Ana's Bold Essaying Response

As I wrote about my topic I chose for my private writing, I noticed I kept thinking about concerns and questions I had with my topic. I was able to dig deep into a topic that isn’t talked about frequently. I realized that sometimes it takes writing about concerns in order to crack what my thoughts really are. It helped me develop concrete opinions and questions about what I was writing about. At first, I had to reflect on what I actually thought on the topic, then, once I started writing, more and more thoughts appeared; it was definitely a challenge at the beginning, then became easier. There were times when I thought about a question I had, or an idea I wanted to explore, and then the direction I had originally anticipated went an entirely different route. When I dealt on my newly-found ideas, my writing seemed to flow a lot more naturally. It goes to show that sometimes I don’t recognize how much of an opinion I actually have about a topic.

Bold Essaying

"Go big or go home!"

That's something to shout from the bleachers, isn't it? It's energizing, that command to perform, to dare to achieve, to reach high, to make something happen. Yes! Go big or go home!

But doing so with one's writing -- well, that's harder, and especially if one has been conditioned through culture and belief to be kind, edifying, and orthodox. How do you "go big or go home" when you really don't wish to offend?

Worrying about offending, or worrying about whether what one says is polite, or politically correct, or orthodox -- these can be very deadening to good essays in the making. Such safeguarding can keep us from the thinking and feeling that good writing can bring about as we venture onto the page.

I'm trying to help my students feel enfranchised, empowered by writing. I want them to reach for an authentic voice, for authentic experience, for authentic adventuring by way of nouns and verbs and all the rest. Let us not be too timid about things, too careful (especially within a conservative faith and culture). Let us be boldly essaying.

Cassie's Belief Sketch

"So, how are you feeling?" my therapist cooes. "Here, let me show you your distress chart." We get up and go over to her computer that is surrounded by sayings like "We Can't Choose What Happens To Us But We Can Choose How We React" and other things I generally react to by rolling my eyes. She points at the sloping and rising lines on her chart, the part in red, and now, she says, the numbers are showing that I'm happier than I used to be. 

My mom picks me up. “How are you feeling, my smiley daughter?” Her voice sounds like a party next door when I’m trying to fall asleep. 

My brain is full of mosquitos that leave my head both swollen and empty. “I’m fine, Mom. How was your PTA meeting?” 

Last week my mom told me she wanted me to get fixed. To be like I was before. I don’t really know what she means. I told her that people who aren’t sad and angry all the time maybe just need to pay more attention to the world. She said I was cynical. I said I was hurt. We were probably both right. 

Each morning, I watch the sun rise like a question, pitch increasing as it peaks. It’s probably asking me a question about myself that I don’t know the answer to. 

I watch the heavens a lot for someone who never seems to hear back from God. Sometimes I wonder if God is one of those people who likes to sit in silence in long car trips and feels like that’s bonding. I’m more of the talkative type, even if it means I’m talking about the weather (which I, for one, think is a fascinating topic of conversation). 

Praying makes me feel like an amputee, reaching for God like a phantom touch. It’s been a while since I felt like the heavens were opened to me. But I still believe in them.

Julie's Belief Sketch

“Dad, tell me about the divorce,” I said, dipping my legs into the cool pool water. Dad stopped in the middle of a lap, panting as he met my gaze.

“What do you want to know?”

“What did Mom do wrong? What made you guys so unhappy?”

As the youngest, I was the only one in my family who had no recollection of the divorce. But every time I pieced the narrative together in my mind, I found someone to blame for the disaster that occurred. One day it was my brother. Some days it was my dad. Other days it was my mom. Each story was as vague as the next. But every time I tried to formulate the story, I had to find someone to blame.

“Julie,” my dad said seriously, “I have my regrets from the divorce. If I could go back, I would handle things very differently. Your mother was a wonderful woman. I will never forget the constant shower of support that she was to me when I was a bishop. We just went through a rough patch and didn’t know how to escape it.”

