We're All Innkeepers

Happy Holidays, Friends!

And just like that we're one day away from Christmas 2018. That means we're also one day plus a week away from 2019. It's become a tradition for me at the end of the year to write letters and blogs that draw some sort of parallel between our lives and this beloved holiday, and since I only have one other post to show for the past twelve months, here I am! Thanks for reading. :)

So, let's talk about this innkeeper guy... you may have heard of him. Mary and Joseph ride up to his inn, looking for a place to rest because Mary is super pregnant, and they've traveled all the way from Nazareth to pay their taxes. (Thanks, Caesar Augustus.)

Anyway, the inn is full, so the innkeeper sends them away, and we all cringe because you know that's the beginning of the worst Yelp review ever. At the same time, though, do we blame him? Isn't it supposed to be our goal to create something so popular, you sell out your inventory? Wasn't the innkeeper just an entrepreneur living by the capitalistic ideals of supply and demand?

I guess that's the reason why, with our very busy lives, I don't feel like using the innkeeper's story to "guiltify" us into taking on even more. Instead, I feel this story begs the question, "If our inns are full, what are they full of and why?"

If we operate our lives so completely sold out that we have no room for love, charity, or your run of the mill, life changing miracle, is it possible our "inns" might be emptier than we think?

What I'm trying to say is this year I found joy in making room as well as giving it away. I said "no" to a few things (maintaining a regularly updated blog, for example?), and that comes with consequences. But the good news is it made room for some stuff I tend to turn away, namely, "Creative Freedom, Conversation, and Community."

The even better news is this time of year has the magic to remind me how much room there can be, so there's no way I'd turn away the opportunity to share some love and say to each of you, "Thank you for making room for me."

With love, gratitude, and a few sugar cookies,

Jeffrey Scott Parsons

COMFY

One of the great dichotomies of modern life is...

 ...graduating from college with a performing arts degree, so you have to use words like "dichotomies" to make the degree feel worth it.

Kidding.

One of the true, great dichotomies of modern life is we're constantly being told and sold how to make our lives more comfortable while the most important moments in our lives remain anything but. Sounds like a good reason to tap dance, right? I thought so too. ;)

COMFY is a one man show I've created that, using all my favorite buzz words, is the most authentic, vulnerable, and rewarding project I've ever worked on. I'm not going to tell you specifically why because you gotta come to the show. Don't trust me? Here's a quote about my recent Los Angeles debut.

“Parsons is so sincere and so sweet and lovable that his time onstage is totally mesmerizing. Don’t miss him wherever he appears!” -Don Grigware, BroadwayWorld.com

Also, I sing and dance my butt off. Need more convincing? I'm now going to list a few other reasons why I'm proud of COMFY...

1. It is unlike any other cabaret show I've ever seen, using dance and multimedia in a fresh, new way.
2. It uses something very old school, like the "song and dance man" tradition I love so much, to explore the complexities of my very modern life.
3. It's funny!
4. It is written to be enjoyed by a diverse crowd of backgrounds, beliefs, and (gasp) political leanings, and by the end, I believe we all feel a lot closer.

I'm bringing the show to a town near you! Of course, I first gotta know where your towns might be... If you would like to see COMFY, drop me a line. I'll get my tap shoes there as soon as possible.

xoxo

JSP

(video by Mike Patton)

That One Time I Thought Like That Guy Running for President

I grew up in a town filled mostly with good "blue collar" folk. Many families made livings in construction or farming. My grandpa ran a successful livestock business for 50 years. My best friend's family had a dairy. Others had family fruit stands supplied by their own orchards. It was the community in which I was born and raised, and, despite my love of sequined clogging costumes, I was always proud of it.

After I graduated high school, however, my hometown started changing. Many of the farmers grew old and sold their land to real estate developers. Soon, there were far fewer orchards, and in their places, suburban communities with ironic names like, "The Orchards."

I was annoyed.

Some of it was because I have a general anger problem toward people cutting down trees. (I blame Ferngully.) But in a more general sense, I was upset because I didn't like how mowing down the farmland was changing my town.

I didn't like that now when it rained, the highway flooded because the mountainside had pavement instead of soil to absorb the moisture.

I didn't like that with all the new homes on the city water line, we could no longer wash the dishes and take a shower at the same time.

I didn't like that instead of the blue collar families I mentioned earlier, I heard more people at church speak about how "inspired" they were by poor people.

But maybe most of all, I didn't like that the great influx of citizens had no idea who my family was. My grandpa helped build the church many of them attended. My grandma was a member of the Daughters of the Utah Pioneers. My mom played the organ at every funeral, ever. My father served on town councils and committees responsible for flood prevention. Not to mention I performed at the 4^th of July pageant every year, people!!

I saw so much history around me, and none of the newbies seemed to care one bit that without it, they probably wouldn't have moved there.

----

Upon witnessing the recent political platforms spreading across these fine United States, I decided to take a long, hard look at what I find so displeasing in the way many have begun talking about immigrants or people different than themselves. Once I identified it, I looked within to see if I have any ounce of that myself. What I found was what you just read.

The hard truth is when change is thrust upon you, especially in an area where you feel ownership, like where you live, feelings of powerlessness and frustration arise from dealing with the consequences of decisions you had nothing to do with.

Similar feelings may result when parents announce baby #2 is on the way, or when children are forced to share their toys with others.

The problem is we're adults.

While my resentment about my hometown was real, it certainly wasn't meant to be literal. I don't want to keep people from populating the city I grew up in simply because I was there first. That's childish. If anything, my seniority only proves I can understand why others would want to experience it for themselves.

Yes, that means there's change, and change isn't easy. There are cultural shifts and new problems to solve. But that's when words like "compromise" and "working together" come into play. You know, the kind of stuff we learned in kindergarten.

As adults, we make these words happen by electing leaders to help facilitate them. That's why I hope my hometown officials can bring its citizens together, both old and new, to compassionately ensure a high quality of life for everyone. Did my hometown grow too big too fast? Maybe. But for heaven's sake, nobody needs to ban or kick anyone out, especially based on race, religion, or sexuality.

Comparatively speaking, I hope as a country we can elect leaders that first recognize the complex and nuanced issue of when and how individuals become US citizens. We can then hold those leaders accountable to creating a pathway that ensures everyone the high quality of life that has always made this country great.

It's not as easy as we'd prefer, but most things after preschool haven't been.

It was surprisingly difficult for to me admit my biased feelings toward the new neighbors, but I believe I've handled them like an adult. I invite everyone in this homeland I love so dearly to do the same.

The Year I Was Grateful for the Homeless

The Blanket

The first interaction I ever had with someone living with homelessness happened when I was ten years old. My grandparents and I were walking through downtown Salt Lake City after seeing a touring production of The Secret Garden. (Musical Theatre Nerds, feel free to do the math...)

As we strolled back to the parking garage, I noticed a man in rags parked on the sidewalk looking around as if he were lost. To my young self, it was like seeing a tattered old blanket. Not your blanket, of course. Not the one from childhood that smells the way it did when it brought you unfathomable security. He was like someone else's blanket. One you don't have a connection to and wonder how on earth it got so dirty.

I had never seen anyone like this man before, so I stared, thinking perhaps the longer I looked the more I'd understand. Suddenly, the man jutted his arm toward me and mumbled something in an injured tone. I jumped! Did he know me? Was he trying to take me? Did he need help?

My grandparents stepped in and anonymously shook their heads at him. I was grateful. They could see I was afraid, and they took control of the situation. As we continued walking, my grandma leaned over and said in a gentle tone, "Just keep your head down. If you don't look at them, they won't talk to you."

That singular experience was essentially my philosophy on homelessness for almost 15 years. Don't get me wrong, I still volunteered at food banks; I organized food and clothing drives; I gave money to panhandlers. But even though I worked to treat my fellow beings with compassion, there was still a separation defined by the discomfort of that first encounter. "We're all human, but sometimes it's less scary to keep your head down."

The Bridge

I finally recognized that quietly hidden pathology the moment I left it behind. In my 20's, I was cast in a production of the musical Rent. Guess what I played? A homeless person.

As an actor, it's not effective to judge your character, so I didn't even think twice about playing the role. On the contrary, I was excited for the challenge. It never even occurred to me that doing so would have real life implications.

Then one day I was walking around Los Angeles and saw a woman on the streets. Immediately I thought "Oh, that's me." And that's when I realized my reaction hadn't been "Poor lady." Gone was the separation. As make believe as my acting in a musical was, it had built a bridge that connected me to this woman's experience. We were the same. From that day on, I started looking at everyone suffering from homelessness in the eye...and smiling.

9 out of 10

Fast forward to 2014, at which point I was preparing the next update for my charity website www.theroadbackhome.com. Some of you might know that besides bringing awareness to different causes and charitable organizations, we encourage the idea that everyone deserves to feel "at home" in their lives.

Well obviously with a mission statement like that, I knew at some point we'd have to tackle homelessness, but figuring out how to approach the issue on a public platform had always been intimidating.

Having no real answers as to how to proceed, this year I started talking to other people. As often as I could, I brought up homelessness in conversations to hear what others had to say. And in this very unscientific social experiment, I found that 9 out of 10 people I spoke with began their side of the conversation with doubt.

They told me about dishonest panhandlers they'd met or heard of, addicts that just want money for drugs, homeless people wearing nice watches, individuals who basically want to be homeless anyway, and so on...

Despite my empathy toward the discomfort of this issue, I was still very surprised by these findings. 9 out of 10 means the public roughly perceives 90% of the homeless population to be either completely hopeless or simply outside their social responsibilities. 90%?! That's impossible, and quite frankly, a little bit silly.

This caused me to once again look at my own views on homelessness and wonder, "How did we become so skewed?

Un-Skew You

I'm going to be brutally honest here. In our philanthropic efforts, it's a lot easier to surround ourselves with causes that lend themselves to beauty: the smile of a sick child, the beautification of a city park, the education of our youth.

But there's very little beauty in homelessness. It's one of the few nightmares in life that actually looks as bad as it feels.

And that's when it hit me. We're not all skewed, horrible people. We just want to feel better about a very ugly problem! That's why many of us convince ourselves homeless people somehow deserve their circumstances. That's why many of us selflessly give money to people on the side of the freeway exit. Unfortunately, neither of these things do anything to solve the real problem.

That's why I started the #whatishomecampaign. It was time to take a different look at how we define "home," and subsequently "homeless"

If I could sum up the incredible experience I had during this year's #whatishomecampaign, I'd break it down into three main points:

1. Homeless people are on Facebook.  Think you don't know somebody that's dealt with homelessness? Think again. How about somebody that's moved in with family members because it was their only choice? Transitional Homelessness makes up the biggest percentage of the homeless population, while "skid row" or Chronic Homelessness makes up the smallest.
2. We can end Homelessness.  There are fantastic organizations thinking outside the box to not only stop the growing Homeless crisis, but eradicate it altogether. Check out my favorite: Community Solutions
3. Homelessness is beautiful.  Sounds strange, I know, but we must find the beauty in things we truly want to change. Otherwise, the change we make is usually superficial, and only makes us feel better temporarily. The truth is Hope is found in Homelessness, therefore it's beautiful.

The New Year

This year I'm grateful for the homeless. It's a journey that started a long time ago, and I'm proud to say I'm leaving 2014 with more than just a new perspective.  In many ways I feel free. I'm at peace with the discomfort I've perpetually tried to soothe since childhood. I welcome 2015 with a full tank of hope, compassion, and knowledge that with my help (and hopefully yours) things will change.

