullough.

Kids' play

As I stepped out the door to leave for work the other day, I almost stepped into a large pile of pine needles sitting on the front porch.  Skirting around that pile, I passed another pile of needles and sticks, a cup filled with water and rocks, a toothbrush, and some other things.  Glancing over to the sidewalk, I noticed another pile of sticks. 

No, these weren’t leftovers from any yard work I had done.  Instead, they were the remnants of my children’s playtime the day before.  I don’t know the particulars of the game they were playing, but it had something to do with mining, finding treasures, trading the treasures for money, or something like that.

I smiled to myself and snapped these pictures:

And in the short moments it took me to get to the car and turn on the radio, I had a number of thoughts:

• How cool, the innocent, creative play of children.  
• I am so blessed to have children.  And I’m blessed to have children who are great siblings to each other.   Hyrum, Lizzie, and Jacob play so well together; and the pure happiness they derive from their play is inspiring;
• I remember the times I played in my backyard.  Jill, my younger sister by 18 months, was one of my best friends growing up.  With fond nostalgia, I recall the hours we spent in our back and front yards playing Wonder Twins.  I remember setting up a makeshift drumset in the garage with boxes, barrels, and cans of food.  I thought I was quite the drummer, but I’m glad it was before the time of digital video cameras and youtube.  My son Reed, who is more of a real drummer, would get a good laugh if he could see me then.
• Thinking more of my play time growing up.  I remember playing handball and Buns-up at the school with my brothers.  In my high school years, it was either Over-the-Line in the summers with my friends at Justin Elementary, or Dunkball on the low rims at Vista Elementary.  I also have great memories of Dunkball at Kevin’s house, Jeff’s house, or Matt’s house.  We didn’t have a basketball rim at our house, but with a school just three houses down, we didn’t really need one. 

My kids like computer games, but they aren’t computer game junkies.  They will always prefer outside play, or physical play to their digital play.  This makes me happy, and I am ashamed to admit that I sometimes hold them back when I don’t want to go outside and kick the ball with them (particularly Anna, who always wants to be in the gym or on the soccer field).  I need to be more active (especially since I currently weigh more than I ever have in my life). 

We work too much.  My kids have too much homework.  We need more play in our lives. 

KHS CC

On a bus, heading for Cedar City with the Kearns High School Cross Country Team.  There are only about 21 athletes, Coach Flanagan, and me, the single parent “chaperone”.  Doesn’t look like this group of kids really needed a parent chaperone, but I’m excited to get away from work for a day and support my kids and their team.

After having spent some time chatting with coach Flanagan, I’m super happy my boys chose Cross Country as their extra-curricular activity.  He’s a great guy, and someone who has a positive influence on the kids he mentors.  I realize that it’s not so much the sport, maybe, but the coach.  It’s kind of like college, when you find a good professor and you take all the classes he teaches (George Durrant at BYU).  Or when you find a good author and you read all his books (Terry Brooks or Terry Pratchett).  It’s nice to run races, stay in shape, and compete on the cross country team; but what is more important are the relationships the athletes have with their peers and their coaches. 

Do I believe that?  From a parent’s perspective, I do.  But looking back on my days as a HS athlete, I’m not sure I agree completely.  It was about the competition, and the thrill of the sport.  Were all my coaches great role models.  Not exactly.    None of my coaches were poor role models, but I didn’t want to be like them, necessarily.  But that’s not what it takes to be a good mentor, actually.  My boys probably don’t want to be like Flanagan, but they like him, respect him. 

In talking with him, it was evident that his coaching is driven by certain principles that he is trying to teach the athletes.  Cross country is important, but only as a means to an end.  

I’ve seen a number of coaches in youth sports that are too big for their britches.  I’ll never forget a scene I witnessed during my internship at Orem HS.  A basketball coach was in a sophomore girl’s face (literally two feet from her—and he was just about her height, too—can you say “Napoleon Complex?)  Anyway, he was yelling at her, spittle coming out of his mouth.  This wasn’t during a game; it was something about coming late to a practice or missing something.  She was terrified.  I wish I was man enough at that time to intervene.  I can get yelling as a coach.  My coaches yelled a lot, and it was helpful, instructive, and motivating.  But I can’t get a grown man yelling at a 15 year-old girl to the point she is terrified.  Maybe it’s a gender thing, would I be okay with it if he were yelling at a boy athlete?  I don’t know.  Anyway, it is unfortunate that some people who are pretty clueless about life and relationships end up as youth coaches.  Thankfully, Coach Flanagan isn’t one of those.  I am grateful for that, and for all the adults in my kids’ lives who have a positive impact on them. 

Time passes.

Just finished watching the Kearns Cross Country team compete at a huge invitational with 15 teams.  It was a lot of fun to cheer on my boys, who ran for the JV team.  Almost every one of the JV boys recorded their personal best time.  Reed was hoping for an under 20 minute time and came it at 19:25.  Then John comes pretty close behind, and I’m screaming at him because I think he can get a sub-20, too.  He clocks in at 20:03.  Though he missed the sub-20, he did chop over 2:00 off his personal best time.

Reed about 6 minutes in. . .

John and a teammate (in yellow) about 7 minutes in. . .

John again.

Reed coming around final turn (1 of 3)

. . .and he begins to pass some people. . .

. . .and he ended up passing all three runners.

Cross country is cool.  There were boys who came in almost last, jumping up and screaming because they had beat their personal best times.  It is such a pure sport—I would venture to guess it is probably the first sport every developed (or the second, after wrestling).  There is something neat about racing the course, the other athletes, and the clock.  My Dad ran cross country in high school.  He never pushed me to run (never pushed me to do anything).  In hindsight, I kind of wish I would have run cross country.  It would be a nostalgic thing to have done—compete in a sport that he loved.  Having my sons compete feels good though.  I am quite the sentimental.  I like to think that he is watching from wherever he is, please with the efforts of his grandkids.

This wasn’t going to be about my dad.

I just think it’s a cool sport, with great positive feelings that make up the atmosphere.  Tons of cheering for every runner.  No booing, no yelling at refs.  I think I’ll go to more events.