As I sat down to read that night, I thought about how there’s not a clear-cut villain in every story. And in spite of my morals and beliefs, I wasn’t the hero I had always dreamed of being. Nobody fits the framework of the hero who does everything right or the villain who is unquestionably evil.

Was the divorce no one’s fault? Was it everyone’s fault? Both?

Kendal's Belief Sketch

December 12th 2018 the clouds of darkness and confusion passed by and left me naked with light to cover me and bring a new and fresh joy to my soul. As I looked around, I saw the leaves on the trees were more detailed and sharp. I could feel my feet in my socks in a new way that in them I appreciated warmth. Smelling the crisp winter air, everything felt as if my senses were magnified for my enjoyment. The mouthwatering Chick Fil A sandwich that I bought with my firm dollar bills  came along with the bubbles of my large Dr Pepper I drank in celebration of my new life. It had been a long couple of years in which I'd seen light, but only glimpses of it, but not in this completeness as I describe. My whole soul exclaimed with the light of that day and didn't stop. I began greeting everyone I saw with a smile and sweet words. The birds and the bees called my name and I listened with a holler back. I could feel all of my muscles in my hands, legs and feet as I moved. This is how my life is supposed to be I thought to myself.

Cameron's Belief Sketch

I sit on the school bus, listening to the low hum of the wheels traverse over the smooth black asphalt. The bus is empty and all is quiet as we make our way through the winding turns and elevated streets to a high mountaintop. There is no iPhone to stimulate my preoccupied mind. It’s too dark to do homework. I’m left alone to my thoughts. As the sun begins to rise, the bus makes its ascent to the next stop. Silhouettes of trees fill my vision and line the streets. We live at the base of the foothills in a small town in Northern California. The gears of the bus downshift, continuously pulling the weight of the big yellow automobile up the hill. I begin reflecting on last weekend’s adventures. I see a young boy. The boy looks down at the orange and black plastics that garnish the interior engine of his KTM and appreciation floods over him at the return to the high desert. He’s wearing a helmet, pads, and most importantly, riding boots. He’s got a thirst for speed, at times too much according to the boy’s mother. Excitement flowing through the teen’s body he mounts the maniacal machine. I smile at the memory. Oh, how I long to return to that place, across the Sierra Nevada’s and unto the desert. The bus's brakes screech to a halt. We’ve made it to the first stop at the top of the mountain. From here my gaze floods over the sea of trees at the speed of light. The rolling hills slowly grow into mountains as they reach the Sierra Nevada’s. They stand tall, proud, magnificent. A purplish hue garnishes their majesty, and the serenity of the Holy Ghost fills my mind at the sight of God’s creation. All I can think about is when my beloved bike and I can be united again in our earthly chapel at Moon Rocks, Nevada.

Henry's Belief Sketch

I have been envisioning this moment for over ten years. I'm trying to remember specific parts of the hike but nothing really is ringing a bell. I keep looking at the top and seeing how far away it is. There's no way we make it there and back by dark. We keep stopping every couple minutes to catch our breath on the up hill stretches, and also to look around and admire the beauty we're surrounded by. My feet aren't appreciating the lack of support I've given them. The summit is so difficult I'm not even blaming my 12 year old self for giving up the first time. I'm ready to move on, though, and conquer this demon. People are passing us every five minutes, yet I don't feel that we are moving too slow. I know we're gonna get to the top eventually if I just follow dad and I am ok with taking our time. Once at the top I felt something I hadn't felt in a long, long time. I looked around and back at what I had just accomplished. I did it.

