An Orange Song about a Milkmaid

             (Sorry for the above-seen image's awkward alignment!)

          I was six years old when I first suspected that something was up. I was a piano student. My teacher was my neighbor who lived a few streets down from me and I loved her. One day after a lesson, she sent me home to practice some right-hand-only kiddie ditty whose accompanying lyrics had something to do with a happy little milkmaid.

This was a full quarter of a century ago, yet I remember with perfect precision how it was to sit down on my home’s dark and polished rosewood piano bench, reach out to touch the ivories, and play that milkmaid song for the first time. Why is this fact of any particular consequence? In my lifetime of a piano career, I’ve played thousands of songs at least once through, and no first time has ever been as memorable as the little milkmaid song.

In and of itself, it was never that exciting to listen to. The melody was rather ordinary. In fact, it was extremely familiar; the first two identical-twin stanzas of “Good King Wenceslas” were written all over it, in the key of F major: F, F, F, G, F, E, D, C, D, C, D, E, F, F (repeated twice).

Lots of Fs in there. Here’s where I’m getting to the real point behind the milkmaid song’s impact on me. Because of the frequent recurrence of the “F” (and possibly partially because of the natural way any six-year-old piano student meticulously pounds on a keyboard in order to convince herself she’s properly not missing any of the notes) a certain color had the fighting chance to form – in not just my abstract mind, but also seemingly in my very literal body and soul. There was orange. Everywhere.

I recall initially feeling slightly weirded out by the bizarre coloration sensation. Mind you, I couldn’t physically see it with my anatomical eyes. But it was almost as though it were a tangible sheet of bright, cheddar-toned gift-wrapping crepe paper, deposited somewhere between the cornea and the intricate behind-the-scenes retinal zone where an otherwise naked eye could not reach.

Whatever minor wariness I might have held to, regarding the strange connection between the music and the inexorable colors, faded away when I realized whatever was happening did not hurt. However, as I grew older—and especially as I progressed through the successive grade levels in school—certain academic subjects had gradually become tougher and tougher for me to grasp. Perhaps I can pin a selection of those personal learning difficulties onto the theory (or, in some cases, the fact) that I should have studied better. But now, as I’m conducting my reflections, I cannot help but wonder if a decently-sized culprit propelling the problems was this kaleidoscopic neurological phenomenon that had been going on since maybe birth.

Numbers and letters. My ABCs and 123s. No, they were not hard to memorize. From what I think I can remember from my childhood is that they were easy as cake for years. Everything seemed more colorful in elementary school, and I think it helped. I think it’s intended to help. But once it was time to move on to junior high and thenceforward, the more black and white and gray it all got. And naturally so; after all, the more mature you became, the less the visible vibrancy – am I right? Muted and neutral attire in the adult professional workplace, for the win. (Unless you’re me, and your colleagues look at you each day and exclaim, “You look like springtime!” Even in the dead of gloomy winter.) Anyway, I don’t know how heavily upon the color thing I should place the blame, but my inclination to be a bit curious is strong.

I invite you to delve with me into what even the simplest aspects of literacy and mathematics have always been like for me. Just a smidgen. Just to give you a taste. As a preamble to our exploration, I shall tell you, at last, the name of the beast we are dealing with (who’s actually a pretty pleasant beast; I’ve grown quite fond of him): synesthesia. Drop that word into your Google search box, hit “Enter,” and behold the highly conspicuous definition that will appear before you: “…the production of a sense impression relating to one sense or part of the body by stimulation of another sense or part of the body.”

Purportedly there is an array of rarer and, dare I say, funkier types of synesthesia in people out there somewhere. One example would be when this guy over here watches that guy over there get pinched on the arm, and defenselessly feels his arm get pinched, too (mirror-touch). Or, when so-and-so hears the name “Jessica” and automatically tastes tuna fish (lexical-gustatory).

So even though I really dig tuna, if I had to taste it every time I heard one of the most common girl names in the book, I’d probably leave a trail of tears everywhere I went. Sad life. The varieties of synesthesia I have, however, are oftentimes very enjoyable. “Oftentimes” instead of “all the time” because occasionally they can pose challenges. Which is where the reading, writing, and arithmetic come into play.

First of all, the alphabet. When I was a kindergartener, around the same time I began piano, my teacher introduced each of the 26 English letters on its own cute and crafty poster. Whatever the letter, it was printed humongous on the page, was typically sans-serif, and was assigned its own unique color. All the posters were pinned and arranged into a perfectly horizontal line way up high where the wall met the ceiling. My classmates and I progressively memorized each vowel and consonant, in order, as the year went on. Again, age six was eons ago, but I still recollect my premier internalization of the alphabet-in-full as one of the brightest, greatest events of my life.

But the colors… The colors stayed with me. They never became severed from the letters. It’s wholly different from remembering trivial things like “that poster of the U back in kindergarten was purple,” because if the fate of the universe lay upon me, I could not tell you what color that U poster actually was. But I can tell you what color U conjures in the depths of my eyeballs now. Deep, deep, dark blue-green. And it’s always been that way. That’s the clothes it’s always wearing anytime I see it anywhere. In anything I read. The “No U-turn” sign at the intersection. The “under my umbrella-ella-ella” song when I see it listed in my iTunes library.

