Rain

   It's interesting how rain affects me. In the winter, on those rare occasions that it's actually warm enough to rain, a day of clouds and drizzle makes me long to curl up in bed and shut out the world, and if I had things to do, so what? They'll get done eventually. Winter rain is an excuse for sleep almost as much as snowstorms are - but really any excuse will do in winter, which, it seems to be forgotten, used to be a time of slow unhurried rest.
   In spring, rain no longer seems so dreary; instead, it makes everything feel finally clean as all the detritus of winter washes away. Strangely enough, the whole feel of a rainstorm changes with the change of seasons, no matter how much rain comes down in what amount of time. Every sharp edge feels softer, and it puts me in a contemplative mood (thus this post). This is the season in which rainstorms drive me to a cozy book-and-blanket nest instead of hibernation. Something about the sound of rain in spring makes every story more real somehow. Perhaps it's because the stories of the slowly waking world are coming back to life.
   When summer comes, with its thunderstorms and loud atonal raindrops and the petrichor smell of dust and parched plants rejoicing, my first urge is to stand and watch and feel the power of the storm in my bones . . . until I've had enough, at which time I'm grateful for a house to retreat to and a solid roof over my head. Summer rainstorms compel me to listen, to pay attention to the power and fury that nature can command; it can hardly be ignored, when thunder resounds like Titans clashing in the mountains that loom above my home.
   Autumn rains are bleak and colorless, washing away the last remnants of a seasonal splendor, bleaching everything brown in preparation for the winter's thick, silent shrouds of white. Again this is a season for stories, but for endings, not beginnings, for quietly letting go, for putting things to rest, assured that when spring comes once more, the soft implacability of rain will come again, in yet another way and meaning.

To Walk In Beauty

   Each day, I rise before the sun. The stars greet me as I step outside; few in summer, many in winter. Sometimes clouds cover them, filled with soft rain or quiet snow. Sounds sharpen in autumn, deaden in winter, brighten in spring, grow richer in summer. The wind carries keen fresh air from the mountain's heights down through the valley.
    I walk, finding a rhythm for moving meditation. Few people wake so early - often I am alone. In the near-silence I find peace to carry me through the day.
   As the sun rises, the mountains show me their mood. Now, with autumn falling quickly into winter, they are nestling down to sleep, solemn and barren of life. They are ready to rest under blankets of snow that deepen as the days grow shorter.
   After morning tasks are done, I look out my front door, startled by color - the leaves are brighter than gold, one last defiant display before they rejoin the earth that nourished them through the long, hot days of summer.
   The garden withers, first frosts now touching spent leaves. Its abundance has taught me again the law of the harvest. Short winter days will be enlivened by honey-colored peaches; red, orange, and yellow tomatoes - plain and in soup and sauce; jellies, jams, and preserves of various rainbow shades; clear garnet grape juice. I live richly, surrounded by wonders. How can I be ungrateful when I have been given so much?
   Each day I pray: Let me not forget the multitude of blessings that have been showered down upon me. Help me remember the moments of perfect stillness, the awe that comes in looking to the endlessly changing sky or taking in the vast complexity of the smallest blade of grass. Find me words to contain the overflowing joy that seems inexpressible, and I will try in my imperfect way to explain perfection.
   May I walk in beauty, and share that vision with those who walk around me.

Light in Darkness

   I wrote a short story for an assignment and thought I may as well put it somewhere. So I'm posting it here. I, ah, don't actually know whether it's any good or not, but it is a bit of backstory to the rather longer tale that this blog is named for. Constructive criticism is always welcome! So, random stranger, I hope you enjoy my odd little tale.

The Way

   I am a martial artist. This is something I generally keep to myself, despite the way it's become a large part of my life. Sometimes I wonder why I'm so cagey about it. Why should I be? It's a good thing, a way of life that has kept me going through some very rough times.
   Part of the reason is that I am an introvert, and don't like to tell people everything about myself. But another part of me knows that most people do not understand that when I say "I do karate" what I really mean is "I practice the way" - because Karate-do is translated as 'the way of the empty fist', and the school which I practice in is Kyu Shin Ryu, or 'a place to learn mastery' over all aspects of self - mind, body, and spirit.
    What I learn from karate is far more than just self-defense or how to end a fight. I have struggled to learn grace, timing, and precision. These skills carry over into all aspects of my life. More important even than these, however, are the courtesy, kindness, strength of will, and calm that I have cultivated through years of persistent effort.
   The way is never easy. It means that I must strive to continue on, even when my body is about to give out, when all that's left in me is determination. It means learning when to move and how, gaining mastery of my mind so that I can concentrate completely on the task at hand, honing my spirit so that as I sharpen my sense of justice I also gain compassion for the world. It means learning patience. It is a never ending struggle, and that is just how it should be.
   There is another way which I also love, which the way of martial arts helps me understand more clearly. It is a strait and narrow path, 'strait' meaning difficult and bewildering, full of distress and hardship. But the end of that road is eternal life. 
   That way requires me to 'press forward with a steadfastness in Christ, having a perfect brightness of hope, and a love of God and of all men.' Now, sometimes I don't feel very much love for anyone, so this can be a hard commandment for me! But if I have learned one thing from my time in martial arts, it is to never give up. There are days when all I want is to quit - to just give up and let everything go. Yet I cannot, because I know there is an end to that rough road, even if I can't quite see it yet. And I suspect that the very roughness will make the sights at the end of that road more glorious than I can imagine.
   For now, I can only remind myself that 'it is better to move slowly than to stand still', and that when it seems that I'm making no progress in anything, it may be that it's my foundation that's growing, getting stronger and surer so that all that is built on it will be solid and true. That is my hope, anyway.
   The way is open to anyone who is willing to travel it. There are not many who try. Are you one of those few?
  

Admiration

Dear Mr. Tolkien,

   My parents read to me since before I could remember. One of the books I loved best began with, "In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit . . ." and when I learned to read, it was one of the first that I squirreled away into a corner to discover on my own. I read with delight of Elves and Eagles, riddles in the dark and maps that showed their full tale only by moonlight, and a hobbit whose size did not determine his bravery, but instead magnified it, for all he was so very small in a very large and confusing world.
   The summer of my seventh or eighth year was spent traveling - across country and through books. My mother, knowing that I loved to read, bought a complete copy of The Lord of the Rings, and I seem to recall little of the trip, for I was immersed in the old, slow world of the Ents; the fierce archaic culture of the Rohirrim; the immeasurable sadness of the Elves whose time is ended; and the high, valorous halls of Gondor, almost at the point of failing yet ready to flower. I learned again the meaning of the words green and silver and sable, and constructed for myself through your story the meanings of other words such as truth and light and courage.
   I have read and reread your books nearly ever year since then, and always I find more good things in them than I did the time before. Now that I understand a little more of the world, I think I see a little better the reason that my heart aches when I read of the rejoicing in the field of Cormallen as Sam and Frodo sit in honor beside the King. Your stories have brought back some few memories which I never had, and yet which are stamped in the very deepest part of my soul.
   As I read of Sam seeing, through the reek of Mordor, a single star, I am reminded that, "in the end the Shadow [is] only a small and passing thing: there [is] light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach." That thought has saved me and helped me to remember to look up when my small troubles seem too much to bear.
   So thank you. Thank you for teaching me not to despise the past, but instead to learn from it. Thank you for showing me that 'even the smallest person can change the course of the future'. Thank you for showing me that words can mean something. For all of these things, I am grateful beyond my ability to express.

Sincerely, Emily

For He Lives

   "This then is the message which we have heard of him, and declare unto you, that God is light, and in him is no darkness at all." - 1 John 1:5

   When the Bible declares that our God is light, and evil is darkness, I believe that as well as being a convenient symbolic equation, the authors intended their words to be taken quite literally. In a latter-day scriptural record, it states that, "[Jesus Christ's] eyes were as a flame of fire; the hair of his head was white like the pure snow; his countenance shone above the brightness of the sun; and his voice was as the sound of the rushing of great waters, even the voice of Jehovah, saying,

   "I am the first and the last; I am he who liveth, I am he who was slain; I am your advocate with the Father." - Doctrine and Covenants 110:3

    Light is associated inextricably with life; when the days lengthen, the earth warms and brings forth new growth. Spiritual light has been associated with intelligence, truth, power, and divinity. Christ has declared that he is the Life and the Light of the world; he is the creator whose word brought our mortal sun into existence, and his truths enlighten the minds of men and women who dare to listen. The Light of Christ is able to penetrate even the deepest darkness.

