LOVE LETTERS

In four decades of living with Dave Connors I can only recall two times when I heard him passionately and forcefully raise his voice. Once was as a coach on the ball field, defending one of his teenage softball players. The other was in the cafeteria of the Junior High, defending his son. I had arrived late for parent/teacher conference and when I entered the room I thought I heard my husband’s voice, but it didn’t register because it was so out of character for him to be at that pitch and that volume. I must have a husband-homing device, because it didn’t look like anyone else noticed it, except the teacher, of course. I found David in a heated discussion with our son John’s English teacher. I don’t even recall his name, but he had a particularly elementary attitude about the importance of spelling in creative writing. What started out as an amenable interchange turned into a little philosophical brawl, the teacher defending the value of correct spelling, and David defending the importance of safely expressing creative thought without the hovering stick of an editor restraining the writer. I slipped over to their table and listened, proud of what I heard my husband saying. “If you insist that this talented thinker worry about being punished for misspelling, he will train himself to use safe words rather than accurate ones. We are not willing to let you do that. He is a gifted writer, and a true thinker, and we will not let you squelch that creative brilliance over something like spelling.” It’s not that we don’t appreciate the value of correct spelling in a finished piece, but when one is in the process of creating, spelling must not play a role. The editor gets to come play after the creator is done. I don’t recall how the whole thing resolved itself. I do know, however, that this boy ended up being a lover of words, and a fine wordsmith. He has the heart of a poet, with a large diverse play list perpetually spinning in his brain, and he’s one of the most creatively gifted humans I know.

Everyone has a story.

The thing about creative people, at least the ones I’ve encountered, is that in the process of owning that piece of genius bestowed on them at birth, they tend to grow a little off center, like unpruned trees that have a split trunk where one side takes over and throws things off balance. John appears pretty balanced, at least on the outside. Not that he doesn’t have his quirks, like the rest of us. He has exceptional social skills, and unlike many introverted creatives, he has real interest in other people and how they think and work. He has this way of leaning into you in a conversation, especially if you are new to him. Like a magnet, he draws people’s gifts out, as if they were little shreds of metal shavings. He is able to see their gifts, and appreciate them. So, it is no surprise that he has made a career of assembling talents and making something of the collection. His latest venture seems the perfect marriage of his talents. He has gathered together the raw materials of human communication: Letters - and wrapped them in their finest most creative dress: Art. 

Larger than life.

For months I have watched, from my distant maternal perch, this boy-turned-man rotate on the axis of the English alphabet. All through the winter and spring I made weekly stops at thrift stores, purchasing 100 pounds of books at a time, buying them by weight from the Goodwill store, and storing them on our back porch in stacks and stacks of boxes. Each time we stopped at John and Ashley’s house there was some new creation in process: a scene from Alice in Wonderland sculpted from pages of the book; a large literary arch of books reinforced with metal rebar; wood carved letter blocks. Their home was a wonderland of creative process always in the works. Kudos to Ashley for understanding the messiness of creativity. Blessings on their children for getting to swirl in that space.

John in the rainbow library.

This week we took our family to the finished product, the culmination of this creative assemblage: LOVE LETTERS. At the Gateway Mall, where Coldwater Creek and The Gap used to be, the space has been transformed into an artful intimate look at our relationship with letters. He and his friend, renowned letter artist Becca Clason, have orchestrated a symphony of letter artists from around the world, shining a spotlight on each of their particular talents, and at the same time introducing we plain old humans to the magic that is around us every day. I am reminded how magical it is for us, in this juncture of time, to have access to beauty without hardly trying. The Love Letters Museum is an aesthetically moving reminder that we are blessed with 26 pieces of raw material with which we create unlimited things of beauty, or pain, or tragedy, or grace. Like the collection of our limited number of music notes creates unlimited magic in all its forms, so do Letters. We use them daily, on paper and audibly, stringing them together in our own way, with our own distinct patterns. I came out of LOVE LETTERS with a quiet reverence for them, for the role they play in my personal life, grateful for the tool they are in my relationships. 

Gracie learns to stamp her name.

I am reminded that we are all wordsmiths, and understanding that makes me a more conscientious steward over the tools of my trade. Even more, I am moved by the brilliance and beauty of a world of artists I had not known before, whose work stirs me. I am in awe of their gifts, as they work with the holy trinity of a visual artist: the heart, the mind and the hands. Its apparent they mold their letters with love.

Click HERE to see more about Love Letters Museum: An interactive art exhibit encouraging guests of all ages to use letters, words and art to tell their story. It's only in SLC until mid-September.

My favorite people on
giant letter blocks that move.

Goofy kiddos

You can visit wonderful exotic places and never leave your couch.

Write a letter to someone you love and they will mail it for you

John and his buddy Sophie, a partner in creative crime!