Check out the 2014 #whatishomecampaign on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and at www.theroadbackhome.com

Leave Your Mark

A week or so ago, I packed up a rental car with some clothes, a fully loaded iPod, and a box of Claritin, and I drove to my motherland... also known as my mother's house in Utah.

It had been a few years since I'd visited the old Beehive State. It'd been even longer since I'd been there without snow- which is why I brought the Claritin. For the first time in at least five years, I toured our old farm property, side stepping cow pies and trying to remember how the irrigation system worked.

But while walking past one of my grandpa's old sheds, I suddenly got memory smacked. I knelt down and cleared away the dirt to see if my memory was accurate, and sure enough...

When I was little, my grandpa, cousin, brother, and I poured this cement that helped, among other things, to keep rodents from tunneling into the shed. As partial payment, and in keeping with tradition, Grandpa wrote our names in the cement before it dried. I always felt like such a celebrity when he did that. Seeing my name immortalized in a batch of quick dry satisfied some deep desire I had to be like the stars that kinda did the same thing in Hollywood.

It's funny, though, seeing the memories of your past through the eyes of an adult. Looking down at my name in that cement, I wasn't seeing a childhood thrill anymore. Instead, I was seeing an extension of everything around me. 

That farm! Its fences and sheds, the gate systems, everything down to its very foundation was planted by the hands of those that came before me. People who, alive and not, are still around when I see their handiwork. What surprised me, though, was when I saw my own name in the cement, I realized I'm still around there too.

Even though my grandpa is gone, he is still all over that farm. And as an adult now striving in my own way to leave something of worth to this world, I feel like we met that day. I finally realized what he was teaching me. With the precious time we have on Earth, together we can leave our mark. Surely every life is important enough to leave this place a little better than we found it.

As it turns out, I don't need to write my name in the cement at Grauman's Chinese Theatre. I'm a farm boy, so that's already been taken care of.

Thanks Gramps.

CATS at San Diego Musical Theatre

If you had asked me three months ago to vote for the musical most unlikely to appear on my resume, I would have said Cats. It's true. I would have pictured myself playing Effie White in Dreamgirls before wearing a kitty unitard.

It's not because I don't like Cats. I remember seeing it with my family when I was in the 5th grade. I don't recall a lot of details from that production, partially because I had failed to bring my new prescription eyewear, and I spent most of the evening stealing my Mom's off her head. I apparently enjoyed myself, though, because I convinced my dad to buy me a Cats t-shirt as well as the double cassette cast album.

I listened to those cassettes a lot in my basement, re-imagining the cat choreography. I learned very quickly, though, that a lot of theatre people didn't like the show. I didn't understand why. It was just about cats. Many criticized it for the lack of plot, but I always figured that had more to do with their expectations of what they thought the show should be, rather than what it was.

Ten years later, however, I too began rolling my eyes when Cats was still on Broadway, and some of my favorite shows couldn't stay open long enough for me to see them. Those eye rolls continued a few years later when I managed to see three different productions of Cats in the space of six months. (Thank you working theatre friends.) By that point, I had decided I probably would never do the show.

Was I developing a Cats allergy? No. Simply put, I had weighed the pros and cons, and the whole thing looked like too much work! The makeup, the wigs, the movement that makes your joints quiver with fear... It just didn't seem worth it!

So spoiler alert, I'm doing a production of Cats. How? Well, I went to an audition, and much to my surprise, I had a lot of fun.

There is a specificity to this show that is very addicting. At first it's daunting to look at yourself in a mirror and think, "So... I'm a cat? I guess I'm a cat." But then the music, the choreography, the ensemble nature of the show really begins to "cat-ivate" you, and before you know it, you're immersed. Believe me, no one is more surprised than this guy.

But that's not all. To me, Cats isn't just about cats anymore. And of course it's not! T.S. Eliot was a pretty intelligent man. When we look closely, his poems that make up the material for the musical carry a lot of themes.

In "The Naming of Cats," we learn that a cat must have three different names: one that the family uses, one that the cats call each other, and a third that nobody knows except for the cat that bears it.

"If you notice a cat in profound meditation, the answer I tell you is always the same. Their mind is caught up in the rapt contemplation of the thought of the thought of the thought of his name."

What better way to teach the sacred nature of honoring who you truly are than through this creature that is infamously both lovable and fiercely independent? Cats aren't needy because they don't like you, Eliot teaches us, rather they don't need your validation to know who they are.

I think it's this moment in the show that we can start learning from Cats. And if we can learn from the kitties, then we can start to see ourselves in them, too.

So come out and see Cats at San Diego Musical Theatre! Here's hoping it will be a "Memory" that will have at least nine lives...

CATS at San Diego Musical Theatre

March 22nd - April 6th

www.sdmt.org

Tony Night: the Holy of Holies

Let me take you back to a time before WiFi, before Amazon, before YouTube, before pretty much every saving grace that currently satisfies the needs of theatre nerds everywhere...

It was 1994.

It was the year I discovered the conduit through which I could travel beyond my small town realities and bask in the light of my Broadway musical dreams...

It was the Tony Awards.

Now I had no idea what the Tony Awards were, but I casually found it, tuned in and ended up nearly wetting myself.  There, on my downstairs television, was actual live footage of that year's Best Musical nominee Beauty and the Beast.  I was floored.  Up until that point, the Broadway production of Beauty and the Beast was something that only existed on the Original Cast Album that my parents bought for me at the Disney Store two hours away.

You can understand my frustration, then, when that evening the Best Musical award went to Stephen Sondheim's Passion, a show I was highly unimpressed with because of the two nudey-patooties they showed singing in a bed.  As far as my pre pubescent self was concerned, they were using sex to buy a Tony Award, and I wasn't falling for it!  (Cut to a decade later when I wrote an entire college paper at BYU dedicated to loving that show, but I digress...)