   As there is light, so there is certainly darkness. Physical darkness prevents or retards the growth of life, and causes those who wander in it to lose their way. Spiritual darkness is synonymous with confusion, fear, despair, and a state of being lost to the truth. Satan, who was once named Lucifer, Son of the Morning, desires to shroud every soul in thick darkness that will prevent us from seeing by the Light of Christ. His mission is to deceive and snare, and when we cannot see clearly, it is so much the easier for him to achieve his objectives.
   The Light of Christ is a gift given to all, through the grace of Christ's Atonement. He, who descended into the deepest darkness of any living creature, brings light to all who will receive it. It takes faith to walk through darkness toward that light, and courage, but Christ's light can heal all broken hearts and bring lasting growth and change to those who seek it.
   "Behold," our Lord has declared, "I am Jesus Christ, the Son of God. I am the same that came unto mine own, and mine own received me not. I am the light which shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehendeth it not."   
   His Atonement, wrought in the garden of Gethsemane and finished on the cross at Calvary, is the great and last sacrifice for the sins of all mankind. His resurrection from the dead three days later has ensured that every human being who has ever lived will someday have their soul and body reunited, never to separate again. Our Redeemer brings freedom to the captive, joy to the sorrowing, and light to those who live in darkness. He lives!
   I testify that just as darkness and evil is real, so is the penetrating light of the Savior of the world. By it we can see more truly, know more surely, and be changed forever into new creatures, redeemed from our fallen and mortal state, sanctified and cleansed so that we may someday stand with confidence before our God, to be judged according to the light that we have sought during our mortal sojourn, and by the light we have given to others along our path. For to his disciples he has said, "Ye are the light of the world . . . let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven."
   I pray that I may follow the path that the Lord has set out for me and that his light will illuminate my path. For I know that my Redeemer lives, and that he is the Son of God.

   "He is the light and the life of the world; yea, a light that is endless, that can never be darkened; yea, and also a life which is endless, that there can be no more death." - Mosiah 16:9

Some stories are dark

    As Halloween fast approaches, there are everywhere horrifying 'decorations' calculated to shock, terrify, and disgust. Of course, not everyone puts out a jack o' lantern with that intent; some would rather emphasize artistic ability on an unusual medium, or celebrate the recent and abundant harvest; others seem to simply enjoy stringing lights all over everything for as many months of the year as they can get away with it.
   There seems to be a parallel between decorations and stories. Lately, it seems that the categories have become more pronounced - some would rather show off their artistic ability than create a comprehensive story (or create a jack o' lantern that has nothing to do with harvest time or Halloween). These authors are enamored with words to the point that they cannot tell a coherent story with them. They are lauded for being 'original', 'unique', or 'innovative', but quite often it's hard to tell what their point is, other than obfuscating the quintessential denotation of their work.
   In moderation, a love of words is a wonderful thing - Tolkien was a philologist who devoted his life to learning more languages and creating his own, and it made his stories richer, because each word he placed on the page meant precisely what he meant it to. But he knew that words without understanding or significance behind them are empty; Tolkien knew well the beginnings of words, and thus his prose was laden with meaning, even if the readers are not philologists as he himself was.
   Then there's those who like to figuratively string lights. Quite often they have enthusiasm, but very little expertise, or they just enjoy creating a spectacle. There is nothing inherently wrong with this - movement in a story is essential, and neat ideas or clever twists often keep a reader engaged and willing to continue through a story. Unusual creatures and strange locales help us to think a little differently about our own, rather pedestrian world. And of course, occasionally such excess is used for satirical effect, or to show us the absurdities of society's way of doing things, as in Gulliver's Travels.
   However, when there is too much extravagance, when restraint is considered outmoded, the whirl of strangeness and constant escalating action can be overwhelming and exhausting (at least for me). When every thing in a story must be re-labeled simply to bring a sense of oddity to the story, it detracts from the story that the author intended to tell.
   In some cases, authors seem to write with the sole intent to shock, terrify, and disgust their audience, and claim that this is realism. I feel that writing horror is not an intrinsically bad thing; it can be cathartic. But calling horror realistic is an unsustainable idea, for after every pain there is a potential for healing, and before everything went wrong, it had to be right.
   This is not shown in, for example, George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire. In his world, evil will always prevail, unfailingly, because it is stronger than good and right. Any good is quickly quashed; any kindness remains unrewarded. Evil runs like wildfire across the landscape, because those who are good in a small way are too cowardly to stand against its wrath, and those who are both strong and good are inevitably slain for shock value or to enhance the bleakness of his unhappy landscape.
   There are some stories that go against this ethic; their darkness only shows more clearly the unexpected glimpses of light. One such story is the Abhorsen trilogy by Garth Nix. True, it is essentially a story about necromancy and undead or undying creatures, where magic can be all too easily tainted by corruption and people die with alarming frequency (or travel to Death for arcane purposes) - but in the midst of this rather dark and potentially unhappy tale is a sense that good might after all win. And against overwhelming odds, because of many small kindnesses and acts of mercy and courage, some of which come at great cost, light, order, and goodness have their chance to prevail in the end.
   Some stories are celebrations of abundance and a song of triumph over adversity, and these, I find, are best of all. Without forgetting that there is a valley in which the shadow of death resides, these tales celebrate the brightness that makes those shadows flee. These stories remind us that, though evil and perversion and hate may sometimes overwhelm us, if we continue on, those things will pass away. For what is winter but a short space of rest before spring? What is darkness but a temporary absence of light? And what is sorrow but a remembrance of joy, and a reminder of good things to come?