Ruby slides down the pages of Alice in Wonderland.

There is a magical art gallery where artists
were invited to paint from one of their favorite
children's books. You can open some of the paintings
and peek into a tiny spaces, one of them a
replica of the room you're in.
(or, as Anna has done here, you can enter that space!)

Tiny kids in a tiny room.

In the end, there is a large paper shredder
inviting us to let go of our mistakes

Calvin makes his own button,

My brother, George,
constructs with letters.

this wonderful exhibit lets you
walk through words, literally.

Before we can construct some things,
we must first deconstruct the norm.

Watch how this changes as you walk past it.

Thank you, Uncle John.

3-14-19 FIGHT

When our daughter Annie and her husband Jordon decided to take a job promotion that would move them back to Utah from Washington, we were ecstatic. Even more amazing was their decision to purchase a house right in our hometown of Farmington. The house they chose happened to be one of my favorite homes on a sweet little culdesac just under Flag Rock at the base of the foothills in central Farmington. It is a lovely traditional home with a welcoming covered front porch where the Creer’s, the previous owners, hung American flag bunting between the tall white pillars on the 4^thof July.

The home sits comfortably on a large grassy lot with a healthy raspberry patch out back and plenty of trees to explore and climb. John and MaryAnn Creer are friends; good, kind people about our age. They raised their family in this home, and there's a lot of love in its history. When John passed away two years ago, Mary Ann moved into the city to a place that required less upkeep. That's when Annie and Jordon bought the home.

Before they closed on the house, we visited with the Creers. Their son, Mark was visiting, and we had a nice chat about the old days - growing up in the foothills of Farmington, playing little league, and going to Farmington Jr High. Mark told me then about the first time he knew of John Connors, our oldest and only son. Mark said he was in eighth or ninth grade at Farmington Junior, the same grade as our son, only they didn’t really know each other. One day Mark walked out of the school doors at the end of the school day, and as he opened the door he heard united chanting from a large crowd that had gathered in the courtyard. “Fight! Fight! Fight!” the throng shouted in unison, throbbing with testosterone pumping through adolescent veins. Mark worked his way into the outer edge of the circle to see what was happening.

Two guys shifted in and out of the center of the circle, their hands clenched in angry fists, their chests pushing forward and then retrieving. Each boy had a little band of supporters, egging them on, calling for them to go let the other guy have it. The rest of the periphery simply chanted “Fight”, curious, as humans are, to watch people hurt each other. Mark said he watched in silence. Then from the outer edge of the circle someone yelled, "Stop!" He turned and watched as a brown-haired boy wearing a tie dyed shirt and a pair of Gramicci hiking pants pushed his way through the crowd and planted himself between the two boys, his arms out against both of them, his chest firm. He turned his head back and forth, calling to both boys, speaking only to them and not to the crowd.

“Hey man, you do not have to do this. Really.” His presence broke the electric thread that buzzed between the enemies. They were, Mark said, frankly stunned that someone would jump between them in the heat of the moment. Mark said he asked who that was, because he could not see him from his vantage point, and they said, “That’s John Connors.” Mark said one of the fighters turned away, and the other followed suit. The circle surrounding them broke up and the crowd dispersed. Mark said he watched John pick up his backpack and throw it over his shoulder and walk away. No fanfare. No cheering crowd. No punches thrown. No blood, and no pride lost. Mark said from that day he has had a sort of reverence for John. He couldn’t imagine having the courage to step into that circle.

A story like that does a mama-heart good. I’m not even sure if Johnny would recall that event. But Mark did, and he said he has used that story through the years when he has taught Sunday lessons to young men and old. 

Johnny Connors has a God-given gift with people. He likes people, and he has an unusual amount of natural empathy for them. It’s what makes him a good teacher, a friend to the friendless, and a champion of the underdog.  It also breaks his heart. It’s, no doubt, what led him to a degree in Philosophy. It’s why he has taught the same group of kids at church every Sunday for the last three years, moving up with his class, because the dynamics of the individuals in that class make it hard to find willing teachers. 

John Connors is a passionate man. He feels the feels with depth, good and bad, and he gets frustrated like the rest of us. He would be the last person to tell you about stopping a fight. He would not even tell us he had been called to be an assistant to the president on his mission, a calling he held roughly half his mission in England and Wales. It was months before we finally figured it out. I'm his mom, and I don't know half of what he's accomplished. He will talk himself out of credit he deserves. Even talk others out of giving it to him. The mama bear in me thrusts her head forward and feels the claws coming out. But the cub reminds me he’s his own grown bear now, and he can take care of himself. And so, I take a deep breath and slowly lumber back to my den, hoping he will use his smarts as much as he uses his heart. 
In the end, if I were to grant any of my children a strength, it would be the one that manifests in the heart first, and then the brain. He’ll hand the goods and the glory to someone else, even when he has earned it with his own hard work. He’ll throw his figurative backpack over his shoulder and walk away with a pure heart and a clear conscience. And for that, he is rich. 
And because he is mine, so am I.

He's remarkable
(but he won't tell you that.)

My oldest and his oldest -
John and Sophie.

Team Connors.

15. WHAT MAKES HIM SO INTERESTING?

Here’s the scene: I’m at the stove in the kitchen, stirring up some grub for a crowd, and from the corner of my eye I observe the people gathered in the dining area.  Most of them know each other, but there is a smattering of odd men out…people who are unconnected to the rest.  We often invite new people to our family/friend dinner gatherings.  It keeps the air fresh and new in our house.  If the person is timid, or introverted by nature, I can almost always count on one of my family making sure they are not left alone and uncomfortable.  I do love this about my clan. 

My son, John, is particularly gifted with people.  Most people feel at ease around John, especially new people. It’s always been that way.  He has a way of perceiving people’s needs, and not flailing around to fulfill them, but quietly he enters their space and lets them know he is safe.  My classic image of John is sitting on a chair, amid a crowd of people, leaning in toward someone else, in deep, friendly conversation, a laugh and a nod punctuating now and again.

Someone asked me once what made John so interesting that everyone wanted to be his friend.  My answer:

Interesting people are interested people.

John is blessed to have a natural instinct that makes him extremely interested in people…in what makes them tick, in what they like to do, and where they have been, and where they’d like to go.  He is not playing a part; he really is interested.

Sometimes, when I’m forced to be in a place where I don’t know people, and I’m kind of intimidated, I simply remind myself that interesting people are interested. That's how conversation begins. Most people are willing to talk about themselves, if asked sincerely.  Most people, unless they are real grumps (and there are some out there…but relatively few) are willing to share some of themselves, if the person asking is sincerely interested. I think what makes John look so popular in a group is not that he knows how to flit around the way teenagers think popular people do, but that he knows how to find one person, and be interested. His gifts are not so much that he knows what to say, though he is talented in that, too.  It is that he knows how to listen.

John is particularly interested in his fabulous wife, Ashley!

My HOPE is that I remember to forget myself when I am in the company of other people, at least to consider that my opportunity to be with other humans is a treasure box waiting to be opened. My interest in what is inside that box not only makes the experience personally pleasing, the by-product may be that it makes me seem interesting too. Win/Win.

 ________________________________________

39. BAGEL

I was twenty years old and deeply in love with two fellas at BYU.  To one I gave my heart.  To the other I gave my blood. 

Fortunately, this has not been a conflict for me; loving multiple men.  One started out pretty small, and never had to challenge Dave for my affections.  That’s my Johnny, my firstborn and only son.  He owns my heart as well.

John was born when I was an undergrad student at BYU, and Dave was attending BYU Law School. We huddled as a budding family all those years ago in our little house in west Provo.  I have such sweetly sacred memories of that singular time in our lives.

Spring ahead a full generation and here we are.  A few weeks ago, within hours of the birth of baby Walter, Johnny’s fourth child, John returned to BYU as the keynote speaker at a conference in the Marriott School of Business.  Dave had a jury trial and could not attend. (Dang criminals!) But Libby, Kate and I went to hear him deliver his address.  It was a blast from the past for Libby and me to walk across the campus of BYU, back past the Harris Fine Arts Building where we had taken most of our classes, past the statue of Brigham Young and the angular Smoot Administration Building, across the parking lot to the lovely new edifice for the renowned school of business.  We waited on some leather couches in a sitting area while the conference participants finished their lunch.  I watched silently as my boy-turned-to-a-man interacted with people; students greeting him with a sense of awe, others feeling his down to earth approachability and sparring in that youthful sort of way, kind of like flirting but without so many hormones flying around.  I watched him and remembered seeing his tiny face for the first time, all those years ago, his deep brownish black eyes staring up at me.  I remembered thinking “Who are you? And who will you become, my tiny man?” Seeing him in the town where he was born…I don’t know…it just sort of felt like the closing of a circle for me.

John, as National Director of Events for The Color Run, as well as a member of the advisory board for the BYU Department of Recreation at the Marriott School of Business, was introduced with great respect.  He had spent much of the last couple days with the people in attendance, and they knew of his experience, and expertise.  Couple his knowledge and skill with his unmatched ability to relate to people and he had them, so to speak, in his pocket from the get go.

He began by projecting a photo of baby Walter up on a large screen at the front of the room. One hour old.  Beautiful Walter.  He talked about his darling family, and his years at BYU (he has a degree in Philosophy from BYU).  He told about the Color Run, about its inception as the brainchild of his friend Travis Snyder, and about the philosophies and tenets that quickly catapulted “The Happiest 5K on the Planet” into the stratosphere of events. 