And the rest of the letters that dwell with the U in its home word? They each have their own eternal color, too. “Church.” When I read “church” anywhere, it’s a blast in the face of a clean-cut sequence of ROYAL BLUE!! HAZY GOLDISH-TAN!! DARK BLUE-GREEN!! NAVY BLUE!! ROYAL BLUE AGAIN!!! HAZY GOLDISH-TAN AGAIN!!!!

Yes, so this is what reading is like for me. I can’t guarantee that it’s the key reason why I’m not a fast reader (I never have been), or why I speedily develop sleepiness when I sit down on a cozy recliner to explore a novel, due to sensory overload and my brain knows not what else to do besides shut down into blissful unconsciousness. Audiobooks are currently proving to be more effective with me, because there is no distracting multicolored typography in sight. Other helpful reading methods include following along in my book as I listen to the narrator, or assuming the role of narrator myself.

Indeed, my native language in written form is a glorious rainbow, possessing far more shades than the mere basic seven. The shades and the shapes make a handsome team. Writing is a beautiful art to me, and I love the practice. But on the other hand, going back to revisit my writings is an entirely separate animal, for it draws upon the powers of an entirely separate mental muscle.

Performing mathematical exercises has always been similar to prolonged reading as far as sensory overload goes. Just as each lingual character comes with its own diverting, vivid color, so do all numerical ones. There is no difference. Here’s where I highlight the correlation between primary “See Spot Run” stories and fundamental “4+4=8” equations: since they’re so minimalistic, with as many visual complexities excluded as possible, they never were too tricky for me to wrap my mind around. My cognitive abilities and resilience increased as I grew from toddler to adolescent, from college grad to businesswoman; thus, I’ve little by little been able to handle more and more complicated issues. And so it’s not like I was doomed to be utterly inept at anything harder than basic bedrock. It just always took me a certain extra measure of effort, which remains the way I must abide sometimes.

All in all, I dub my synesthesia as a blessing and a curse. My grapheme-color synesthesia, as I mentioned before, is a beast, but it’s normally fun to navigate. And my chromesthesia (sound-to-color) is really fun to navigate. I discover new dimensions of it all the time. It helps me adore the world around me. Every timbre of every musical instrument has its own rich hue, and when you combine multiple instruments together, it’s amazing.

Every note in an octave, like that orange F from the milkmaid song, comes in a gorgeous package deal of either marigold yellow, lime green, warm soothing maroon, et cetera. Thanks to this principle, I find joy in the dazzling melodies and harmonies created by others, and the purest delight in creating and composing music of my own. (Add-in: Since I wrote and submitted this essay months ago, I've come to realize that my grapheme-color and chromesthetic realms collide when I read music to sing or play with my hands. Each note's individual appearance, when notated on the bass or treble clef, has become developed in my mind as something like a painting you'd gaze at in a museum, and over time I've memorized what each painting is supposed to look like. In piano specifically, I think this has helped my fingers to usually know exactly where to go on the keyboard, as the "paintings" pop up into view; therefore, sightreading is often a breeze... OMG have I completely lost you? Probably. Gosh, I'm sorry! My brain these days (aka all the days)...)

Miraculously, just as no two human thumbprints are the same, no two human voices I’ve ever heard in my life have been identical. Each has its own inimitable colored tone. This may not currently be fact to anyone else on earth, but it is to me, which may be all I’ll ever need – knowing it enables me to better see each of my fellow travelers on this mortal journey as someone truly special, and that’s what counts.

           Synesthesia is an interesting ride. It has its pros and cons. It’s been both handy and hindering. Most days it’s actually quite subtle. Sometimes even months will pass before I recognize again that it’s been metaphorically standing there the whole time. I’m glad I decided to document my neurological condition in such a way as this. It was beneficial to analyze, as I feel I have acquired a sturdier understanding of myself. With this account, I hope to have been able to supply the reader with an exclusive glimpse into a remarkably vibrant world that so often slips by unnoticed and invisible.

The Moment I Knew I Was Gonna Try Out For The Mormon Tabernacle Choir

The moment didn't happen in the Summer of 2011. But the commencement of the events leading up to the moment did...

Europe. In fact, I do believe it was Switzerland. I had signed up to be an adult tag-along on the Utah Ambassadors of Music (UAM) two-week tour across that wonderful continent. My younger brother was one of the high-schooler musicians. Mr. Steenblik was one of the several different choir directors, and I remember clearly that one of the songs he had the kids sing was "Nelly Bly."

My friend Katie and I were sitting one morning in the hotel dining room with Miss J (I think it was her) and Mr. Steenblik. Miss J asked Mr. Steenblik about his touring with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. The Choir had just got done with its 2011 summer tour. He talked about his experiences at the breakfast table. And, as in the Inception movie, he indirectly was telling me, "Don't think about elephants." But I started to think about elephants.

I came home from UAM tour and returned to my full-time job. My friend and coworker Alan kept verbally encouraging me, on a pretty regular basis, "When are you going to try out for the Mormon Tabernacle Choir!?"

My cousin-in-law Casey also often urged me, in those days, to audition for the Choir...

I kept mostly shrugging off their wishes for me...

For months...

Until...

Exactly five years ago, this very weekend.

It was a Saturday night. My friends Sara, Michael, Brian, and I were all on a double-date with each other. We were on our way to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir's 2012 Pioneer Day concert, which featured Welsh classical crossover guest artist Katherine Jenkins. I was excited to hear her because she often came onto my Pandora station at work and I loved it every time that happened.

Although my friends weren't per se strange people, it was a very strange double-date. On what double-date are you in a green female sedan named Esmeralda, with your "date" being the driver and you're in the passenger seat (sounds normal so far, right? just you wait);

...and the other girl is in the back seat with her "date" (still normal...but hold on);

...Sara and Michael were each other's previously-arranged official dates. Brian and I were the other pair;

...Michael and I, though we were not sitting next to each other in the car, spoke somewhat exclusively one with another in the car, goofily diagonally within the vehicle -- I awkwardly kept myself twisted to the left so I could see him and converse with him easier... aaaand I taught him the legit Gibberish language (it's a real thing, people; I didn't make it up)...

...I didn't feel bad about doing this because Sara and Brian were doing exactly the same thing, and they already liked each other anyway, so I have no clue why we four "paired ourselves off" in the way we did... #KidsAreWeird

...I mean, like, why would Brian and Sara sit next to each other at the concert? They weren't each other's dates;

...and why would I even sit next to the guy I had been talking and walking with all evening so far in the city streets of Salt Lake? Next to the guy who asked me later that night, after the show, if he could buy my JCW's food for me? He wasn't my date. Nope. There sat, at the concert, Michael and Sara, and Brian and me. Apparently we were pretty adamant about our seating arrangements.

And now, the MOMENT:

There was Katherine, up on the stage, shining like a diamond. She, being Welsh, already knew that the Choir had deep Welsh roots. So she turned around to face the Choir and asked whoever was Welsh to raise their hands.

Then she turned back to the audience and asked us to do the same. "Raise your hand if you are Welsh!" I gawked for a second. Why was I gawking? Weirdo Alison. But, in actuality, the real reason for the gawking was probably because it was signifying that the MOMENT was happening!!!

I raised my hand, far more eagerly than I would've ever thought I would. Then I put my hand back down. Then Katherine and the Choir began singing the Welsh national anthem. I was kinda sorta overcome. Overcome with an idea.

Maybe it had to be Brian I was sitting next to anyway. Maybe he was the only one in the whole wide world who could've as effectively delivered three simple words that literally changed my life forever:

I suddenly turned to him and asked, "Should I try out for MoTab?" And he replied...

"I support that."

And then there was no stopping me. Within two weeks' time from that instant, I had my application, demo CD, and bishop's recommendation all turned in. The rest is history.

29 Elements That Factor Into My Being Happy

Things I Do to Regulate My Mood at a Practically Positive Level

1) Do things that are scary but aren't particularly or necessarily dangerous (well, I guess skydiving could be considered dangerous) that could only do me good or grow me as a person. Examples:

- Trying escargot
- Auditioning for stuff

- Public speaking or performing

- Trying out for cheerleading freshman year of college (TOTALLY did not make it in, but I learned how to do new cool things)

2) Be forgiving, and seek forgiveness. Gain closure in that way; complete the circle. I think what's more uncomfortable for me to do is be the person asking for forgiveness -- not because I'm reluctant to ask because I feel I didn't do anything wrong, but because I'm afraid of how the person I (potentially) offended will react to me asking.

3) I keep my mental health balanced by keeping my social life balanced. I'm a huge introvert. Sometimes I may come across as antisocial: I've turned down offers for people to come visit me. I've turned down MANY an invitation to come do something fun -- and the sole prior engagement I had was just to be by myself for personal recharge purposes. This happens at least a couple of times a month.

4) I remember the little motto that my mother had written and hanging up at her desk in her home office: "Don't get overwhelmed; just get started." I try to remember this when I'm stressed.

5) My mother has also said to me a number of times in my growing up: "You're allowed to have one bad day." What she meant was basically to go ahead and cry and, if necessary, have a fit for one day, but buck up and hop back on the horse the very next day.

6) I program myself to: A) think the world is glorious, gorgeous, and mesmerizing; and B) believe everybody is funny. These are key elements in enabling me to easily see the good both in the world around me and in the people around me who live in the world. This is also probably why I am nearly constantly smiling or laughing.

7) I keep myself heavily trapped in the past when it comes to the music I listen to. Stuff that's old is: A) soooo much better than the "latest and greatest" hits that the hip radio stations play these days; and B) it's too excellent to be forgotten. I like to be in the elite group of the Unforgetters. (This is, of course, subjective. This is all my opinion. However, I do still think I'm totally right in this thing...)

8) Another thing about music: I keep my listening and playing/performing repertoire extremely vast and varied. On listening: I'd go absolutely NUTS in a horrible way if I stuck only to a tiny, tiny selection of genres. Only listen to classical and/or show tunes? I'd probably die. Too much rock (rock's my favorite)? I'd get too uptight. I require and crave quickly-alternating genres popping in and out on my device in my car, in my ears, wherever.

9) In fact, sometimes I've had either too much noise or too much music during the day or hitherto during the week, and so the next time I hop into my car, I drive in complete silence. Too much music up until present point and I also might flip on a podcast instead.

