CLYTIE ADAMS - STANDING IN THE LIGHT

There’s a seat in the audience of the Browning Center Auditorium at Weber State University that belongs to Clytie Adams. I guess she doesn’t really own it, but in my experience it’s the one where she always sits. I'm really only in the Browning Center when Clytie is. She sits right there, about a third of the way back, near the center and the aisle. Its far enough from the stage to see the whole story unfolding under the floodlights, but close enough for her to gracefully walk backstage, through the wings, and onto center stage to introduce the year’s recital, or to take a bow with the orchestra’s conductor after performances of The Nutcracker. She enters the stage, her shoulders planted over her hips, chin up and smiling, her silver hair shimmering in the spotlight. Her arms move gracefully and her speech is sweetly measured, never rushed.

She will remind the audience that this is an evening of delight and dignity. “We do not holler at the ballet, but you may clap with all your heart!” She will add some charming story about the children who will be dancing, and she will invite the audience to adore these dancers who have worked so dutifully to prepare performances for the evening. Even now, returning in my mind to last year’s recital, I can hear the lilt in her voice. It’s preserved in my memory and tucked under my heart.

I first met Clytie Adams decades ago, when my own children enrolled in her renowned School of Ballet in Kaysville, Utah. My contribution to my children’s gene pool includes the cell structure for a human form that could cut big blocks of ice out of the frozen Snake River and lift houses off their foundations to be moved to new locations. We are big folk, we Parrish’s. My husband David’s genetic portion includes all four of his grandparents being under 5 feet tall as fully grown adults. Our kids were not built to be dancers. Nonetheless, we knew the benefits of dance lessons and performances. They learned to own their bodies, to cooperate with others, to follow instruction, and overcome nerves. Dance gave them an appreciation for classical music, for rhythm and motion and grace. We put our kids in all sorts of lessons without any expectation of them becoming professionals in that field. Clytie's school taught them to stand gracefully in the light.

Clytie's daughter Jennifer at Nutcracker auditions.

Daughter Sarah onstage with the Little Prince

.

Daughter Leslie and a young student.

What I did not know we would get, when enrolling all four of our kids in Clytie Adams School of Ballet, were the nurture, love and tender life lessons they would receive under the tutelage of Clytie, her gifted daughters and all her teachers. Our oldest, John, still dances every year in their beautiful production of The Nutcracker. He started as a young party boy with the Ballet West Production, and now is a father in the same party scene for Clytie’s show. 

John is tucked in the back with his stage partner,
Jennifer Hart.

Besides what Clan Cytie has done for our kids, I have personally come to cherish every one of Clytie’s shows. Mid-June of every year I stand backstage with the dancers and their teachers, inhaling the magic of anticipation blended with nerves and raw youthful energy. For the last couple decades, I have been honored and entrusted to help write songs and perform them for her little dancers. I weave my way onto the apron of the stage, in front of Mike Montoya’s drum set, Mark Robinette’s keyboard and bass, and the grand piano with Kelly DeHaan at the keys. Various additional musicians of the highest caliber join us on stage. Creating music with them is beyond divine! My guitar and I know that space well.  I pace my years by the six-month portions between the week I get to do the Clytie Recital in June and the week of my Christmas Concerts in the chill of winter. 

Each year, following both the recital and my concerts, I receive a card in the mail with the graceful flowing handwriting I’ve come to know and love as that of Clytie Adams. She sweetly and graciously thanks me for my music. One year, after one of my Christmas concerts, she wrote:

“Does that beautiful fair-haired beauty with the liquid brown eyes belong to your John?”

She had seen my little granddaughter Sophie twirling between the rows as I sang. That same girl, now a college student,  wept when two days ago I told her that Clytie had made her way back up to Heaven. It was Clytie who had brought her to her toes after her young dancer ankles became strong enough. How I loved watching her dance as I sang from the side of the stage. I’ve had a closer-than-front-row seat to watch four of our granddaughters under Clytie’s floodlights.

Sophie Connors and her classmates.

Through Clytie I found the truest friends in her daughter Sarah and her musically gifted husband, Mark Robinette. My life is forever changed for good because of them. We've been through a lot together. Dave has performed marriages for their kids. Mark and Sarah marched beside us in my mothers funeral cortege. I've taught guitar to Sarah and her daughter Maura. Mark can make my songs sound better than they really are. We've crossed oceans together, and performed on worldwide stages together. They are family to us.

Mark and his daughter Clytie Sue at her wedding.

Donning the birthday hats at my sister Libby's house.

Walking to the cemetery
behind my mother's horse drawn hearse.

Two months ago, when I was at Mark’s home studio recording this year’s recital songs, I sat beside Clytie who was there visiting. She lifted her sparkling eyes up toward me and smiled, offering kindnesses that were typical of her. We sat side by side until she closed her eyes to rest. You know you have a friend when you can sit comfortably together in silence.

Just a few days ago, after Mark had told me Clytie had taken a turn for the worse, I texted Sarah:

That evening, I slung my guitar over my shoulder and entered the holy place of Clytie's lovely home. Clytie’s girls had placed her bed alongside the beautiful wall of windows in her bedroom. The light of the waning sun sifted over her form. Outside her window the earth was awakening. Newborn leaves uncurled in their innocent chartreus infancy. Flowers down on her back landing were blooming in the colors of early spring. The earth was breaking up, perhaps to welcome her in. Mark sat at her feet, and Sarah walked in behind me after teaching the class my own granddaughter Beth attends. I sat in the comfortable antique chair at the side of her bed, unzipped my guitar case and instinctively began plucking “I often go walking in meadows of clover,” a Mother’s Day tune we sang as kids. “Dear Mother, all flowers remind me of you.”

Eventually Mark found his own guitar and added harmony to songs. Between the songs the silence carried a music of its own. Each of the daughters and her beloved niece sifted in and out until finally I too left, leaving her grieving girls to share that sacred space with their mom. 

The next morning Sarah sent word that her mother had joined the angels. I imagine it was a lovely entrance, graceful and joyful, with plenty of impassioned applause from the other side. I imagine her looking back on all of us, blowing us kisses and bending her newfound legs with a deep and graceful curtsy, her head lowered and then rising to her Lord. We all rejoice in the reunions sure to be taking place right now.

From this side of things, Clytie Adams, we promise not to holler, but we are clapping with all our hearts.

A young Clytie and students who are likely grandparents now.

2022 Utah Governors Mansion Artist Award Recipient.

Clytie Adams was honored with the 2022 Utah Governor's Mansion Artist Award by Governor Spencer Cox. She was recognized for her positive impact on the arts in her community, particularly through her work as the founder of the Clytie Adams School of Ballet. The award was presented at a ceremony held at the Governor's Mansion. You can watch a short PBS documentary on her HERE.

Read her obituary HERE.

GOOD NEWS / BAD NEWS (2025/40)

This Eastertide has been emotionally exhausting for me. It's taken concerted mental effort to turn my thoughts away from the sorry state of our country and back to Jesus. I walk the tightrope that swings between trust that God is in charge and utter outrage over what is happening in our country. I'm not sure where to find the turn-off valve when my anger over abuse of power and lawless arrogance starts to boil over. I'm exhausted trying to keep my balance. I am not, and pray to never be, willing to ignore what's happening around us, but goodness, this is ugly

Too much news. Too much sad news. I have sadly neglected the good news. 

One of the biggest lessons of this year’s Lent practice, which is a self-induced requirement to reflect and write every day, is my understanding of how healing the concept of Jesus is. I’m talking about the idea of Jesus. This is besides the actual healing power of Jesus. The concept that there is a being and a power wholly based on love who has left us a pattern to follow is comforting. Even if he were make-believe, the process of following him would be helpful. His guileless nature is the antithesis of what disturbs me in our human leaders. The simple concept of Jesus would be enough to lift me out of despondency. 

But the reality of Jesus gives me hope. It brightens my vision and makes me breathe deeper and slower. I remind myself to nurture this faith and use it more often, like a daily sacrament, to wash myself from this spiraling world. 

I’ve become aware, through these past forty days, that when I turn my sorrow to an awareness of Jesus, it shifts the focus from a centered downward flow to an upward lift. Literally, I imagine the energy source through the center of my body going from a flushing faucet to a rising beam. I hear it in my head, an upward rush of wind. 

This season of introspection has given me this particular gift. I’m grateful for it. I need it. I need to speak the word Jesus more often these days. It’s not denial. It’s hope.

This complete's my Lenten offering for 2025. A blessed Easter tomorrow.

NOT KNOWING (2025/39)

Who does that?

Who, in the heat of being burned, worries about the well-being of the one burning them?

Jesus does.

On this Good Friday I am imagining the voice of the most powerful man who ever lived, in the process of being nailed to a cross, asking the God of the Universes to forgive the people killing him, proclaiming his purpose in the process. 

We think he was talking about the soldiers nailing him to a wooden cross. But maybe, just maybe, he was talking about us. 

All of us.

APOLOGIES VS. APOLOGETICS (2025/38)

Maundy Thursday Musings:

This morning, going through my email, I took a few minutes to clear out some unwanted messages. One by one I scrolled to the bottom in search of the unsubscribe button. 

"I swear I've already unsubscribed from this," I groaned, clicking the button once again.

Sometimes a sweet little message would pop up, telling me the task was complete.

More often, however, I was placed in a gauntlet to run through in order to be released.

The establishments that sent simple messages saying thanks for subscribing, we're still here if you change your mind, and sorry to see you go, are my instant friends. They're the ones I'm most likely to revisit down the road. Thanks for letting me choose my own inbox.

It got me thinking....

I'm pretty firm in my trust that we existed in some form or other before we were born, and that we will continue in another form after we die. I also think this is not a haphazard circumstance but something divinely orchestrated, meaning some power other than myself is in charge of the whole shebang.

I also have a fairly firm conviction that part of our very existence as humans is the divinely bestowed power of free choice. Besides our bodies, I think it's our first great gift, going hand in hand with the sacred Atonement of our advocate, Jesus Christ, who has our backs when that free choice gets us in trouble. As a parent I have to continually remind myself that my job with my kids was to teach them correct principles and let them govern themselves. That phrase "teach them correct principles" can be a bugger though, because frankly... what do I know? Ugh! This is why I know it's important to have spiritual laws. They keep us "innocents" on the path when we're not really sure how to get to the safe place. Nonetheless, we get to choose where we plant our feet. My own personal spiritual force, otherwise known as the Holy Ghost, works in me to confirm or deny. I consider the Holy Ghost my greatest God given tool in this life.

Some of us are so passionate about that right to choose we get ourselves stuck in some pretty thick muck just to prove the point. And some of us, conversely, are so passionate about blindly following without question that we have blocked our peripheral vision and lost some of those beauties around us. Regardless, I maintain we have the right to push unsubscribe at any point. 

I've been interested lately in the word apologetics. It feels like it should align with the word apologize, but it doesn't seem to. Apologetics are basically religious defenses. Whereas apologies are regret and sorrow for wrongdoing or offense. Apology admits fault, while apologetics defends a position.

Having recently watched someone I deeply love be hurt by a trusted friend, I've seen the use of apologetics being used where apology would have been more effective. Not that the two are pitted against each other. I know they are two different things based on the same root word. But I've noticed that we often explain away our actions that are harmful rather than first letting the hurt be addressed. A sincere apology generally sets both parties on equal ground where healing can begin to grow.

Except in academia, I am not a fan of the common man's use of apologetics. It feels haughty. Unless someone asks for the clarification apologetics can make for us, it feels presumptuous. I don't need to know what the nutrients of the meal are when I am famished. I just need to be fed. Later, if I am interested in the ingredients, then I will inquire about the rest.

To those of my friends and family who have used their divinely appointed free agency to choose their own spiritual paths, to click the proverbial unsubscribe button, I offer my hand of human fellowship. I am trying to nurture this hands-off/heart-on aspect of myself, having been raised in a religion that is focused on inviting others to join. I personally have chosen to walk a certain path, for my own reasons. But I must also, in order to maintain my integrity, allow everyone to choose for themselves. 

I am Christian. I do believe Jesus Christ to be the Redeemer of mankind. But I also know He himself offers everyone the right to not believe in him. That's pretty amazing in itself.

Believe what you will. My apologies for giving apologetics when what is needed for misguided judgement of each other is a simple apology.

THIRST (2025/37)

The doorbell rang. Walking to the front door I noticed the large Peace Lily in our entryway was limp and lifeless. Just the other day she was shooting up her pure white flowers, contrasting beautifully against her large vibrant and verdant leaves. Now her leaves lay withering against the floor, her white blossoms drooping against them. The old me would have reprimanded myself for neglecting her and taken her out to the garbage.

The new me, which is getting rather old now, understands how cyclical life is. I lifted the poor plant to the countertop next to the kitchen sink. I emptied the dishes from the sink, wiped it clean with pure soap and water, and plugged the drain. Filling it a few inches with fresh tepid water, I set the withered plant in the sink, leaving it there until I could feel the soil moist at the top. Lifting it from the water, I let the extra liquid drain from the holes near the bottom of the planter. Once the extra water was drained out I set the plant on my kitchen table, surrounded by filtered sunlight, whispered a prayer, then set about the duties of the day.

3:35 pm

By the time the 10 pom news was over the plant looked like this. Full and vibrant and very much alive. Like it had been resurrected. 

10:35 pm

Here's what I learned from this today:

1. Some things, and some people, cannot or will not tell us when they are thirsty... literally or figuratively.

2. When I have put myself in the position of being a steward, its my job to check on it occasionally, if not with regularity.

3. When I mess up as a steward, its worth trying my best to repair the damage my neglect has done.

4. There are different ways to quench thirst. Most people water from the top. I've learned the best way to water most of my plants is to water from the bottom. Let them soak up the water into their roots. Trust the plant to do its part.

5. Too much of a good thing is not a good thing. Drain off the excess.

6. This peace lily didn't necessarily need dramatic measures. It needed water and light. Start with the basics when there's a crisis.

7. The crisis led me to research watering processes after following my instincts. I learned that bottom watering is good, but that I also need to top water once a month to release salt buildup on the surface.

I am not at all... and I mean not at ALL... a plant person. I have to have plants that can take neglect now and then. But I am really moved by how just a little attention can make such a difference.

Forgive me, Peace Lily. Thank you for your tolerance of my weaknesses.

Plants and people... pretty much the same.

ENOUGH (JOE'S RECITAL) (2025/36)

 

"Mom, I can't do this!"

I heard the pointed whispers in the back of the recital hall.

I turned and watched my grandson Joe being scuttled out the back door by his mom. I quietly rose from my seat on the back row and tiptoed after them, trying not to disturb the student currently playing. 

Joe was whisper-yelling at Sarah, and she was trying to remain calm and at the same time firm.

"Joe, you know enough."

"No I DON'T!" He stomped his foot on the carpeted floor and turned away, wiping his eyes.

Apparently Joe had left his sheet music at our house in Farmington when they had come for Sunday dinner. To make matters worse, his Jr High Theatre teacher had insisted he attend a mandatory rehearsal, which caused the panic of rushing late to his recital twenty miles away. They had already asked that Joe play early so we could all get to his brother Timo's concert at the University, and now they were late. This is what May used to be, event after event for school kids. Now that we have University musicians the performances have moved to April. We had grandkid performances, sometimes multiples in one day, every day last week. But I digress...

I could feel Joe's anxiety boiling over. I ached for him. I wanted to wrap him in my arms and steal him away to get an ice cream cone and play on the swings at a park.

Sarah, to her credit, remained restrained yet determined: 

"Joe, pull yourself together and get in there and play whatever portion you know."

He kept insisting he couldn't. And, with the added backing of adolescent adult-resistant hormones, he  WOULDN'T!

I wrapped my floppy old Grandma arms around him and patted his back, hoping to calm his irritated racing heart. I whispered encouragement in his ear. I was walking the fine line between championing for the baby boy he remains in my heart and his mother, who knows him better than I and has a long term plan in mind for him. Grandmas run great risks getting in the way of this stuff.

To my amazement and surprise, Joe ended up wiping his eyes, which kept seeping anyway, and walking back into the hall and up to the Steinway in front of all those people. He adjusted the piano bench and sat, his hands hovering over the keys. Then, by golly, he let them fall and played the piece.

It wasn't perfect. He had to pause once or twice. But frankly, so did the other students there. A recital should be a safe place for students, playing before people who love them, showing what they had learned the last few months. Joe has had many, many recitals. When he stood, with his red eyes and furrowed forehead, he instinctively took a bow and walked off stage. His teacher met him and embraced him. It was lovely.

I thought back, as we were driving to Timo's recital minutes later, to when I was a young mother. I think I might have let my kid not do it. Maybe. I don't know. When I think of myself as a linear being, I discredit the power of the Holy Spirit that I know I needed as an "in the trenches" mother. I still need it. Sarah needs it too. She knows it and tries repeatedly to access it. Part of the great task of parenthood is deciding where to use logic and where to use what some people call instinct. To me, instinct is the manifestation of divine forces; unseen helpers surrounding us. Their job is not to overrule what we choose, but they travel with us, and if we allow ourselves to tap in, they can have powerful influence. These all fall under the workforce of the Holy Spirit. That's a snapshot of a whole complex spiritual panorama of how I see things.

 Joe sat in the seat behind me in the van, eating the other half of a subway sandwich we had stopped to get on the way to his recital. Hunger does not help in situations such as this. He talked like our Joe, happy and chatty, tapping the little mini-kettle drum we gave him instead of recital flowers. We applauded him for doing a hard thing. We asked him how he felt about it. We had good, healthy conversation that wasn't overstuffed with moral conclusions. 

I suspect somewhere down the road, when Joe is faced with something he feels wholly incapable of doing, he might find memories of this evening bubbling up. He may not recall the details, but something in him will confirm that he has done seemingly impossible things in the past. He has moved himself through discomfort to complete a task. He will also know that its not "all or nothing." Most times, imperfect is enough.

PALMS (2025-35)

"What is Palm Sunday?"

I raised my hand to the square as I faced our Primary kids. 

“Is it the palm of my hand?”

Most of the older kids shook their heads, raising their voices to explain that the palms were branches of palm trees waved toward Jesus the Christ as he entered Jerusalem for the last time.

We who are members of the Christian Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints have always celebrated with joy and reverence the atonement and resurrection of Jesus Christ as central to our beliefs. We consider Easter to be the holiest of holy days. 

Where I perceive we have been lacking in the past is celebrating with reverence the physical, emotional, and spiritual power of the events of the Holy Week before the pivotal resurrection. I see this changing and am grateful for it. It represents the living nature of a restored gospel.

When I was a young teenager, I wanted to wear a cross necklace, mostly to represent to myself and others that I was a Christian and devotee of Jesus as the Christ. I asked some of our local church leaders why we didn’t have crosses in our churches, and why I never saw LDS people wearing crosses. Their answers always included the concept that we celebrate the resurrection more than we honor the death on the cross.

“But is there not some way to represent the resurrection then? Doesn’t the cross represent both?”

I ended up not wearing a gold cross on a necklace.

I do believe it would have been a unifying symbol to other Christian sects if we had embraced the cross as a universal symbol of Christianity rather than appearing to snub it as less than complete.

Now I regularly wear that antique cross I inherited from my forward-thinking mother. Fewer people consider it rebellious than even a few years ago. We are making progress as a people. I join my faith with others who proclaim Jesus Christ as the maker, Lord and Master of this world.

The intelligence and mindfulness with which the Savior of mankind approached the final week of his life and his impending horrific death is worth our attention and our deepest reverential gratitude. For so long he had been compelled to hold back on his power. A God in the form and environment of a human. It had to have been so hard to hold back and not shake peoples’ shoulders shouting, “Seriously! If you only knew!”

It had to have been, for Him, a relief and a deep sorrow to finally be able to profess the reality of who he was. The release would also be the downfall. He knew the path it would take, the blasphemy he would be accused of, the shaming and the requirement to submit to power lesser than his own. I can imagine how emotionally exhausting it was, besides the actual physical suffering. This is worth the waving of my palm. And it is worth the raising of my arm to the square, exposing my palm, making covenants with Him, not just to show my reverence, but to bind me to Him and Him to me.

Yesterday, Palm Sunday, just under two thousand years after the original event, we in the Somerset Ward Primary handed palm branches to our young Primary kids. They sang, “I’m Trying to Be Like Jesus” as they stood in two rows along the pathway of our Primary Room. Some of them chose to wave their palms. Some chose to lay them in the imaginary pathway where Jesus would pass. Grown up believers pretend-witnessed that they had seen him, and knew of his divinity. We welcomed these impressionable and intelligent young beings to embrace the wholeness of Jesus the Human, who is part of Jesus the God. 

The room was set up like a courtroom. Josh Simpson was Bailiff,
Dave Connors donned his judicial robes as judge,
Libby Hansen was the attorney. 
Each witness raised their palm to the judge and swore to tell the truth.

Rebecca (Tori Simpson)
witnessed she waved a palm before Him on his triumpha,l entry.

Peter (Matt Youngs)
 witnessed that he shared supper with Him,
received a new commandment
and Jesus washed his feet.

A soldier (Daniel Groberg)
testified Peter cut off his ear and Jesus restored it,
even while they arrested him. 

Mary the Mother of Jesus (Amy Lopez)
 witnessed she had known Him from birth to death

Mary Magdalene (Alisa Larsen)
wept when she saw the stone had been rolled away

Each child was given a plastic egg (new birth).
Then each witness gave them a token to put in their egg,
with a folded paper to remind them what the tokens represent.

Primary President Trish Hutchinson
adds her modern day witness. 

Jesus Christ, in reality, sacrificed with the same kind of feelings we other humans have. He understands us because he walked our earthly path. He knows how it feels to hurt, to bleed, to rejoice, to laugh, to sing, to weep. He condescended so all of us can rise. I imagine, if He perceived it to be my love language, he would raise his arm to the square and offer me a high five with the scarred palm of his own hand.

He knows how it feels to be afraid,

He knows how it is to be deeply wounded.

He anoints our suffering with his blood and makes us holy.

If you would like a copy of our script for this 40 minute presentation, email me at cori@coriconnors.com