The only other things I remember from that first Tonys viewing were a redhead from the revival of Damn Yankees belting out "Shoeless Joe from Hannibal MO," and the look on my father's face when I correctly predicted that Diana Rigg would win for portraying the title role in Medea.  Said the young JSP: "Come on Dad.  I mean, it's Medea."

Thus began the creation of my most important Sunday of the year besides Easter.  And even then, Tony Night is basically a religious experience, so I never felt bad.

Every year I instructed my family not to interrupt me during the Tonys because I had to record it on the VCR with controller in hand to avoid commercial breaks.  This was essential to the Tony viewing process since I'd be re-watching the broadcast countless times before the following year.

This continued even when I was serving as an LDS missionary.  My mom stepped in and vicariously watched the show for me in 2001 and 2002 since I was not able to watch them myself.  She not only recorded them, but took copious notes on their proceedings and sent them to me in far away west Texas.

And now today I still watch the Tony Awards.  I admit it's a little different, and that's ok.  I have opinions now.  I've worked with some of the people nominated or performing, and I get more excited for them than I do for myself.  In general, I don't care nearly as much about awards anymore, but I do love celebrating Theatre.  Tony Night continues to be one of the only opportunities America gets to view one of the great traditions that we have as a nation: Musical Theatre... also known as the best two words in the English language. (That's right Julian Marsh, I'm talking to you.)

So from a true theatre nerd to all those out there that might feel the same, Happy Tony Night!  

May you forever keep it holy.  :)

Presents: A Holiday Greeting

Presents: A Holiday Greeting

by You-Know-Who

"Presents!!"

If I didn't shout it out loud then I certainly did on the inside.

How could I not when the presents bearing my name at our annual family Christmas Eve party were just sitting under the tree waiting to be opened?  I tried desperately to distract myself, but the tree kept winking and blinking at me in mockery, as though it knew what was sitting beneath its branches.  Thank goodness my choreographed holiday piece had been performed earlier in the evening, or all that waiting could have turned ugly.

It was only because opening presents made me feel special.  In fact, my whole demeanor was surprisingly non materialistic.  I didn't understand how much the presents cost, but I did know every one of them reminded me that I was remembered.  And that, I suppose, is what always made the wait worthwhile.

"Present!"

If I don't shout it out loud then I certainly do on the inside.

Whether I'm focusing on what I didn't do in an audition, or replaying what I just said to a Target cashier, somehow snapping myself back into the present always saves me from drowning in my own thoughts.

But why would I need to bring myself back to where I already am?  Is it somehow more comfortable to dwell on the past than live in the present?  Maybe so.  The past has already happened, which can make it easier to focus on, less daunting even.  But the gift of the present is that it IS a present, which means I'll never know what's in store until I open it.

"Presence."

I rarely shout it out loud, but I certainly do on the inside.

When I long to connect with that which is greater than myself, I raise my eyes or bow my head and desire nothing more than Presence.  A reminder of who I am and where I come from, it's a Presence whose love is infinite, gratitude eternal, and peace divine.  It's why my family's tree was twinkiling in the first place, and how I can continually unwrap each new moment I'm given.

It's a Presence that's the best Present any Present can give.

Happy Holidays to you and yours!

Jeffrey Scott Parsons

Key Lime Pie

My first experience with Key Lime Pie was the happiest time of my life...or was it just at the happiest place on Earth?

I remember I was in Epcot Center at the Walt Disney World Resort in Florida, eating a big lunch with my family that, now looking back on it, probably cost more than my entrance pass.  After finishing that meal and declaring I couldn't possibly eat one more bite, my mom graciously suggested I get some Key Lime Pie for dessert.  And though I wasn't quite sure if I'd get it down, I once again fell victim to my weakness of saying "no" to free food.

Now I don't know if it was because some pixie dust had found its way into this particular piece of pie, or because we were in Florida, home of Key West and key limes, but when I took my first bite, I was in heaven!  I had never tasted anything so light and delicious.  It was like I was eating nothing at all, and yet my taste buds were singing the "Hallelujah Chorus."

From then on, I was hooked.  Apparently everyone else was too because it seemed like my grandma started bringing her own Key Lime Pies to a lot more Sunday Dinners.  They were never quite like that first one, but they were the next best thing.  In fact, her Key Lime Pie recipe became the new standard.  If it wasn't Disney's, then it better be Grandma North's.

Bemini Key Lime Pie

1 can (14 oz) sweetened condensed milk
1 pkg (8 oz) cream cheese softened
1/2 to 3/4 c key lime juice
1/2 t vanilla
1 9" graham cracker pie crust
Whipped cream for topping

Place milk, cream cheese and lim juice in blender or food processor.  Process on low speed until smooth.  Add vanilla. Pour into graham cracker crust.  Chill in frig until set 3-4 hours. Top with whipped cream.

When I recently got a hold of Grandma's recipe, I was surprised by its title, "Bemini Key Lime Pie."  I decided to figure out what it means and where the recipe originally came from.  As it turns out, "Bemini" is not a word.  The Bimini Islands, however, are located in the Bahamas and are famous for...you guessed it: Key Lime Pie.

Despite the unfortunate typo, I have not changed the way I feel about this family tradition.  In fact, I've decided to keep "Bemini" as a hallmark of the recipe's origins.  You see, I'm afraid there's much more Bemini in this Key Lime Pie than Bimini.  Sweetened condensed milk, cream cheese, and a graham cracker crust are not exactly the most exotic ingredients, but what it lacks in native authenticity is made up in just plain deliciousness.

This pie, unlike it's Epcot predecessor, does not feel like you're eating nothing.  It's creamy like a cheesecake and tangy like a key lime.  It's also cold and refreshing, and most importantly, doesn't require you to use the oven on a hot day.

So give Grandma's Bemini Key Lime Pie a try.  It may just turn out to be the family vacation you've been missing.