10) No matter the temperature, I MUST be outside for at least a few brief minutes every day. Sometimes that can be very hard to get done. #CrazyLifeHappens

11) I'll get very worked up over something sometimes, and all I'll really want is for someone to just sit there and listen to my explosive expressions of angry angst at the universe (episodes of this happen only about once a year -- only a microscopic "lucky few" have ever seen me like this). It helps a LOT. Thanks to every friend who's ever done that for me. I, in turn, love to do that for other people. Do you need to detonate at the universe? Talk to me. I'll lend you my ears.

12) "Angry angst at the universe." I very often do not get mad at people in a personal way. I always feel like most of the time it's not any person's real fault. I often just blame it on "the universe," which helps me keep a clean conscience.

13) If nothing else present in the room, I always make sure I leave my bed tidied, if not totally made.

14) When times get hard, especially in certain ways, I remember there are Heavenly Parents, Jesus Christ the Savior, and a marvelous-beyond-imagination Third Act of the three-act play of our eternal lives.

15) Counting blessings. In thick times and thin. For me, counting blessings isn't a to-do item on a list to check off. It's not structured. I find it happens most often when I encounter a person and, after my experience with them, I quietly say to myself, internally, "I just really like that person and I'm glad they're in my life."

16) Remember that it is always proper for a person to never be too old for cartoons. Example: I assert that it will always be acceptable for me to always find "TROGDOR THE BURNINATOR" to be funny, 'til my dying day:

17) The assortment of clothing in my closet is colorful.

18) Be a shameless geek or nerd about things.

19) I ask guys on dates sometimes. I find that doing so helps keep my dating life usually quite fun, whether there are lulls between guys initiating dates or no such lulls. (Dating life lulls happen -- let's be real here.)

20) A dream of mine is to become a happily married woman, which largely would mean becoming a woman who finds joy in helping her husband be a very happy man -- and hopefully consequently, in whatever time the Lord sees fit -- become a mother who finds joy in raising children. All of this is an amazing and extremely worthy wish to have, but it is not the only amazing and worthy wish to have. What else is amazing and worthy is to become the best PERSON I can be -- to grow myself through talent-development and skill-polishing. So that I may have order, peace, and joy in my own life, AND to bless the lives of others, especially a family of my own whom I may have either in this life or the one to come.

21) I enjoy being a listener, and I enjoy believing that most people are trying sincerely to be the best they can be. I think this helps me gain a solider understanding of people individually. Every once in a while I'll receive a person into my life who takes me a little longer to understand. I find that if I serve them with a humble heart, or if I get an opportunity to serve with them, my understanding and love for them deepen.

22) When I was 22 (oh HEYYY! this is the 22nd item in this list! #MeantToBe) I lived in Washington, D.C., with scores of fellow single people who, in my eyes, were much older, wiser, and smarter than me. I felt inadequate and out-of-place, but I consciously "faked it 'til I made it," every single day. But no matter how insecure I felt, the elder others treated me with immense respect and as if I was the classiest person they knew. I really appreciated that. I think I probably continue to do that same sort of "fake it" thing in nowaday settings in which I feel insecure, and I think most of the time it pays off. For me, the motto seems to be, "Pretend to know what you're doing until it becomes so that you DO know what you're doing." I perhaps have seen this naturally come into play when I've had a new job or especially when I'm in oh-so frequent situations where I have to fake being fearlessly outgoing in certain social settings, when what's actually going on inside is that I'm an introverted basket case.

23) There's a list of things I am regularly determined to do as a member of my faith -- activities that are official-sanctioned by my church which, if I do them, will help me feel a stronger connection with my Heavenly Father, my Savior, and the Holy Ghost. And it's TRUE! If I do do these things, they do help me feel whole, and more "at one" with those divine People.

24) Any chance I get, I pet a docile animal. Bird, kitten, puppy, horse, goat, garter snake, tortoise, horned lizard...ummm...stingray? Dogs are my favorite. I adore my sisters' dogs. I sometimes ask passerby strangers if I can pet their dogs. I wish I were in the stage of my life where I could have a dog... I miss every dog I ever had in my life. My most recent dogs died over 10 years ago, and I still miss them like crazy every day of my life. I used the word "life" so much in this #24... Sorry... But not that sorry.

25) I feel so cheerfully alive whenever I have a conversation with a small child about something. They're hilarious. Their dreams are so lofty and big and beautiful. They're starting to discover, delve into, and pursue talents that'll likely change the world. I also get a kick out of bantering with young teens and preteens, when they're starting to shift their focus on things like Does this boy like me????? Or talking aspirations with youth who are about to graduate from high school and move on to bigger and better things... SO much fun!

26) Eating healthy and exercising! Though I sometimes fall short of the absolute-perfect lifestyle, in that regard, I do very much love to choose nutritious, I love to be active, and I'm sometimes thought of as "weird" because I loooove choosing the stairs that lead up to the front doors of a city building, when there's an infinitely more convenient walking ramp to take instead.

27) I try to keep up with current events, and abide by a standard that urges me to assign my attention fairly to both urgent news and uplifting news. I sense that uplifting news oftentimes gets the shaft; therefore, I like to try giving it the attention it often deserves, while still making sure I'm a concerned citizen as I ought to be.

28) Sometimes the best way to either calm or elevate my spirits is to write music. Sometimes the best way to comprehend or release my built-up, massive emotions is to write words.

29) Chocolate-covered strawberries. People playing with my hair. C.S. Lewis books on CD. Harry Potter. Simple pleasures.

Loathing the Treadmill Less: Meticulously March to Your Music

Okay, so I'm not saying you have to necessarily appear as though you're marching like a military (wo)man. But I do have this idea for you to toy around with if you'd like, especially if you have a certain treadmill currently in your life that you're building a bond with.

A lot of people don't like treadmills. I don't mind them. I do love my runs outside, but when my neighborhood has a community exercise room that strangely nobody seems to use except me (an introvert's dream!), I take advantage! Today, during my workout, I took the initiative to compile a list of songs that played on my device in shuffled formation, and match the pace of my feet with each and every song's individual tempo. I adjusted the speed on the treadmill for each song that came on, and it was a ton of fun to see literally how fast each tempo of each song was. Here are the 10 songs from today's experiment, in slowest-to-fastest order:

1. "Just a Girl" ~ No Doubt ~ 3.2mph

2. "One Night in Bangkok" ~  Murray Head ~ 3.3mph

3. "Dream Lover" ~ Bobby Darin ~ 3.6mph (also a fun one to cha-cha dance to, in case you're always looking for someone to cha-cha with you)

4. "God Only Knows" ~  The Beach Boys ~ 3.7mph

5. "No One Needs to Know" ~ Shania Twain ~ 4.0mph

HALFWAY DONE WITH THE LIST.

NOW TIME TO SPEED THINGS UP A TINY BIT.

(However, the interesting bit is that some of these next songs wouldn't necessarily be ones that your brain would initially hear and go, "Wow, that song is RAPID.")

6. "The Jazz Police" ~ Gordon Goodwin's Big Phat Band ~ 5.1mph

7. "Promises" ~ Eric Clapton ~ 5.2mph

8. "Long Black Train" ~ Josh Turner ~ 5.3mph

9. "Take the Long Way Home" ~ Supertramp ~ 5.4mph (this live version was taken a little faster, I think)

10. "The Dirty Boogie" ~  The Brian Setzer Orchestra ~ 6.3mph for running, 3.15mph for walking (another reason I love Brian Setzer is because he & I share the same birthday)

In conclusion, making the speed of your feet perfectly line up with the speed of your music can be really fun to do, and if you're looking for a way to help yourself enjoy your treadmill more, try this. For walking speeds (those within the 3-point-something-mile-an-hour range), I recommend adjusting your treadmill's incline mechanism, so it can enhance your workout even more.

Be safe and have a fun run!

The Recirculated Waters of Righteousness

"And when my father saw that the waters of the river emptied into the fountain of the Red Sea, he spake unto Laman, saying: O that thou mightest be like unto this river, continually running into the fountain of all righteousness!" (1 Nephi 2:9)

I was reading Moroni chapter 7 last night. A lot of people who've read and who love the Book of Mormon will tell you that Moroni 7 is one of their favorite chapters ever. A lot of that lot of people will tell you that they especially love its latter verses. Rightly so -- those verses are beautiful and powerful, indeed. My life, too, has been positively impacted by those particular words, probably more than I can even say.

But last night, my mind was turned suddenly and unexpectedly by the tiniest verse -- number 7 -- towards the beginning of the chapter:

"For behold, it is not counted unto him for righteousness."

Why was I stopped in my tracks? The word "counted." The natural context of the sentence suggests that there's someone else who does the "counting." When a person "offereth a gift" to another person, there is a designated third party in charge of deeming whether that good work "counts" or not.

Moroni 7:12 -- five verses later -- says, "Wherefore, all things which are good cometh of God..."

In Matthew chapter 25, where it describes a shepherd dividing his sheep from the goats, it says:

"Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink? When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed thee? Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee?

"And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."

In my mind (and I think it may have been just last night that I first consciously noticed this dawn upon me), these two individual sections of scripture very clearly explain that God is where goodness and righteousness originate, and is where goodness and righteousness return.

On LDS.org I typed into the Search Scriptures search box, "God eternal round," and four specific verses in both the Book of Mormon and the Doctrine & Covenants appeared onto the screen: Alma 37:12, D&C 35:1, D&C 3:2, and 1 Nephi 10:19. All four declare that God's course "is one eternal round." Because of what I was thinking and feeling last night as I was reading my scriptures, I am led to believe that "God's course is one eternal round" in more than one way.

My imagination has come up with a visual. I walk around Temple Square in Salt Lake City, and I notice how the water features have little signs poking up that say "RECIRCULATED WATER." Each water feature that runs via recirculated water has what's called a reservoir, from whence water gets pumped and later gets returned. Same location for both. I now like to think of the Lord as the great reservoir of an ever-cycling fountain of the absolute sweetest recirculating water of life and love. Visualizing all this helps me think about Him in this way in a pretty literal sense. It's pretty fun.

So how do we know if a good work we've done actually worked or not? How do we know if God "made it count" or not? If you flip back to Moroni 7, and scroll your eyes down to the classic final lines, you'll read in verse 47 that "charity is the pure love of Christ." And then if you hop back over to the Holy Bible --> New Testament --> 1 Corinthians 13, right off the bat you'll read how a person can basically do all things that are wonderful in nature, but if they do those things without the crucial underlying love of Christ within them, none of it really matters.

