"But where is Faith?"

I've been doing a lot of thinking. So I want to say a few words before my office hour starts in forty-five minutes (I refuse to do a lick of official work or lesson planning until 11:30 a.m.). One of my best friends Audi took this picture of me when we took a midnight trip to Mesa Verde during the summer of 2006 ("midnight trip" meaning, we decided to drive from Mesa, AZ, to Mesa Verde, CO, at midnight and drove all night). Audi is still pretty proud of this picture, and we both feel it owns a striking resemblance to that old LDS journal cover that everyone insists is a painting of me: Walter Rane's "Add to Your Faith Virtue; and to Virtue, Knowledge."

Ironically, this photo that insinuates my 24-year-old self climbing towards goodness, truth, and light, was taken during the first and only spat I ever had with Miss Audrey N. I'm sure it had to do with lack of sleep, as well as upset stomachs from having only eaten several Jack-in-the-Box Monster Tacos and a whole Fry's Grocery bag full of summer cherries in the previous 48 hours. Regardless, the situation sucked. We tried to ignore the funk between us, running around trails barefoot and appreciating Native American rock drawings, stacking rock cairns to throw tourists off the right trails, chewing perfectly brown sugared juniper berries strewn along the borders of ancient cliff dwellers' walls. But the funk persisted. Conversations were strained, forced. Grins were a little too toothy, a little too quickly faded. I hated it.

A tangent: Nine months ago, I taught Hawthorne's "Young Goodman Brown" to a group of at-risk girls at the boarding school where I taught English. I was nervous because I never really liked or had paid much attention to that particular short story--I was more excited to skip ahead in time to Flannery O'Connor, Eudora Welty, Raymond Carver. But my girls surprised me.

I read the first two pages in a shamelessly burlesque fashion to get the girls interested. I acted out Faith and YGB's dialogue suggestively, bawdily, ridiculously:
"Dearest heart," whispered--more like panted--Faith, softly and rather sadly, when her lips were close to his ear, "prithee put off your journey until sunrise and sleep in your own bed to-night. A lone woman is troubled with such dreams and such thoughts that she's afeard of herself sometimes."

[. . .]

So they parted; and the young man pursued his way until, being about to turn the corner by the meeting-house, he looked back and saw the head of Faith still peeping after him (Oooh la la!) with a melancholy air, in spite of her pink ribbons [for some reason "pink ribbons" began to be interpreted as "hot pink lingerie"].

"Poor little Faith!" thought he, for his heart smote him. [. . .] Well, she's a blessed angel on earth; and after this one night I'll cling to her skirts and follow her to heaven, hubba, hubba, hubba."

I felt some chagrin about it then, and I kept trying to séance-speak to Hawthorne on the other side, pleading with him not to roll around too much down in the earth there, that I really wasn't purposely trying to country line dance on his tombstone. Plus, ultimately, it worked. Even the ADHD girls calmed down to giggle at the sexiness of it. Then, oddly, they started to get into the narrative. They repeatedly shared personal experiences relating to Young Goodman Brown as he realized his Sunday School teachers and leaders in life and truth were no more than sick sinful hypocrites themselves, and where's the hope in that? How could he continue to swallow the truths from his youth after hearing the woman who taught him his catechisms laugh with the Devil over him because of his naivete, his gullibility?

My girls began to relate so much with YGB that I feared they would be tempted to follow his same fate--that they would lose trust in their Faith and her no longer sexy-funny or innocent-sweet pink ribbons, that they might begin to see "the whole earth one stain of guilt, one mighty blood spot." I wanted to weep when we read together, this time solemnly, this time with all the girls staring at their printed and stapled copies of the story and not at my no longer rolling eyes or shimmying body, the part when Satan reveals all the sin and wicked arts of all the members of Goodman Brown's Puritan congregation and asks God's children to "look upon each other" in their nakedness. It is here that Hawthorne writes this aching and mind-destroying passage:

" 'Lo, there ye stand, my children,' said the figure, in a deep and solemn tone, almost sad with its despairing awfulness, as if his once angelic nature could yet mourn for our miserable race. 'Depending upon one another's hearts, ye had still hoped that virtue were not all a dream. Now are ye undeceived. Evil is the nature of mankind. Evil must be your only happiness. Welcome again, my children, to the communion of your race.'"

The story finishes with Young Goodman Brown never being able to look at his wife Faith the same way again--all hope in goodness and mankind was forever swept from his spirit and "they carved no hopeful verse upon his tombstone, for his dying hour was gloom."

I looked up at my girls with worry that I had just further ruined them, that I was going to hear from all their therapists shortly for magnifying their cynicism and rebelliousness. But I was mistaken. Surprised, I watched these 14 to 17-year-old girls pause, think a moment, and then chorus out with shouts of "What a moron!" "What a dumb ending!" "Geez, Hawthorne, way to give us a downer," etc.

But I asked them what ending did they expect? How could Brown have kept his Faith after so much disillusionment, so much sorrow and hypocrisy and sin and secrecy? And my girls spoke truth--despite their dirty, filthy pasts and their own secrets and hypocrisies, their lips and tongues bled honesty like honey onto their plastic desktops. We talked about the dangers of cock-eyed optimism (a favorite topic of mine since my freshman year at BYU-I) and about how ignorance couldn't truly be bliss, depending on how you define bliss. The girls felt strongly that Brown could have accepted the sins and stains of his neighbors, even the imperfections of his own Faith, but that he could have chosen to focus on their light, on their goodness, on what they do right. That the red blood stain would be shadowed by the light and glitter and shininess that each friend and neighbor also held. Because we are multitudes, we contain universes.

I guess when I realized my friendship with Audi wasn't perfect, I got scared, because I thought it was. We had told each other repeatedly that we were perfect friends, perfect soul sisters, perfect fits. I feared hopelessness and cynicism and forever screwed-up-ness when we finally fought, and I always secretly hated this MormonAd-worthy photo that I found so misleading, so dishonest.

Apologies for the length of this post. I suppose I just wanted to tell the world wide web that I am a fan of disillusionment, a fan of optimism, a fan of truth and a fan of goodness. I am a fan of forgiveness and hope and the cores of souls. Audi is getting married soon and we have continued to bear the blessed name of bosom buddies all through the past four years. She is my kin and my heart and my blood. And I have a shiny countenance and shit on my hands at the same time. And I aim to keep on a-washing those dirty, grubby paws of mine and scrubbing them clean every day for the rest of my livelong life, dirtying them, washing them, dirtying them, washing them, and hopefully I'll be able to cyclically get myself somewhere good before I finally keel over and kick the bucket. And I aim to recognize the cores of the souls of all my friends and favorites who are running, trudging, sauntering, meandering, and frolicking this worn path with me.

In other words: Back off Satan, with your fears and your doubts and your cynicism. I'm having a great year.....the best year of my life so far. And don't it feel good.

Something

Spring has finally hit southeastern Idaho. I took my nylons off on Sharon's porch while we chatted in the sun, and my legs breathed fresh air for the first time since September. I watched the clouds and petted Patch. Rigby has a few colors besides white and brown and pale blue--now we have greens, yellows, reds, blackbirds, squirrels, golden fields at sunset. It makes me want to listen to Sting. Fortunately for me, my lover owns every Sting album available to the general public, possibly a few besides. It wouldn't surprise me.

I also have great new driving music and a brand new semester starting tomorrow morning. No British Literature this time, just three courses freshman composition and an ENG 311 (I'm still trying to figure out what this class entails. I've planned as far as introductions).

My point: I'm pretty chipper these days, given to frequent secret daydreams and cautious reminiscences. I'm in love. His name is David Grover and I introduced him here once before from my escapades in Chicago. I think I've seen him in person approx. 9 days total. The rest of our courtship has consisted of three months of daily barrages of emails with the occasional phone call, the more occasional date via Skype, and a box of postcards with such words written on the backsides I have to sit down to read them. He is a lovely, good man, and I am hopelessly, devotedly, irreparably smitten.

I try and hear myself type this, anticipate the realistic and earthbound responses you all could give me. I try to be stoic, reasonable, the opposite of naive and ninny-pinny. But then I think of David's ridiculously unruly thick hair and the last things he's whispered to me or closed a letter with, and I grin beside myself. I find myself whistling without noticing, touching my face or my hair or my other hand like I'm My So-Called Life's Claire Danes, experiencing everything romance for the first time. Like a virgin. (Jokes, jokes....I've always been a virgin. I've been a virgin for 27 years. ....And that's not what this is about.)

I've been cautious to broadcast my relationship because I wanted to be sure I could say all of this without reservation. Last week I flew to Ohio and spent twice as much time with David on his turf (he's graduating with an MA in Creative Writing from the university there in June) than in all the days I had seen him previously put together. Oh, I was so afraid to leave the airplane. Who does this? I thought.....Who flies across the country to meet a man she's only met twice, a man she's only kissed once--a 3 a.m. kiss on the 24th floor of the Chicago Hilton on Valentines Day? I stalled the whole way out of the terminal. I walked into two bathrooms. I found myself staring into the windows of a bookstore, sweating. And I was wearing glasses, for crying out loud. My Anasazi glasses for crying out loud. They probably smelled of garlic and wet wool.

When I saw him, he looked so kind and so serious; I about had to sit down just to read his face. Here was the face behind the postcards, just as genuine as I'd hoped it would be. He stood and took a step towards me, holding out daffodils. Daffodils, I tell you. We grinned and hugged and didn't stop grinning or hugging the full five days I spent with him. I get to see him again in Utah this Friday. My turf. Drive him around in my car. Show him my life.

I don't know what exactly is the thesis of this blog post, except I just wanted to get it out there. An update. I fear to look naive. But I fear to sound even more silly or gaggy if I list all of the evidences of our love on the world wide web. I guess I mostly want to communicate gratitude. I am astounded at this great chance find, this crazy diamond of a boy who I've managed to spend nine days with against all odds, who I've managed to give my heart to against all logistics. I've dated and loved several shining gems of men in my lifetime, a few of whom might read this blog posting, these few of whom I still consider some of my greatest and most beloved of friends and brothers. To these select and good men, I don't mean to undermine or undercut anything tender I shared with you. But you each told me I'd find my own, that whatever comfort or security or passion or trust I couldn't achieve with anyone else so far, I would discover it all someday.

Well, I don't mean to count chickens or jump guns, but I've sure never felt like this before. This is entirely new. David feels like home. He is perfectly imperfect. I want to own him, to keep him as my pet. At the same time, I want to follow him around like a springtime sheep and watch him do meaningless tasks all day. At the same time, I want to discuss all great and all ridiculous topics with him. I want to play games with him all day. I want to put puzzles together with him into the evening. I want to hide the final puzzle pieces in my pocket, just to mess with him. I want to wear pigtails and run through streams with him. I want to dress purty and doll up my mug and my mane and make him dazzle by having me on his arm. I want to read great books just to discuss them with him. I don't want to sweat it about anything because I want to make our atmosphere calm and unruffled. Surprisingly, I haven't been tempted to sweat it. Surprisingly, I haven't come near to clamming up. He turns me into a vixen and a rascal. I like to think I turn him into pudding, into a devil, into a saint. I've never felt so secure. He's a gentleman. He has sad eyes and a gut laugh. He can purr like a lion and growl like a wookiee on my command. He can play any song I want on his guitar. He lets me boss him around and he lets me sit at his knee. His mind is full of beautiful things and his flattery is so honey-laced it hits me like a poison, rendering me pliable and soft. Yet it isn't much like the sting of a viper....that numbing that precedes the devouring and manipulation of the prey......it's a helpless feeling, but helpless in the arms of a good and careful man. I'm numb to the types of twittering sparrow fears that kept me hopping around past relationships, jumpy and nervous. Grover keeps me calm. I breathe slowly. I sigh and chuckle interchangeably. I want to be ridiculously good and make him ridiculously happy. I don't even think to trust--it feels natural just to take his hand and walk beside him because we've been walking the same path all along. How can I explain it?

Geez, I hope this isn't too mushy. It's still just me, plain old Gillzy. Except it isn't. Maybe I have turned to mush. Well, so be it. I glow, I beam, I quiver, I sing. Give me this day to fly through the air, I'll ground myself again eventually. Or maybe it'll be like that old Chagall, and I'll spend the rest of my days floating off, a high-blown kite flying from the hand of my love who holds my hand like a string, keeping me earthbound, keeping me soaring. My true love. What do you know. At long last, something is happening....