Soap Box: Mormon Women drive me crazy. I think they are a little like Jewish women, except without a trace of Yiddish accent—which is sad, because the accent adds charm to the signature guilt, guilt being one of commonalities here, guilt and cooking. And obsession with marriage. The difference is (may be) that the stereotypical Jewish mother is ace at engendering guilt in other people, while the LDS women are busy beating themselves with it.
It is Sunday, and I am preparing my lesson about temples, and this is the first thought that comes into my head. Sad, I know. The culprit was this beautiful little passage of scripture from Sec 109 of the D&C:
7 And as all have not faith, seek ye diligently and teach one another words of wisdom; yea, seek ye out of the best books words of wisdom, seek learning even by study and also by faith;
8 Organize yourselves; prepare every needful thing, and establish a house, even a house of prayer, a house of fasting, a house of faith, a house of learning, a house of glory, a house of order, a house of God;
9 That your incomings may be in the name of the Lord, that your outgoings may be in the name of the Lord, that all your salutations may be in the name of the Lord, with uplifted hands unto the Most High—
Leave it to LDS women to scalpel out that middle section, which was directed to the builders of the first of our temples, and aim it directly at themselves. “Our homes,” someone will inevitably point out in Relief Society, “should be governed by this counsel.” She will say it with solemnity, and everybody else will nod with the same solemnity, in spite of the fact that the entire room has just pretty much assumed fetal position.
Let me explain temples as I see them: they are the focal point of our entire belief system. These are lovely, quiet, spotless buildings where people come to shut out the world and seek spiritual peace and clarity of mind. In them, we go about the business of making family relationships eternal – so that marriages and parent/child connections, and thus aunt and uncle and cousin and grandfolks to all degree, will still have connectivity after death. While I cannot explain the physics of this to you, I do believe there is physics involved (remember that string theory explains a TON to me about religion), but because we are the bug in the pool (see the metaphors of Richard P Feynman), we have trouble catching a vision of the mechanics of the universe. As far as I am concerned, the very fact that I am is a mystery. But in the simple lovely magnificence of the temple, I can come as close to actually hearing myself think (part of the mystery) as I ever will.
In short, this is a very holy, very focused place where grown-ups are searching for spiritual clarity and connection, and where this focus is bolstered by the simple, humble and quiet ritual that establishes the connections. Peace. Safety. Order. Quiet.
And this reminds you instantly of home, right?
Let me explain homes as I see them: all about kids. All about earth life. All about learning and creating and making mistakes. Three meals a day, at least. The temple has a cafeteria for the benefit of the volunteers who sometimes serve in several hour shifts. This is manned by grown-ups for grown-ups. My kitchen is hardly manned by anybody, but is used liberally by all. It used to be spotless back when my business was keeping small people from dying in droves; I needed something to keep my hands busy while my eye was on them. We eat there and talk there and sing there. Not a pit stop in the day. Now, it is anything but spotless: clean enough to keep us healthy and safe, but not spotless.
A home, as I see it, doesn’t want to be white and holy—it wants to be The Velveteen Rabbit, brown and green and blue and red and yellow—colors of grass and sky and dirt – of earth. Things are planted here, tended and harvested. There is elbow grease expended here. Result: dust, dirty clothes, closets in mild-to-wild disarray. A home wants to be used hard – not irresponsibly, not destructively, but warmly, actively, parents playing with children, arguing with them, guiding them. Kind of like a sculptor’s studio, not built to be clean, but to be functional and safe while the sculptor argues with the stone.
There are dirty dishes in the temple, but they’re out of sight, the realm of the kitchen guys. In a house, it’s hard to hide that stuff, because the people who function there ARE the kitchen guys. If the mother and father are spending time with the kids – teaching to read, or to fold clothes and do laundry, or how to run interpersonal relationships – or playing Candyland seventy two hair-pulling times in a row – where is the shame in a sink full of dishes? (yeah-yeah, I know – and my kids DID do the dishes.) To think that a house HAS to be spotless? It’s like wearing underwear and expecting it to remain antiseptic at the same time.
Please do not misunderstand—for some women (many? some? a few? most?) keeping a house in spit-shine is a joy, a pleasure, a hobby, a gift. There’s no shame in having things in order, either – as long as the children come first. The people come first. It’s the guilt I’m addressing, the distress at dis-order.
Let me explain entropy as I see it: when I first came across the second law of thermodynamics, it was stated simply that in nature, order—over time and without constant maintenance (human intervention) —will inevitably break down into disorder (chaos). I didn’t like this “law.” I didn’t like it at all. For one thing, the subjective suggestion here is that what is clean and nice and productive must eventually break down into what must be seen as a big fat unproductive mess. And that’s not the way I saw the thing at all.
A farmer comes into the plain (plane – as in geometric) and forces “order” on it. Remember that this plain was a balanced, self-regulated eco system – plants, animals – all balanced and old and functional as dirt. The farmer sets up neat fences, plows up the native plants, plants things NOT native, which require a water source, which means ditches and gates and a lot of sweat. Builds a barn in which to house animals that are NOT native and need feed and tending and defending from the outside world, installs electricity and sewer and roads; all of which need to be tended and maintained . And none of this farmer-created system works together – each part has to be individually manually operated. Then something happens and the farmer goes away, and nobody comes to take over. Eventually, the house decays, the sewers collapse and are filled with dirt, the crops won’t show up after a few years, the grass takes over, the animals leave or die – eventually, all that’s left of the farmer are the scars. And the original system settles back into – order.
Again, don’t misunderstand: I LOVE farmers and crops and food in the grocery store and electricity. People were born to manipulate their environment. People, in my belief, are the point of the planet being here. But the rest of this is a wholly different discussion – my point is that “order” is in the eye of the beholder. To my, the more stable and productive system ends up being the self-perpetuating chaos, which—as science lately will tell you—has its own – to us – inscrutable patterns and rules. Isn’t it like human beings to call what they don’t understand and can’t control “chaos”?
So this is my point: “order” is relative. It doesn’t necessarily indicate clothes ironed and folded neatly into drawers. Maybe it does indicate children loving and respecting parents who are productive, honest—but foremost, loving and wise, realistic but fun. And here, I have run out of steam, and words. And your patience. Now I have to go read other people’s blogs before church, because keeping up with family and friends is part of the Sabbath, and because I love it, and isn’t it nice when those two things go together? Please – as entropy once again claims me, draw what conclusions you can from any of this. Bundle them up and take them home.
They’re free.
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