I firmly believe the principle to be true, that our works, if they are done without true charity, do not profit us anything (1 Cor. 13:3). Hopefully my previous words in this post help a little to give reason as to why I believe in this way. It is because I believe God is the reservoir of the recirculated-water feature of righteousness, ultimately and eternally; thus, I believe He has every right to accept back into His reservoir whatever incoming material that He will. He is the most proper judge of all.

As for the reason why our good works are to flow back up into God's reservoir, I don't necessarily think it's because God cannot function in His water-sending if we fail to send Him ours. That's where I see one slight, potential incongruity in the analogy between this spiritual recirculated-water feature and a tangible earthly one, such as the ones on Temple Square. God is the actual omnipotent source of all light, truth, and goodness. He is also more perfect than we can comprehend in the arena of selfless love for us, His children. Therefore, I believe the why behind our good works flowing into His store, is because of His love for us, His desire for us to have the happiest future possible, which is with Him in His kingdom forever.

I didn't think of this last night during my reading, but I thought of it later on today -- regarding the why: One angle at which to view this spiritual recirculated-water feature is to see our good works (e.g. sincere prayers of gratitude to Heavenly Father, keeping the commandments, exercising forgiveness, kindly deeds towards others) as our water traveling up to God, and when He gives His stamps of approval, the way He manifests that is by sending down His water to us in the form of appreciative blessings, which we may know we have received by way of our sensing of the gentle Holy Ghost touching our hearts, which hopefully will help us want to continue on in this exciting, rewarding, and joyful cycle. By remaining on course in this cycle, we are on the wonderful track towards becoming as clean and holy as He, and fit to dwell with Him for always. This is where Moroni 7:48 (the final verse of the chapter) comes into play:

"Wherefore, my beloved brethren, pray unto the Father with all the energy of heart, that ye may be filled with this love, which he hath bestowed upon all who are true followers of his Son, Jesus Christ; that ye may become the sons of God; that when he shall appear we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is; that we may have this hope; that we may be purified even as he is pure. Amen."

"This love" is charity, which is the "pure love of Christ," as was mentioned before. I like how, in modern times, the word "charity" is often synonymous with "service," which can often be synonymous with "good works." The charity with which we give of ourselves is meant to be given with...charity! Our charity, when we serve our fellowmen, is received by our God at the same time it is received by earthly brothers and sisters whom we serve. This is the kind of water God gives us through His constant mercy, guidance, and gifts. One of such gifts is the agency we've been given to learn what this kind of water is, how to obtain it, and how to turn it around and humbly offer it back to God. We can learn all this through personal revelation and through the Lord's prophets and servants, past and present.

In closing, I'd like to jump back to the word "righteousness" one more time. I tried my hand at the Search Scriptures search box again by writing in "Lord of righteousness," and approximately a gazillion results came up, and I looked through all of them, and my favorite thing I saw was what I shall now call one of my new favorite scriptures:

"In his days Judah shall be saved, and Israel shall dwell safely: and this is his name whereby he shall be called, THE LORD OUR RIGHTEOUSNESS." (Jeremiah 23:6)

(Yup. That really is in all caps. Right there in the book itself. Awesome, no? YES.)

The Lord -- our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ -- glorifies and takes after His Father, and is what real righteousness really is! He is righteousness, and has provided us with a perfect pattern to follow in order to become as He is and eventually live with Him, our Heavenly Parents, and others in our lives whom we hold dearest and closest to our hearts.

Carmen Sandiego and the Book of Mormon's Captivating Qualities

When I was little I was enthralled with Carmen Sandiego everything. I watched the Carmen Sandiego trivia game show on TV, because I felt it was a fun way to test my knowledge on the stuff I was learning in school at the time. My parents got me a computer game called "Carmen Sandiego Word Detective" probably because they sensed that English was my favorite subject (and I still love it), and definitely because they knew I loved Carmen Sandiego.

(Tidbit: My adoration for Carmen Sandiego even prolonged clear into my senior year of college, when I was taking a clogging dance class, and for our final exam we had to split up into groups to choreograph our own 2-minute dance routines for a big end-of-semester recital. In a hushed tone I had calmly suggested to my group one day that the Carmen Sandiego theme song could be a cool idea for our routine. To my pleasant surprise, everybody loved the idea and we ran with it. After almost a decade, I still own my clogs.)

"Carmen Sandiego Word Detective" is a play on the Tower of Babel event in ancient world history, and the result of peoples' languages becoming jumbled. It's been a really, really long time since I've played my Carmen Sandiego game, but I think the point of it was to circumnavigate the globe by stopping at country after country to find where the missing pieces of the once-organized English language blew away to, and stitch the language back together by figuring out how the proper grammar, syntax, and spelling all have to be, and by doing so -- mission completion upon mission completion -- you eventually save the English-speaking/-writing world from permanent obliteration. The countries/missions I remember the best are when I had to go inside Nefertiti's dangerous cobra-infested tomb in Egypt, and way up high into a lofty jungle treehouse in Tanzania to solve some sort of crazy puzzle before a beautiful yet deranged explorer/safari lady with long brown curly hair and yellow clothes barged in on you with her whips made of . . . more snakes.