Custard Pie

I have a crystal clear memory from my childhood of the whole family loading into our great, white Suburban and driving to a local "greasy spoon" called Peach City for ice cream.  I remember seeing my little feet on the linoleum floor and looking up at the menu above the cash register, trying to decide what flavor I should order.

"What's Custard?" I asked my dad.  He immediately made a very non-grown up "Eeeeewww" face that I rarely ever saw.  In fact, there are only a few foods that I can remember my dad not liking: liver & onions, tuna casserole, and in that moment, Custard, even as an ice cream flavor.

But just the other day, I was looking through a book of my grandma's old recipes, and I stumbled upon one for Custard Pie.  I decided it was time.  I owed it to my adult self to finally give Custard a try.  Here was the result:

Looks good, right?  Nice flaky crust, caramelized filling...

...well, it tasted like mucous with a hint of nutmeg.  Which is why I have decided, with all due respect to my amazing grandma, to name this recipe, "Booger Pie."

I am not one to complain about the texture of food.  In fact, I tend to think "texture" people can be a little annoying.  (It's just gelatin, people, get over it!)  But Booger Pie was an extreme case.  It actually reminded me of trying the traditional Mexican dish "Menudo" while on my mission in Texas.  And that involved cow intestine.

So, after not being able to finish even one piece of this thing, I would like to take the opportunity to give some props to my dad.  For when he stuck his tongue out like a three year old and wrinkled his nose at the very mention of Custard, it turns out he had a point.  I love you, Dad.  And I don't love Booger Pie.

Making Up Time

"It all comes down to Physics, you see."

Like a young Jedi knight piecing together the wisdom from Yoda's peculiar syntax, I would often hear my grandpa use this phrase and wonder how a simple cattleman had become such a proponent of this particular science.

Regardless of how, "It all comes down to Physics, you see" was one of the most popular sayings he used. (Right up there with the always-helpful 1^st and 2^nd rules of working with cows, "Shut the Gate!") So by the time I took Physics during my junior year of High School, I was somewhat disappointed by the general lack of urgency I felt in the classroom.

In fact, the only thing I remember from that class was a lively debate between the teacher and students over whether or not you could "make up time." The students debated that you could, citing the example of driving too slow for part of a journey, and then making up for it later by driving too fast.

The point I believe the teacher was trying to make, and I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt here, is that it is physically impossible to make up time, not figuratively.

This principle came to mind the other day when I got a little overwhelmed by how much I want to do in my life in contrast to how little time I have to get it done. Where, for example, was the time to learn French!? Certainly there could be a way to "make up time."

I started by examining the time I spend in my car. I usually drive for at least an hour a day, so maybe I could use that time more effectively. Perhaps I could be better at filling those drives with a proper balance of music listening, podcast playing, and "hand-free" communicating. Then again, the purpose of those drives is to safely take my body from points A to B, so it's probably better to focus on that.

Then I thought about my showers. If I could be in there a little less, maybe I could save some water and a few minutes. But the truth is I get really good ideas in the shower. In fact, the idea to write this experience down came to me in the shower.

So then I got more frustrated, which made me feel like complaining about it, and that desire to complain led me to think about all the time I spend complaining, which then ultimately made me want to complain to someone about complaining!

I mean, doesn't it just seem like a colossal waste of time? Complaining, I mean. I know venting can be healthy, and funny, and often times informative, but it rarely changes anything.

So what if I could add up all the time I spend complaining every day, whether it's online, or on the phone, or in person? Even if it just totaled up to 10 minutes a day, that would be over an hour a week, about 4.6 hours a month, and 2.5 days a year! Parlez-vous Francais, anyone?

You know, Isaac Newton's Third Law of Motion states that when a force acts from one object to another, there is an equal force acting back on the original object. So if you're pulling on a rope, technically that rope is pulling back.

That law is also a pretty effective way to look at how we spend our time. If we use our time and energy to complain about something, then that "something" is technically complaining back! And doesn’t that sound exhausting!?

So while frustration and discouragement come to all, and there's no need to feel guilty when they do, it's nice to know that we don't have to complain. If there's something we'd rather do instead, we can do that! Then we won't have to "make up time" for it later.

I guess that means Grandpa was right. It all comes down to Physics, after all.

I Like Ironing

Yes, you read the title correctly. I like ironing.

My mom says I inherited it from my dad. Early on in their marriage, he made it clear that he ironed his shirts in a very specific way, so she decided it was just easier to let him do it himself.

As for me, I started ironing as a form of teenage rebellion. I know, I know, not exactly the most popular outlet for adolescent angst, but I was embarrassed that my mother did my laundry. So to declare my personal independence, I decided there and then that I would wash and iron my own clothes. That'd show her!

I soon found that I actually enjoyed ironing. It was strangely gratifying for me to see a shirt that was once a wrinkled mess steamed to perfection. And everyone at home knew it.

On Sunday mornings, my little sister would take advantage of my weekly ironing station by storming into the kitchen ten minutes before we had to leave for church with mascara and sleep smudged halfway down her face. She'd hurl a dress at me, and yell "thank you" as she ran into the bathroom to brush her teeth. This became such a tradition that when it came time for me to go to college, my little sisters gave me a matching iron and ironing board to send me on my way.

Even more amazing than these ironing themed graduation gifts, however, is the fact that while my family knows that I like to appear wrinkle-free, I know they love me even when I'm not.

Showing people your "wrinkles" can be a little scary sometimes, especially when those people are the ones you love the most. That fear can often create loneliness so terrifying that it shakes the very foundation of your personal safety. But no matter how much ironing you may do to avoid them, wrinkles are a part of life.

We all live with a fair share of proverbial seat belt marks on newly ironed dress shirts. Sure, the wrinkles may not seem ideal and may even threaten our idea of perfection, but we all must eventually trust that life would be far less lived if the seat belts weren't there at all. And if some people can't or refuse to understand that, then "home" must be the place where they do.