Dorothy's Belief Sketch

Of course the MET was going to be crowded regardless of what season you visited. I closed my eyes and pictured so many of the works that were well known and loved. Van Gogh, Delacroix, Picasso, everyone knew some of the most beloved works to stop by first. I had about ten must see pieces. Perhaps it was because of my limited art history knowledge that was just beginning to bloom that I was oblivious to some of the most beautiful works imaginable which is why we headed straight for Starry Night first. Van Gogh's troubled soul increased my interest in him. A cut off ear, eventual death in an asylum, and a rejected art style throughout his lifetime. It was clear that his life had not been easy. A couple dozen people crowded around the frame. My heart was beating, and I felt awake even though it was early in the morning. When was the last time that something that seemed so removed from life had caught my interest? I waited in the back wanting everyone to look at it at as long as they desired. When I got closer to the piece, it was all I could do not to reach out and touch it. The colors, lines, and depth that had been so perfectly preserved surpassed any expectations I originally had. 

Buckets's Belief Sketch

They are everywhere. Apparitions from the past. I can't go a day without seeing them. But they are worse than ghosts, they are old acquaintances.

The first one today. His square shoulders and towering body hunch over his phone. We were in the same ward two years ago. He lived three doors down. I sat next to him in Elders Quorum once. He made a bland comment about scripture study during a "breakout session." His suit was sharkskin but he didn't shower. That was the sole moment between us.
But what was his name? Was it worth beginning the obscure recollection process? Our eyes haven't met, so we are safe. I can keep walking. I am running late anyway.

In less than ten minutes the next one appears. Bright blue eyes, rushed gait. A nasally inflection confirmed my fear. Even worse, I remembered her name. Rachael. We had English 251 together. She announced she was going to the Farmington New Mexico mission. We were in the MTC together, but she never recognized me. That was five years ago.
She materializes right in front of me. Eye contact. Mild panic. My mind's recesses rattle off faint mantras. "Fellowship!" "Love!" "Reach Out!" "Minister!"
But before I can stammer a word she disappears into the crowd. Relief and pain simultaneously shoot through me.

Already two ghosts appeared and I've been on campus for ten minutes? This will be a spooky day.

Siera's Belief Reflection Sketch

My eyes were still heavy, but at least my bladder wasn’t full. The sun continued to beat hard upon us, but at this point I was a pro at being wet. I wandered away for the sea of Galilee and back over to the pile of rocks under the sanctuary that looked more like a beetle than a church.  The white stones stained brown from being covered for centuries, made an almost perfect hexagon within another hexagon. The walls now only stood two feet tall, but I tried to imagine them in their former glory as strong supports for a humble home.

The stones in the smaller hexagon kind of reminded me of benches, angled as though the main event was in the middle of the room. I remember something that Dr. Skinner said in one of my more awake moments, “Peter’s house was probably one of the first meeting houses at the early church.”

In my mind’s eye I saw people crowded with in this small polygon, hugging each other, talking with each other, and being taught the word by the Savior. The intimacy of the moment was almost tangible. I could feel the brotherhood, it was a glow and a warmth that was much different than the sun on my back. I continued my journey, following them through a part of the black stone town reaching to that first century synagogue.  

Ana's Sketch Reflecting Belief

As soon as Mary walks through our front door, the only comment she can make is, “Your family has a lot of musical instruments! Do you all play?”

“Kind of. Everyone in my family can play the piano at least, but then we each have our other instruments we lean towards.” The stack of instruments in the corner of our living room, full of strings and woodwinds, gave away the fact that our family was musically inclined. We were that family who was always asked to give all of the musical numbers in sacrament meeting during church when they wanted one, but didn’t know who else to call. We knew there were other people, but they never came forward and admitted it in public. If someone didn’t play at least the piano or sing in the choir, they felt like an outcast. My mom had this rule in our family: you had to take piano lessons for at least five years growing up, then you were allowed to quit, or move on to another instrument. My brother quit, while I started learning the violin.   

The moment we moved to a new place, it was always the same situation—as soon as the word was out that we could play and sing, the following Sunday we were doing a musical number in church.

Marcus's Belief Sketch

Books sprawled out in each direction; my hips sink lower into the mattress as I lean to grab another book. This one reads, “…one is worthy, all promises will be fulfilled in the Lord’s due time. Those promises and blessings that are not realized in this life will be fulfilled in the next…”. I reach for another marked with a yellow sticky note; “…securing it by his faith, to spring up in the last days, or in due time…”. Another book from my pillow, “…in the own due time of the Lord…”. I slam the book shut and grab a magazine flipped open to an old discourse; “…according to the own due time of the Lord…”.

Nothing. Months spent searching and years pondering, I still don’t have any answers. My entire life seems to be circling around these three words: in due time.

I remain seated on my bed. I look at the clock – a couple of hours have already passed. A couple equals two, I think to myself, two hours. I replay some of the phrases in my head from the texts: …in this life…, …in the last days…. I'm confident in understand the significance of time; how things “take time”, and how I’m supposed to “have patients” and even the indication of time frames. Nevertheless, it’s infuriating to not understand this specific time frame: in due time. 

Seriously, what the hell does it mean? I lay back defeated. Who am I kidding; hell wouldn’t know. 

Katy's Belief Sketch

The dark is almost tangible. The night is warm, but my skin is cold and clammy. My eyes are crusty with the day's work, but they find no rest, searching in the darkness for shapes and shadows, hoping they will morph into recognizable forms. A few feet away, I hear my companion's gentle, whistling snore. It is the only sound in this dark, lonely room. In, out... In, out... In, out... My muscles suddenly seize. My lungs catch, my jaws freeze. The blanket feels heavier than usual, restrictive. It holds me down. And now, there are new noises in addition to the snoring. Laughing, it seems like. A man's voice. It is getting closer. I hear a key turning. Click. I am confused. Why can't I breathe?? The blanket is getting heavier. I am  being crushed beneath its weight. With all of the strength I can muster, I wrench myself upright, pushing the blankets off of me, and let out a strangled gasp. Silence.

A year later, I am sitting at Christmas dinner, chatting with Mason. His beard has grown down to his collar, his thick curly hair bounces as he leans forward and asks me, "Have you ever heard of sleep paralysis?"
"No," I say.
"Well, it's like when your body goes to sleep, but your mind doesn't. Sometimes you'll see stuff and hear weird noises. It's freaky. Happened to me the other night."
I think back to that night in Thailand. "Huh. That actually has happened to me. I thought I was being possessed or something."
He laughs, scooping more mashed potatoes onto his plate. "You believe in that stuff? No, it's a real medical thing."

Now, I sit in my cluttered office at school, poring over volume after volume of criticism and analysis of Joseph Smith's First Vision. Before he sees God, he says he feels the devil. I read and reread. Each rereading feels more familiar: "Immediately I was seized upon by some power which entirely overcame me, and had such an astonishing influence over me as to bind my tongue so that I could not speak. Thick darkness gathered around me, and it seemed to me for a time as if I were doomed to sudden destruction."

Cassie's Characterizations

1. Her Kids-to-Kids jeans already have grass stains and her bright red hair is falling out of her braids. We haven't even reached the park. "I spy with my little itty bitty littlest eye something blue!" She shouts poking the driver to point up at the sky. "Is it the sky?" He asks. She takes a drink of her cream soda through a straw we had rummaged around in the jockey box to find for her. "Nope! I was pranking you, it was my shoes!"

2. Dad puts two Diet sodas in the fridge to get cold before lunchtime. Without work lunches, he mostly just has leftovers in his office alone. A fizzy soda can make things more interesting. He walks around the rooms to turn off each rebellious light and turns down the thermostat just a little before grabbing a blanket.

3. Her feet have been bigger than her mother's since she was 13. It seems like everything about her has been bigger than her mom. Her thighs, her stomach, her height. Even the sound of her voice seemed to take up too much space. She tiptoed upstairs like a fugitive to get a snack, some sugary cereal full of carbs and unprocessed sugars. She could see herself in the reflection of the mirror over the sink. She looked away.