At any rate, I hadn't thought about this game in such a long time, until just a few nights ago. I was studying from my Book of Mormon. As I'm sure I've mentioned before in this blog, I love listening to the LDS.org narrator as he reads the scriptures to me. Being read to is my fav. I try to listen to at least one chapter per night, and at the end of each chapter, I write a quick little something about what the chapter made me think of.

Some of my earliest recollections in life are living-room scenes of a tiny version of Alison having family scripture study with her mom, dad, brothers, and sisters. Those of us who were old enough to read all took turns reading aloud. Even the itty-bitty baby brothers who were like...five or something...took turns sounding out the words of the verses. (Wow, I had never written down this memory before. This is tugging at my heartstrings quite a bit.)

Even way back then, the Ether chapters (which are located towards the close of the full Book of Mormon) were extra special to me. As a little Primary kid in church, whenever we'd discuss the adventures of Jared and his brother, I'd always unfailingly find myself feeling so fascinated.

But a few nights ago -- last week -- I was listening to the guy read to me, and upon his wrapping up of Ether chapter 3, I quickly assessed myself because I sensed I was curiously and suddenly feeling something pretty big: in this moment I was realizing that it now was not just my mind and heart that were fascinated by what I had just heard. It was more like......ALL the rest of me was fascinated. It's like, even my BONES and my blood...my hair and hands and feet... my eyes, my senses... my future and my past... the full-monty-of-me of every moment, every frame, of the duration of my existence -- from start to finish -- was fascinated. And convinced. Convinced with literally every.single.fiber. of my being, that what I had just heard from this portion of the Book of Mormon -- and thus all the portions of the Book of Mormon -- was honest-to-goodness truth. (This most recent General Conference also made me feel this way, in the moment, which actually had never happened to me before. Haha, so is this whole post basically just coming across as enigmatic, or what? Sorry.)

Even now, nearly a week later, I still can't stop thinking about the Ether chapters -- particularly #1-3, and especially #3. It started with mention of the "great tower" and how the brother of Jared (c. 2200 B.C.) prayed to the Lord that He wouldn't mess up his and his family's and his friends' words, so that they could all continue understanding each other.

And then the next chapter talked about Nimrod, and so I looked up "Nimrod" to remind myself whom that referred to, and I re-learned he was a king and a great hunter with whom the Tower of Babel is heavily associated.

And, naturally, I thought about "Carmen Sandiego Word Detective" and the mighty, complex, and destructive Babble-On Machine.

I am fixed upon the idea that the Tower of Babel story is one that possibly most of the world knows about. I am sure that hundreds of millions, and likely billions, of earth's population knows about it. But I wouldn't be the first to tell you that the Book of Mormon is FULL of accounts of ancient peoples which not "possibly" but definitely most of the world doesn't know about. But here we come to these specific chapters in Ether, and we land upon none other than...drum roll please...the Tower of Babel. Lately I've been pausing now and then to ponder just how astoundingly amazing I think it is that the Book of Mormon contains an actual, very personal record of real people who were THERE. There at the tower. There, experiencing very real fears and anxiety regarding the possibility that their vital modes of communication could be irreversibly confounded, unless by God Himself.

And a lot of opposers of the Book of Mormon say that a young, foolish Joseph Smith made the whole thing up. That it's nothing but a compilation of fibs and fables. But, oh my goodness, do you even realize how much insane and insanely-longwinded effort would have to go into writing a fictitious book *that* lengthy and detailed, from scratch? When you're only 22 years old, and you're not that educated with a hearty academic background, and the World Wide Web would not come into existence until 162 years later?

There are 142 years between Joseph's day and my day. I hold a high school diploma, a college degree, and a decade of full-time businesswoman life under my belt. And I have virtual endless access to libraries and internet tools. And I didn't even really know who Nimrod was until like four days ago. And so I not only highly doubt, but know for certain, that Joseph did not "make up" the Book of Mormon. The writings already existed. They had to have. They are the compelling journalings (not a word, but it is now) of real people who already existed. They are strong testimonies of people who already lived. These people personally testified that what they were writing was true, and every time I read phrases like "these sayings are true," a powerful witness tells me in my soul that they are, indeed, true. And mine is not the last attestation among Book of Mormon-readers you'll ever talk to -- millions of others have received the exact same witness.

AH! So anyway, let me hurry up and explain to you a little more in depth how Ether chapter 3 made me feel the other night. Like I said, the narrator had just finished up reading it to me. And I zoomed so fast down memory lane to the era when my parents were training me to pray all by myself. When I was really little, either my dad or mom would come downstairs to my room and kneel beside me at my bedside and guide me in what words I could say to my Father in Heaven, until I felt confident to do it on my own. Comparable to how a more experienced biker takes time to train you to detach yourself from training wheels on your bicycle.

My bed: it was phenomenal. My grandfather built it. I still don't know anyone else in all the world who's ever had a bed like mine. It was like a bunk bed, but for only one person (the top bunk), and it was built into the wall. Or built out of the wall. It was like...stairs made up of wall, that led upward to more wall material that was in the form of bed. Um, wow. Hard to describe in words. Do you maybe get the picture? Talk to me in person someday, and I'll perhaps be able to explain better with my hands, hahaha.

After prayer time was done, I'd sit on my bed -- sometimes just in the middle of the day on a Saturday or after school on a weekday -- and I'd just sit on the mattress and talk to Jesus. I had this photo of Him pinned to my wall above where my head lay at night......

......and I'd just sit there and talk to Him, out loud, imagining that He wasn't just a picture, but that He was someone in-the-flesh I was literally sitting next to. I did this dozens of times. Audibly it always just sounded like a unilateral conversation, but under the layers of what the human senses can detect, He was talking back to me. In my heart, I knew He was listening. I knew it. He was fully aware there was a gangly, tall-for-her-age, dark-eyed, dark-haired, quirky adolescent girl sitting atop her bed, talking to a 5x7" paper image of Himself, and He listened to every word she had to say. I've told no one in the universe about these chats I had with Him in my youth. Not until now. You, reader, are in the first audience that I've ever told. :)

In Ether 3, this very, very, very same Jesus Christ is the Christ who visited with the brother of Jared nearly 4,000 years ago. The brother of Jared spent who knows how many tedious hours of moltening (I guess, in scriptural context, would be a word) sixteen stones out of a larger rock, crafting those stones to be "white and clear, even as transparent glass," and I'm sure the process would have been full of much spiritual reflection along with the meticulous handiwork.

A necessary journey was soon to be made across the raging sea for Jared and his loved ones, and the type of vessel that would bring them all across the sea was pretty much a fully-enclosed barge, and there were to be several of them, and none of them could have windows, thus making them be very dark inside, and this sentence is full of comma splices, and so the brother of Jared presented these sixteen (16) stones before the Lord and said:

"....touch these stones, O Lord, with thy finger, and prepare them that they may shine forth in darkness; and they shall shine forth unto us in the vessels which we have prepared, that we may have light while we shall cross the sea.... Behold, O Lord, thou canst do this. We know that thou art able to show forth great power, which looks small unto the understanding of men."

And so the Lord, Jesus Christ -- the very same one who sat with me on my bed and talked with me and listened to my sometimes-hour-long schpiels about whatever -- reached out His hand (first with only His hand visible) and touched each stone with His finger, which made the stones all light up, so that they could essentially serve as extremely awesome night-lights inside the pitch-dark barges.

And the brother of Jared (okay, so his name was Mahonri Moriancumer, but since nobody can say that name five times fast, we stick to calling him "the brother of Jared" hehe) flipped out and fell over! Like, for real fell over! And then every single verse from this point onward is now basically my favorite verse in all scripturedom, including these two:

"And the Lord saw that the brother of Jared had fallen to the earth; and the Lord said unto him: Arise, why hast thou fallen? ....And he saith unto the Lord: I saw the finger of the Lord, and I feared lest he should smite me; for I knew not that the Lord had flesh and blood."

And what cracks me up here is how the brother of Jared knew for sure that the Lord had power to do honestly anything, which of course would include the power to annihilate anything, anyone, or anyplace, without having to provide to man any visual of lifting a finger. And yet, here comes His finger into the brother of Jared's view, and all of the sudden he is deathly afraid. Does this scenario reflect how we, in our day, sometimes are? Do we fear the arm of flesh, and the concrete things we can see with our eyes, more than we fear He who is omnipotent and whom we cannot see with our eyes? I dunno. It's just so interesting to me!

Anyway, so what's so fantastically beautiful to me is the part where Jesus Christ shows His whole self unto the brother of Jared, due to his great faith and firm knowledge that Christ is "a God of truth" who cannot lie.

Elsewhere in the Book of Mormon, pages and pages prior to this, it talks about people hearing a voice that pierces the soul straight to the very center. When I heard my LDS.org narrator read these next three verses, my soul felt similarly pierced:

"Behold, I am he who was prepared from the foundation of the world to redeem my people. Behold, I am Jesus Christ. I am the Father and the Son. In me shall all mankind have life, and that eternally, even they who shall believe on my name; and they shall become my sons and my daughters.

"And never have I showed myself unto man whom I have created, for never has man believed in me as thou hast. Seest thou that ye are created after mine own image? Yea, even all men were created in the beginning after mine own image.

"Behold, this body, which ye now behold, is the body of my spirit; and man have I created after the body of my spirit; and even as I appear unto thee to be in the spirit will I appear unto my people in the flesh."

YOU GUYS. This was really happening! This really happened! This was Jesus Christ who, for the first time in all the history of this planet, had never before revealed His physical self -- in person -- to any other person on the planet. The brother of Jared was the first, in this awesome, awesome setting.

This was Jesus Christ essentially saying, "I really am going to come to this world to redeem mankind, and this is what I will look like." (And now, in my mind, almost every Christmas carol about the Savior somehow ties perfectly into this.)

And it was this same Jesus Christ whose portrait hung on the wall above my bunk bed in the basement of the house I grew up in. The same Jesus who is my personal close friend, whom I have always counted as a dear friend since before I can remember. I talk with Him. He talks with me and walks with me. I pray to Heavenly Father in Jesus' name. His Father is my Father.

I just really, really love that all of this is true, and I'm so THANKFUL that all of this is true!

The end. This may have been my longest blog post yet. I've been sitting here for houuuuurrrrsssss typing!