As I continue to hear stories of teenage suicide back in my homeland, I can't stress enough how vital it is to have a home where every family member is valued and loved, no matter how wrinkled they may seem. There is no excuse for it, and there is no substitute.

Every life has value, dear friends, so please, let us value every life.

Place Valentines Here ->

I'm not a huge fan of Valentine's Day candy. JuJu Hearts and Cinnamon Lips aside, I believe the more delightful confectionary holidays are later in the year. The real reason I enjoy Valentine's Day is because of the valentines themselves, or maybe more accurately, their receptacles.

Do you remember making valentine boxes back in Elementary School? So much fun! Sometimes they were shoeboxes wrapped in tissue paper; other times they were elaborately themed works of art, but either way, their purpose was the same: to collect valentines from your classmates.

While the most intricate valentine container I ever constructed was a robot with heart eyes, my older sister was legendary in our family for her 6^th grade masterpiece.

The infamous "Valentine Pig" was created in the same way you'd make a piñata: with a big balloon, newspaper strips, and a pasty glue mixture. Once it dried, Big Sis painted it pink, cut a paper towel tube into hooves and a snout, and finished it off by adding a curly tail and some of those googly eyes from craft stores. It was, as I remember it, the coolest valentine receptacle of my childhood. It was also pretty ahead of its time seeing as gourmet shops now sell chocolate bars with bacon pieces.

In addition to these scholastic creations, my family also made individual valentine envelopes to hang on our bedroom doors. Every sibling and parent created and decorated a valentine envelope that was inspected daily for special deliveries...which, now that I think about it, was probably the beginning of my need to obsessively check my email.

But more importantly, these Valentine's Day memories were also the beginnings of a very essential life lesson. Each of us needs a "valentine box" because we all need to receive the love of others. If not, then how on earth can anybody give it away?

That's what this day is all about for me: reminding us to be a little bit more open to love in our lives. And mediocre candy aside, what's so bad about that?

Track 10- That One Song with All the Words

I will say this about scholastic life: without it, I’d have no frame of reference to organize my childhood. If you were to ask me, for example, what I was like at seven years old, I’d have nothing to share. If you asked me what I was like in the 2^nd grade, however, I would easily recall my obsession with counting loose change, and a particular recess spent discussing the film 9 to 5 with my teacher.

For that very reason, the following story begins in the following way:

At some point during the 8^th grade, I was asked to be a part of a two day-long seminar designed to create Oprah-like “aha” moments for young people. Even though affirmative action was in full swing to ensure a diverse peer group for the seminar, I managed to squeeze my way in as one of the nice, preppy white kids. Also along for the ride were the “creative” kids (boys with long hair, girls with short hair), the “athletic” kids (football players who already drank), and the “ethnic” kids (Catholics).

On the first day of the retreat, we were split up into small groups and together participated in various visualization exercises. The following day, we were all bused to a frozen tundra where we played team-building activities in the snow. All in all, I’ve never believed that balancing on an icy 2X4 will help you go to college, but I did end up learning two very valuable lessons over the two days.

Lesson #1- Winter gloves are useless. All you can do while wearing them is pee your pants.

OK, that one doesn’t count.

Real Lesson #1- I am grateful for my family. I heard a lot of stories from kids who had it so much harder than I ever did growing up, and I will never lose sight of that reality.

Lesson #2- Your word is the only thing you have. Every time the seminar leader introduced an activity to us, she would establish a set of rules to go with it. We were then required to choose to abide by those rules in order to participate. As the activity proceeded, any rule breaking was met with the her stern voice simply calling out from behind a knitted scarf, “Keep your word.”

I’ve thought about that a lot since then. Even now, as I’ve been to other sorts of seminars in my adult life, that one principle appears over and over again. Keep your word. It’s all you have.

When you strip everything away, the way you look, the way you make a living, the people with whom you surround yourself, what’s left? Your truth. And the greatest living representation of that truth is your word.

I wish we valued our words more. Not just the air tight ones that are printed on a contract, but the living, breathing words that are formed in a far more personal place and then shared, so that others may receive them. Simple phrases like, “Thank you.” “I’m sorry.” “I love you.” “R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what you mean to me.”

Imagine, if you will, a world where words mean more. Where every merited apology is immediately accepted because there’s no reason to doubt its sincerity. Or how about a world where people keep the law simply because they say they will? Funny enough, this hypothetical world would be filled with all the same words as we have now. The change would happen, however, through the people that use them.

I guess that means Ghandi's right…again. “Be the change you want to see in the world.” And while you're at it, keep your word.

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Track 09- The Power Ballad

Have you ever filled out those surveys that companies give you after you’ve paid for their products? They kind of look like this...kind of.
“Thank you for giving us your money! Now that you’ve done us a HUGE favor by taking inventory off our hands, please take some more of your time to fill out an online survey that will allow us to send you emails for the rest of your life.”
With this perspective you'd think I’d choose to refrain from participating in said surveys, but being the American consumer that I am, the promise of a 10% off coupon in exchange for my time always proves too tempting to resist. Therefore, with head held high, and junk email folder full, I confess that I am a "Survey Taker."
As an experienced Survey Taker, I have recognized many of the similarities and differences in survey technologies. For example, while they all differ in time duration, taking anywhere from five to twenty minutes to complete, most of the surveys usually share the following question and subsequent scenario:
“On a scale from 1 to 10 (10 being Extremely Satisfied and 1 being Extremely Dissatisfied) please rate your overall experience.”
At this point, I typically take way too much time deciding on my answer. “What is a 10?” “Would I recognize a 10 if I saw it?” “WILL I EVER BE SATISFIED!?” When I finally start breathing again, however, I remind myself that there can be no wrong answer. I am, after all, just a statistic. So, I click on 8. Then I change it to 9 because I don't want to be mean.
The surveying process continues in this same fashion until finally, after all my hard work, I receive that illustrious message:
“Click to receive your coupon.”
And I do.
The coupon is printed, and I go on with my day feeling confident that if I return to the store within the next 60 days, and I probably won’t, I will be able to elude sales tax.
So why do companies go through the hassle of convincing people like me to take these surveys when they know full well I could possibly write a blog about it? They do it as a way to understand the current experience that their customers are having with the company. Then, after the results are in, the people in power make the necessary changes to ensure the company is running exactly how they want it to.
Which then leads me to ponder, “What if our lives had surveys?” “What kinds of questions would we have to answer?” Maybe one like this:
“On a scale from 1 to 100 (100 being the most important, and 1 being the least important) please rate the different persons, places, things, and ideas in your life according to their respective importance.”
Seems simple enough. I rate my highest priorities: family, health, home, faith… And then fill in the rest: work, thai food, Project Runway…
“Now on a scale from 1 to 100 (100 being the most powerful, and 1 being the least powerful) please rate the different persons, places, things and ideas in your life according to their respective power.”
Interesting. You would think it would just be the same list, right? And yet, so often, my “personal health” is competing with “chocolate.” “Family” is threatened by the power of my “cell phone." And “laughter” and “love” are battling their most powerful nemesis, “stress."
The results of my make believe survey remind me of one of the greatest lessons that I continually learn in my life. “Things are only as powerful as the power you give them.”
Priorities cannot be powerful by themselves. Neither can cell phones. They can all be important, but they can’t be powerful. It's up to us to decide. It is our decision alone that gives others the power to make us feel a certain way. It is up to us to determine the true power of our words. The concept may seem overly simple, but the fact is it's true.
We are the CEOs of our lives. If we don’t like the results of our surveys, that’s okay. It’s not a summary of who we are. It’s just a summary of our current experience. And with those survey results, we, as the ones in power, can oversee the changes that will make us exactly who we want to be.
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Track 05- The Love Song

Love becomes a cliché in life when you don’t have it. And I’ve got it. I’ve got love by the spoonfuls! It shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone, especially my family. We all started at a very young age to develop this kind of love and devotion. And the result? I love dessert.

It’s a simple love, really, without statutes or limitations. I love all kinds of desserts. I believe ice cream should be it’s own food group. Cookies are epic. And brownies—well, you don’t even need to make ‘em from scratch. Give me a box of Duncan Hines, and I am good to go!

Now I used to believe that this sincere affixation was actually a “highly sophisticated palette,” developed throughout my youth— kind of like wine tasting, but for a white LDS kid. That theory was shattered the moment I realized sprinkling refined sugar on morning bowls of already sweetened Life cereal was not as sophisticated as I thought.

Still, that hasn’t prevented me from now learning, as a mature adult, to not only respect the importance of “rich and chocolatey,” but also the appeal of “light and sweet.” I can enjoy “hot and crispy” while appreciating “cool and creamy.” I can justify both “mild” and “tangy,” while making a separate case for both “ripe” and “tart.” And of course, I’m always ready for seasonal favorites…

Back home, the month of September always marked the peak of peach season. And the peak of peach season always marked the annual return of homemade peach ice cream to the Parsons household. Every year, as summer started winding down, Dad would dust off the old ice cream maker from the downstairs storage room and place it outside on the back steps. It had to be outside. As yummy as that ice cream was, the mechanical grating and scraping required to get it to that point was way too much to keep indoors.

In fact, the sound of the electric ice cream maker was downright noise pollution. It was louder than the buzz of the big dehydrator we used to make apricot fruit leather, and more drawn out that the squeal of the food processor that assisted us in preparing jam. Comparatively speaking, it was most like the sound of my little sister’s rock polisher from the 4^th grade. That geological equivalent of an Easy Bake Oven sat in our garage grinding and polishing at the top of its lungs 24 hours a day for at least three weeks! I would often lay awake at night, plotting my revenge against the science department at Fisher Price. And on top of it all, by the time the rocks were finally as smooth as little drops of cake batter, “little sis” had lost all sedimentary interest.

The same fate, however, never befell our homemade ice cream. Despite all the time and noise it took to complete, the peach ice cream was always met with cheers and second helpings. Served up in my mom’s sunflower dinnerware, and eaten outside on a warm September day, this dessert will always remind me of two things. #1- The smell of mosquito spray. #2- That some things are worth the wait.

Other childhood desserts were far more immediate in nature, but no less appreciated. For example, I spent a lot of time with my mom’s parents, whose house made Candyland look like a vegetable garden. Grandma and Grandpa always had a treat basket filled with Hershey Chocolate Bars on which I would regularly declare war.

Grandma also frequently stocked her freezer with a fresh supply of Creamsicles. My favorite flavor was, surprisingly enough, banana. Banana Creamsicles had the sophistication of ice cream in the peppy convenience of a popsicle. I always thought of them as “an old person dessert,” probably because of their vintage-looking plastic sleeve. But at Grandma’s house, I knew I was mature enough to take them on.

Granny also made Bon Bons, which I requested one year for my birthday. I liked them because they looked and sounded exotic, but in reality, the chocolate dough wrapped around a Hershey Hug and drizzled with frosting was about as American as childhood obesity.

Which speaking of patriotism, do you what else is undeniably American? Cherry Pie. That was always my brother’s favorite request. My dad, as I remember it, seemed to favor Apple Pies, though I’m not sure if he liked to eat them as much as he liked to make them.

Not that I blame him. Making Apple Pies was pretty cool. We had one of those “peel, core, and slice” machines that would attach to the kitchen counter like a vice. You’d stick an apple on three little spikes, and then turn a crank that would send the apple through a series of events that left it looking like a Slinky. It was pretty amazing. It also left behind a lot of apple peelings that, for some reason, I always felt the responsibility to eat.

My mom, on the other hand, felt the responsibility to bake…Sugar Cookies…for every occasion. No matter the holiday, we had the corresponding cookie cutter. If you were feeling like an extra festive St Patty’s Day, BAM! Shamrock Sugar Cookies. If Easter needed a little something extra, BOOM! Chicks and Bunnies straight from the oven. And since Halloween was always more “cute and fun” at our house than “dark and spooky,” BING! Pumpkins, Witches, Bats, and Ghosts. All of them, delicious!

Come to think of it, the only family dessert I never really got behind was Gingerbread Cookies. They were made every year for Christmas, and while I enjoyed decorating them, I always had to use a lot of Cool Whip to get them down. Too dense for their own good, I say.

And with all of these desserts around, you’d think the same could have been said for my family. Too dense for our own good! The truth is, however, that we were all pretty active, so we never got too tubby. True, I had a “chubber” stage around the fifth grade, but then I had a growth spurt, and everything evened out. My loving relationship with dessert remained unscathed.

I was raised in a family that had no problem saying “I Love You.” I heard the phrase every day at least once, and read it countless other times. The napkin in my school lunch, the “welcome home from scout camp” banner, the Post-its on the bathroom mirror; all of them were upholstered with those three little words. And on the occasion when I couldn’t hear “I Love You,” or read “I Love You,” I could still smell “I Love You.”

Maybe that’s why now, whenever I start to roll my eyes at some cliché of love, I decide it’s time for a little dessert. J

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Track 03- Sophomore Slump

“The only thing scarier than failing, is failing after succeeding.”

I happened upon this quote the other day when I thought it up. I don’t think it’s true. I hope it’s not true. But based on the way I behave, sometimes it’s true.

Not when I was younger, of course. Back in the days of my spiral bound Mickey Mouse notebook, my ambition knew NO FEAR, just like my t-shirts…

Around the age of eight, you see, I became an entrepreneur and created my very own company that I named The Five Co’s. It consisted of Clean Co, Candy Co, Car Co, Can Co, and Kid Co.

Confused? Here’s a brief rundown of the companies within the company:

1. Car Co- Simple. For a mere dime per minute, I would clean anything you’d ask.
2. Candy Co- After the Christmas Stockings, Easter Baskets, and Trick or Treat Bags were abandoned by my siblings, I would gather all the leftover candy, put it in my desk drawer, and then sell that candy back to the sweetest (and most desperate) teeth during the “off seasons.”
3. Car Co- I would wash the family cars for a negotiated price. And if Dad thought I was going to wash the Suburban for the same price as his Grand Prix, he had another thing coming—
4. Can Co- There was a time when my family would go through enough soda to send Willy Wonka himself into a diabetic coma. Therefore, you can imagine how many empty soda cans were lying around. I agreed to crush and bag each can with the stipulation that I could keep the profits upon delivering those cans to the recycling plant.
5. Kid Co- When babysitting my little sisters, I would charge a penny a minute. A real steal, if you ask me, but I figured I needed a competitive price point in order to get paid for doing what I’d probably have to do anyway.

Now, every time one of “The Co’s” was put to work, I logged my time spent and profits earned into the Mickey Mouse notebook to ensure proper bookkeeping. I obviously wanted to avoid the threats of scheming older brothers and the IRS.

In time, The Five Co’s grew to be quite a lucrative venture of my youth. I made dollars and dollars. $16.72, if I remember correctly. Enough to buy a few more Disney action figures or Gloria Estefan’s Greatest Hits.

Not soon after, I chose to dissolve The Five Co’s. More accurately, I forgot about them when my grandpa gave me a cow. Entering the livestock business promised to be a far more profitable enterprise than recycling aluminum cans. I accepted Grandpa’s heifer and shamelessly named her “Muscle & Money.” (“M&M,” for short.)

I’m not entirely sure when my ostentatious ride upon America’s Right Wing of Capitalism came to an end. It might have been one of those moments that all children have growing up. You know, like when you finally confess that you don’t know your times tables as well as you let on, or when you notice your feet are getting bigger and nothing else is, or when you realize your favorite recesses involve playing hopscotch by yourself and humming “On My Own” from the musical, Les Miserables.

Well whatever it was, there came a point when I realized that sometimes I felt fallible, or “failable.” In other words, I found out I could fail…and I hated it!

Ever since that moment, I’ve been trying to decrease my imperfecto-meter as much as possible. The problem is, however, when you worry too much about eliminating failure, you often end up eliminating the possibilities for success. Why? Because it’s no longer worth it. Suddenly losing feels worse than winning feels good.

Now back when my family would go water-skiing during summer, we often joked that if you were going to eat it out there on the water, it better be a Grade A wipeout. That meant a full-blown, limbs-flying, face plant into the cold waters of Willard Bay. As it turned out on those water skiing trips, our spectacular spills often received as much feedback from the observers in the boat as the smooth, yet uneventful performances.

With that in mind, wouldn’t it be awesome if we all took a little time to celebrate our Grade A wipeouts? It would kind of take away the fear of failure, right? Now, don’t misunderstand me, I’m not saying we should celebrate mediocrity. Mediocrity is boring. I’m talking about giving a little love to the infamous face plants that we all make in our lives.

So let’s hear it for bills—particularly the forgotten ones that ruin your credit score!

Give it up, please, for the birthday cake you spent six hours making that looked and tasted like an old sponge!

Raise the roof for your botched job presentation, and the subsequent lunch stain that followed!

A round of applause, please, for the car wreck that left you sitting on a bus with a homeless woman and her “homemade jewelry!”

Since both success and failure are eminent, there really is no reason to live under the pressure of one while fearing the other. Every hit won’t be a homerun. Every single won’t be a #1. Every life won’t have a winning streak. Still, the good news is that every day won’t be awful either. The contrasts exist if not now, then later, and if not in one thing, then in another. And that’s ok! It doesn’t make us better or worse; it just makes us human. And though we may pretend at times that we don’t have that in common, the fact is we do.

...new quote:

“The only thing scarier than failing after succeeding, is doing nothing at all.”

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