More Than Ice Cream
by M.M. Lewis, February 2003

     The mountains to the south are missing, replaced with thick mists and grey clouds whose counterparts here in Provo were kind enough to send me home drenched this afternoon. But instead of being flooded with a combination of cold water and old memories, as is my usual rainy-day fare, I found myself wishing that my mountains hadn’t disappeared. Strange; only seven months ago I couldn’t stand the confinements they surrounded me with, and now I seek their offered protection and safety. Maybe part of that change was realizing that I was surrounding myself with far more constrictive and damaging walls than were the mountains.
     I’m a California girl at heart—always have been, always will be. This was one of the many facts set firmly in my mind as I got ready to move out to Utah. Upon arrival, I was welcomed with hot summer days minus the glorious ocean breeze, a sweltering sun from which there was no shelter, and a “Happy Valley” bubble enclosed by horrendous mountains completely lacking in greenery. See? I had at least three reasons right off the bat to hate it here, and soon I’d find more. The unbearable heat packed up and left with the onset of October, and suddenly I could no longer think of 60° as being cold. Snow was an entirely new experience for me. While I enjoyed the charm of a morning decorated with fresh snow, the coming winter would be miserable without rain. A White Christmas just wouldn’t work for me—it wasn’t California, and that made it wrong.
     Actually, it turns out that made me wrong. I was refusing to let myself like it here, and why? Because I hate being wrong. But as I walked to campus one Saturday in November I glanced at the eastern mountains, covered in snow, and the thought inadvertently popped into my head:  Wow. That’s beautiful. A second later I stood still in horror and disbelief. I’d thought something positive about Utah. Impossible—the only good thing here is the abundance of ice cream, I told myself. But I knew it was too late for excuses; looking again at the mountains I was still struck by their beauty. The same treeless, stupid confinements whose presence I had previously bemoaned now became objects of admiration, and I got the urge to try my hand at painting them. Then anger began welling up inside as I fought against what I saw as betrayal. Betrayal of what, I wasn’t sure; perhaps my stubbornness. What it came down to was that I had changed my mind, which meant that either I was wrong to begin with or I had switched to an erroneous viewpoint. Neither scenario was attractive. