Michan: We Never Said Good-Bye

I started a Master's of Fine Arts: Creative Writing program this week.  It has a low-residency requirement of one week each semester on campus, and, since it is offered by the college where I am employed (Sierra Nevada College at Lake Tahoe) and this is a busy week in admissions activity for the spring semester (I am the Director of Undergraduate Admissions and am functioning currently as the Transfer Coordinator, as well), I have been arriving at the office around 7:00-7:30 each morning and leaving campus around 8:00-9:00 each night.  I'm tired - but I have loved this week, unequivocally and passionately.  

I am in the Creative Non-Fiction genre, but we had a cross-genre workshop yesterday.  I chose poetry.  We were assigned to write a love poem without using hundreds of words commonly used in love poems.  We then were asked to write a piece, from any genre, focused on a specific moment of importance in our lives that occured within a specific time frame we had identified at the beginning of the assignment that held special significance for us. 

I chose my high school years, and I want to share the pieces I wrote.  I have written hundreds of posts on this blog and literally thousands of comments on other blogs and in discussion groups, but these are my favorites of everything I have written in my life:

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Michan  

We met – unplanned, unanticipated, unbidden – no idea what lay ahead.

16 and 15 – too young and immature, right?  

Quick connection – recognized more instantly by me than her.

That piano bench, just a glance – future recognition of endless past.

Two years to dance, two years not so, then twenty-six years more –

College, children, heartache, joy – peace throughout it all. 

Where she starts – where I end – what is her – what me?

Looking forward toward unknown, enough simply to be.   

We Never Said Good-Bye

The program lasted twelve days; I dreaded its end for eleven days and twenty-three hours. 

We didn’t touch the entire two weeks.  We talked.  Oh, how we talked – hour after hour, minute upon minute, inseparable, the focus of whispered questions and gossip – sharing dreams for the future and experiences from the past.  She told me about her frustrations, her family, past crushes, a former boyfriend; I listened a lot and spoke a bit, content to be with her and moved by her.  I missed the dance – my only chance to hold her. 

We walked, side-by-side, still not touching, not talking about why we were going where we were going.  We ignored it – not intentionally, but completely, nonetheless. 

Her dad was waiting when we arrived.  I said hello, introduced myself, shook hands, exchanged brief small talk.  He said they needed to leave to stay on schedule.  They walked away. So did I, not wanting to see her disappear. 

I learned later she turned and looked back.  I wasn’t there.  She realized at that moment she really did love me. 

Thirty years and six children later, while writing about that moment, I suddenly realize we never said good-bye.  

We never said good-bye.  

The moment I dreaded never arrived. 

I will share this with her when I return home tonight and touch her for the hundred millionth time.

Inexpressible Moments of Connection

There have been many instances where I was confident someone understood what I was saying, but about the only times when I knew - with absolute certainty - that someone understood exactly what I was feeling were when I didn't say anything.

The very first time I kissed my girlfriend - and when she handed me our first son nearly six years later; when our second son's appendix burst and our eyes met as they wheeled him into the operating room; when my greenie companion bore his testimony in English as I translated into Japanese, and the 2-year-long investigator burst into tears as the Spirit throbbed palpably; when one of my Primary students hugged me before church; etc. I believe that those who have experienced such inexpressible moments of connection will understand my limited ability to translate those feelings - and my joy in the memories.

Losing (the Church of) My Youth

I was raised in a small town in central Utah, and many of the sprawling orchards of my youth are now cookie-cutter subdivisions. I used to walk to my grandparents' house on Saturday - including 5 miles where I passed about a dozen houses. I visited a couple of years ago, and the distance walking among the trees and farmland has shrunk to less than half of what I once enjoyed. Some of my parents' neighbors have moved further west to "get back to the country." My four-ward town now has two bulging stakes. I used to know every kid near my age in town - quite well; my brother's and cousins' children now know fewer kids their age than I did - in a town over five times the size.

In many ways, I've lost my hometown - at least the town of my memories. I understand intellectually why it happened, but my heart never will accept it fully. I probably will never be back to live there, but I miss its simplicity, nonetheless.

In the same way, over the years I have lost the church of my childhood. There was a time when it all was easy - black and white - so clear and unambiguous. There was a time I saw "as a child" - and I loved and am grateful for that time of innocence.

Now, however, I have grown and put aside childish things. The church of my youth might not exist for me anymore, but I wouldn't go back to it. The church of my adulthood is messy and nuanced and baffling and frustrating at times, but it also is inspiring and challenging and growth-inducing and joyful. I glory in it, and I find glory in it (even amid the occasional goriness of it) - and I wouldn't go back to the church of my childhood. I am at home in the Church I know and love now, and anyone who has seen my house will tell you I don't mind the messiness as long as I have the love and growth and joy (and challenges) I experience in it.