Salt Lake @ Night by benberry

A black cover envelopes the valley
with a warm May eve

A thousand little lights glimmer in the distance
as stars do in clear night skies

So many people are here now,
the branches of many trees growing full

And still,
a loving Father
watches on, involved as ever

~ Ryan Mendenhall

The Story: Isn’t it amazing how music can bring things to life, pull out the brilliant from that which lies hidden right before your face? I parked my car last night and I continued to listen to a beautiful piece on the radio. Several composers were going through my head. The first few notes rang of Ravel. Programmatic, yes, it’s telling a story. No, the string harmonies have a unique taste that’s not French. Hmm, Copland? No, it was Dvořák’s Symphony No. 9. Yes, that song has themes of the old song Simple Gifts. I knew the piece and it had moved me before. I finally settled on Aaron Copland’s Appalachian Spring as I prepared to exit the car.

In an instant my mind switched focus from this little guessing game to the sea of lit glass when I stood from my car and turned around to overlook the valley. Brilliant! The music was like a magnifying glass, opening my vision to a deeper meaning of the image that was spread out before me. Impressions came as words, but not those above, simpler ones, just to capture them like one would catch butterflies with a net. I didn’t want them to get away.

The whole experience lasted not but 3 minutes, but I had seen purpose in those three minutes.

Side note about my guessing game: The song ended and I was right about it being Copland. I was even right about the piece! Brilliant! Guess those music history classes stuck, yeah? After listening to “From the New World” (Symphony No. 9) though, I stand corrected. Dvořák never references simple gifts. Some parts are almost Star Wars-esque and others kind of Fantasia with Mickey as a Wizard-like. Movement 2 is VERY peaceful. See it live and you’ll be so relaxed. They even provide pillows for the concert goers for this part of his symphony.

Then, this morning, as I listened to some great Celtic music I felt to pull out the words again. I did so and sculpted the above few stanzas. There’s something almost healing in listening and noting what comes to mind. I find it quite therapeutic, quite necessary.

Familiar streets invite me to turn
I heed & see places I know
Memories long lost surface & surprise
Forgotten scenes play like ten thousand movie reels cut, scattered & taped again

Long furrows carry life to fields of alfalfa
Fed from ditches that form the roads’ edge
Little league soccer conjures my own years on that grass
And a runner passes by…Yes. Yes, I remember those times!

The old school grounds – I walk, I jog, I sprint
One place I pass triggers names. A nearby mule brays
The next moment floods with faces. Two crows call unafraid
Here I am, the future, as a ghost, revisiting my past

So much built me, and this places is but one
Teacher, one time, one lesson, one story
Can I go back? No, it is never for us to do.
But forward I’m propelled by the thrust of these days

It was then that I began to live
And my inclination was to remain
But times changed & experience remained
As I stepped up to higher grounds

So, far away images now scatter my mind -
Pieces of the past, of me, oft unseen.
But I don’t look back for long
I keep moving forward

~ Ryan Mendenhall

May 15, 2010

Here’s how it all went down:

Plain City Soccer Field

I went to see a friend run the Ogden Marathon and ended up traveling some familiar roads to familiar places. I drove into Plain City where I went one year to high school and played soccer. I didn’t know where I was, but one road seemed vaguely familiar and took me past an old friend’s house and to a field where I used to have soccer practice. As I watched the little kids play I recalled a scene there sitting on the grass with some friends. I sat reflecting I my car and a runner with a Fremont shirt passed by…my mind rushed with memories of the runs in high school on those same roads.

My Junior Year High School

I drove away to find the school and traveled for a while on long country roads with a house ever so often and where the roads often turned for no other reason than to follow the ditch. I finally broke down and aided my intuition/memory with a small dose of technology. I texted Google for the address of the school. I was close, had driven right by it and not known. When I came upon it I smiled with a giddiness that I’m sure only made sense to me. I had decided to run that day up in that area…here it was to be, in the same place I had run perhaps a hundred times before. After driving slowly close to  the school to take it all in I parked in the drivers ed area just to the West of the stadium where I had run track as a Silverwolf. I took to that old raceway and remembered the uniforms, the relays, the cheering, the crushes.

Fremont High Foodball Field & Track

I ran off and onto the soccer field, again memories flooded my mind. Sprinting the field the name Rodney Frojker popped into my head, I could see him playing with his knee brace. Tyson Craythorne. Micah Marsden (a name that came later, but I recalled him too). At another point on the grass a scene of a rainy game day flooded my memory as well as getting asked to a dance with Easter Eggs. I had to chuckle when I heard the mule bray. We had a mule when I lived in Hooper, Frank. I then ran over behind the school and along the path that we took to go to the institute.

I then ran out into the neighborhood behind. A hot day. Fields of alfalfa. People mowing, digging in their gardens, watering them. I waved to them, complimented them, etc All were nice. I felt like an apparition, touching, but not affecting their lives. It had been 15 years since I was there before. Amazing! I grabbed my soccer ball and played around a bit then sat on the football field and wrote the above poem. The school was abandoned. It didn’t click at first, but then when I wondered why students weren’t at sports practices I figured school had just gotten out for the year.

When I was done I packed up and headed South on the long road towards Hooper. I remember it being long, but it seemed longer this time. Hitting the T I turned out West. I was already so far west, but Hooper was further. The small country signs, green, white words & border approached and went. I passed Rocky Mountain Jr. High and curved around the road that took me south again. The road numbers started looking familiar and names of kids I used to know popped into my head as I drove by houses, Bingham, Greenwood, then a familiar corner appeared. I wasn’t sure it was my old one, but when I saw the old silos I knew it was the right place.

Miles, Christopherson, Strong. I turned North, that road seemed much smaller. Brody, Coroles, Paulsen the road ended & I went back to go down my old street. Kelso, Gray, OUR HOUSE! Well, I can say that I’m glad it was no longer purple, but it WAS different. The front ditch had been filled in, the tree in which our triangle tree house was no longer there, of course I could see that one coming since I had burnt it down by putting firecrackers in it . We had a circular driveway and it now only had the west side curve, the other now grass. There were no more stairs, but rather an incline up to the front door, perhaps for a wheelchair? The back yard was fenced off so I couldn’t peek into the backyard filled with memories of the trampoline, Chinese stars at the barn, Shadow, diggin up horse poop, etc

I drove past it slowly as I did the school so I could let it sink in. Harames, Paulsen, the farm where we used to snag boxes of old doughnuts, find tunnels in & play in the big bails of hay, the slew that cut through our block which now seemed but a stream. My how things look different grown up.

I turned around and came back for one more look then turned south at the corner…the roads seem much smaller than they did when I was a kid. I remembered to go around the block was a real commitment! On the next corner I saw our second Hooper house which had also changed colors, no longer blue, but gray, a shade darker than the first house’s color. I turned there to eyeball it too, but there was someone out front mowing so I didn’t get all creepy on her. Byington…I turned around, I didn’t know anyone past that. Again, one more look at the house I kicked a soccer ball through the front window, found out that my sister was diabetic and stayed up all night to complete the school project of building a bridge out of small pieces of balsa wood.

I was now heading east, the direction I often stopped to look while in my front yard juggling the soccer ball because I hadn’t made the team. I got pretty good there. I guess practice does that…420 times I think my top was. I remember breaking 40 in the parking lot of some place in Hooper. But anyhow, I’d watch the mountains change to pink, purple, gold and crimson as the sun set out over the lake in the other direction. It was there I might just have learned to slow down & think, to reflect.

And something random – check out Homestarrunner for a fun high school experience.

One part imagination
One paper for each participant
One pencil for each

So, to begin, each person has a paper and pencil. Everyone writes a phrase on the top of the page as if they were writing a poem. Each paper is passed and a second line is written after reading the first. Here’s where it gets interesting. The second person to write a line then folds the paper back so the first phrase is no linger visible. They then pass the paper again. Each of the following people do the same so that every person writes one line with only the previous line visible.

If you’re lookin’ to add a little more spice to the game, try playing Scattergories or another word game beforehand so the group is primed to add a hearty handful of inside jokes into the delicious “Kimchi Poetry.” The name, by the way, has nothing to do with the poems themselves, it’s just a name that came out as we were talking and it stuck. However, if you were to look for some meaning to the name of the game, it may make sense that it’s just as random as the poems are. Else, some poems, after fermenting a while are really delicious to the distinguishing pallet.

Whatever you call it, it’s a fun little game, especially for those who like to write.

Following are the 10 poems that were fermented by 5 very different people! I hope you have as much fun reading them as we did creating them. I gave each a name so you can vote for your favorite at the end. Feel free to psychoanalyze the dishes to help us get to the bottom our group consciousness. Those and any other thoughts are welcome in the comments section after the poems.

Heart Conscience

For those people who enjoy water
Your conscience will like this message
If your heart can hear
Then my love will respond
To the most intimate terms of endearment

The Transformation

As he rose from the shivering grass
Blistering orbules exploded
Training my eyes to retreat
For too much is a burden in the beholding
Of this cornucopia that transfigures

Adventurous Wookie

“Forever my little Wookie,” she cooed
“Forever, forever and forever.”
On the stems of wilder wood
I rode the ultimate adventure
Because my heart was pure

Hesitant Amid Temptation

Mysterious curiosity
Beckons intensely
But I will not go
Until I can draw the right conclusions
Of what may come for Mr. Bojangles

Icicles Overboard

The spot drew my focus
And I turned my soul to meet
The icicles of the sea
Grew like bamboo
Until it reached the threshold

The Rooster’s Wit OR The Jello Epiphany

A rooster watches through the window
And he sees other humorous mannequins
Laughing at his wit
She casually jiggled her jello
To find the truth she known all along

Memories of Partridge Tree Youth

Positively delightful, the youth of Partridge Tree
Hope for living in the now
And then when we forget and trip on tomorrow
we can be propelled by these memories
Of longing, light and wit
And the whimsy of laughing daffodils

Itchaway

Dolphin cheese & killer bees
In the magic land of Itchaway
There lived a tiny lark
Who laid tiny blue eggs
An offering of conduit to future

Amphibious Youth

In the puddles of amphibious youth
My feet drew up joy leaving memories
My mind opened to a greater world
Where the tropics covered the earth
They lived in harmony

In Their Eyes

Children sometimes speak with their eyes
You just have to look deeper
Into the shallow depths of the pellucid
A glimmer of hope shone forth
And I joined the fairies in their dance

Vote for your fav & try it out yourself next group get together. We’d love to sample your juiciest & most savory Kimchi Poems! Until then!!

n

It has settled upon me
One reason perhaps why
I’ve been given this gift,
This thorn in the side

My desire for focus
Has stemmed from my lack
And drawn me t’wards Father
His ability in tact

I learn of His greatness
His glory & light
That will encompass my spirit
When I pass through the night

That heavenly focus
Is a super human power
Comprehending the oceans
Each sand of each hour

Not one at a time
As now I must grow
But hundreds upon thousands
Of truths will I know

And if this is all — the reason my mind
Tries to lay hold of 50 things at a time,
That it’s a heavenly yearning
And my body lags behind –

Then I’ll praise my God
For this gift from above
That’s helping me see heaven
And his precious, divine love

~ Ryan “Super Focus Boy” Mendenhall

I felt the distint impression this morning as I was studying about the Spirit World, after death, that my tendency to want to try to comprehend everything now is an inseperable part of my spirit that’s trying to work within the confines of the limiting factor of my physical body.

The impressions came as I was listening to Brent L. Top’s talk called What’s On the Other Side? What the Gospel Teaches Us about the Spirit World, especially these words from Orson Pratt speaking of what learning is like in the spirit world once we die,

“We shall learn many more things there; we need not suppose our five senses connect us with all the things of heaven, and earth, and eternity, and space; we need not think that we are conversant with all the elements of nature, through the medium of the senses God has given us here. Suppose He should give us a sixth sense, a seventh, an eighth, a ninth, or a fiftieth. All these different senses would convey to us new ideas, as much so as the senses ol tasting, smelling, or seeing communicate different ideas from that of hearing….

How long a time would it take a man in the next world, if he had to gain knowledge as we do here, to find out the simplest things in nature ? He might reason, and reason for thousands of years, and then hardly have got started. But when this Spirit of God, this great telescope that is used in the celestial heavens, is given to man, and he, through the aid of it, gazes upon eternal things, what does he behold ? Not one object at a time, but a vast multitude of objects rush before his vision, and are present before his mind, filling him in a moment with the knowledge of worlds more numerous than the sands of the sea shore. Will he be able to bear it ? Yes, his mind is strengthened in proportion to the amount of information imparted. It is this tabernacle, in its present condition, that prevents us from a more enlarged understanding…

I believe we shall be freed, in the next world, in a great measure, from these narrow, contracted methods of thinking. Instead of thinking in one channel, and following up one certain course of reasoning to find a certain truth, knowledge will rush in from all quarters ; it will come in like the light which flows from the sun, penetrating every part, informing the spirit, and giving understanding concerning ten thousand things at the same time; and the mind will be capable of receiving and retaining all.”

 (Journal of Discourses, Vol. 2, Brigham Young)

Brilliant!

If hearts could be gold

The treasure to be found

Within a mother’s love

Would vast coffers make quite sound

Her words speak hope and confidence

They lift and build and grow

Each one so blessed to be called her child

Does such inspiring words surely know

Her prayers do rally heaven

When in fear her children flee

The Lord dispatches legions

Each time she raises need

Her songs bring peace to troubled hearts

The melody she raises, so sweet

Each tune, each strain, each heartfelt note

With no worldly verse competes

Her devotion is divine

Her affections are sure true

Consistency her haulmark

All things she appears to do

With nothing less than teary eyes

I thank those mothers kind

Who, like angels, have shared their hearts with me

And in whom I can God’s love find

- K. Arthur

A rose is a sign of beauty, but why is there none in death?
The flower brought joy in life, but why is there none in death?

The memory’s there to carry on the spirit of the rose
But all in all memories fade and understanding blooms & grows.
Now the precious flow’s gone back to join w/ earth
And now you see that beauty comes in death & not just birth.

(August 1996)

Day by day and hour by hour
we choose our paths, our fate
Joy awaits the faithful
their souls to liberate

Each step we take towards His love
each moment we endure
We’re given strength to lengthen strides
our destiny’s made sure

Within God’s word we find a power -
the truth our heats can see
And through His Son’s atonement
the gift of being free

(Written December 9, 2006 by R.M.)

When the toughest choice you’ll make is made
When you’ve given all that you’ve got
When the heavens seem utterly still
And inside you hope they’re not

When all these things are pressing down
And you need courage to go on
Just remember Jesus Christ
Have faith and carry on

When you loved that one so dearly
Like no one you ever have
But in your heart that door has closed
And there’s reason to be sad

Just remember Jesus Christ
And give your pain to him
For he suffered for your sadness
Not only for your sin

The plan for you is mighty grand
His love for you divine
So just remember Jesus Christ
And trust his love sublime

(Written November 14, 2002)

When the wind whispers acts of anger
Do we willingly enrage?
Or do we acknowledge the wind
And choose instead our hearts to believe?

Do we forgive our fathers
When the bitterness of their past bites and pains us so?
Or do we give them our loyalty
And let pass their short comings?

For they too are like us
With times that are best unseen
And they too are like us
Worthy of our love

So do we forgive our fathers
And in so doing forgive ourselves?
Do we drop the bottles
That keep inside our hurt?

Do we go forward and live
And in doing show we forgave?
And do we forgive our fathers
And in so doing set ourselves free?

(Written October 6, 2002)

I am made up of so many people
My experiences are such
That when I look into the mirror
There’s no face I cannot touch

I see the people wondering
What I have become
There has to be an answer there
But searching, I find none

(Written April 6, 1996)