Then he talked about bagels.

Well, actually, he first asked a question:

“What will you say about this when it's over?” 

About this conference, about your experience at BYU, about this address?    He asked the question, not because he wanted an answer from them.  He wanted them to know that question.  That question, basically, was what he wanted them to take away from his address.  It is what he asks himself before every event.  “What do I want people to say when they walk away from The Happiest 5K on the Planet?”

Take a look at what the COLOR RUN is about at the end of this post.  A basic component of the event is the throwing of colored cornstarch at various stations along the route.  Of course, this is not the only component that makes this particular event so popular.  There are many imitation runs that have popped up since Travis first shared his brilliant plan with Johnny at his kitchen island. Still the Color Run blows the others out of the water in success. But color, for sure, is a major component. Over 2 Million people have participated in the Color Run in the last 30 months.  That’s a lot of happy runners! John oversees all the runs in America, with event directors serving under him. 

One time they were hosting a run in Austin.  It had rained for two straight days before the event. John is not able to be at all the races, since there are often multiple races in multiple places on any given weekend.  Let me correct myself: the Color Run is not technically a race.  They do not time runners.  That, my friends, is part of what makes it a happy run.  There’s a lesson in that about what competition does to us.  Anyway, John happened to be in Austin for this particular race.  The staff begins setting up for each event around 4 am.  They have been able to, through wisdom, creativity, experience and teamwork, facilitate these giant parties in a relatively short period of time.  They set up, execute, and clean up to the pleasure of participants and the satisfaction of the cities that license them to use their parks and thoroughfares.  Somehow they have been able to get anywhere from 10,000 to 25,000 runners to pass through the start and finish lines in one single event, have a memorable time, and return the next time the Run comes to town with more friends.

So here it is 4 am in Austin.  They arrive at the venue and find the truck that is loaded with the colored powder, is mired in mud in the middle of the field where they hold their after-run concert/party.  John sets out to set up the Start Line, but tells the race director to make sure the truck gets to the color stations ASAP. He is conscious of the fact that the stewardship for directing this race lies with the race director. After a while John looks over at the field and notices the truck is still there.  He radio’s the director to take care of the truck. Just as the sun begins its ascent in the east John looks over again and sees the truck is still there.  At this point it is getting late for the color stations to have their colored cornstarch in place.  John leaves his own task to find the race director.  He finally finds him at the finish line, slicing bagels in half.  He asks what’s going on, and the director explains that a whole bagel is probably too much for each runner, so he decided to cut them.  And, noted Johnny, they were very nicely sliced.

John takes the director to the truck, which is sunken in the mud, and try as they might they cannot move it from the field.  They end up having to hand carry boxes to the stations, but not before time runs out.  Only two colors were thrown in that race, and there was a lovely panel truck smack dab in the middle of the party zone.

That director no longer works for The Color Run.

John explained, in his address to event planning students at BYU, that his objective in telling this story was to help them remember to ask the question before they start anything…any event…any relationship…anything that involves people: What do I want them to say when this is over?

“If we wanted them to say…’Hey, that Color Run has the best food of any run I’ve ever participated in!’ then we might have fulfilled our purpose.”

“Imagine the response you want…imagine what you want people to say when they walk away from your event.  Then work to make them say it.”  That’s basically what my boy taught me and a hall full of students that afternoon at BYU. I call it the bagel theory.

I have used the bagel theory in my head many times since then.  I have used it in the last month  planning gatherings of songwriters at my house, helping with a wedding and baby shower, taking a friend to birthday lunch, comforting through song at a funeral, even talking on the phone with my sister.  I use it, I should say, when I have my wits about me.  Sometimes, when I am overworked, or overtired, or overstressed, or even under confident, I catch myself figuratively "cutting bagels"…keeping myself busy with less important tasks while the important ones sit stuck in a field waiting for me to address them. When I forget to use the bagel theory I often find myself backtracking, trying to correct my mistakes, or bemoaning my failures.  But when I remember to ask ahead of time...when I have power to direct my actions rather than correct them…well I find it amazingly useful. I relieve myself from worry over things I cannot control, and I take control where I am supposed to. It doesn't make everything perfect, but it helps keep me in the right mindset for success.

As much as I know Johnny asks himself that question before events, I suspect he asks himself similar questions from the quiet of his bedside, or the solitude of his car. Maybe his newest question is this:

"What do I want Walter to say about this when it's over?"

And, since we are coming up on the holiest week of the year, tomorrow being Palm Sunday, perhaps the ultimate question to ask is “What do I want my King and Master to say when this is over?”

Click HERE if you want to know about THE COLOR RUN.
And HERE for a video.

The Color Run is eco-friendly.  And human mother friendly, as well.

John being blown away by some of his amazing Color Run team.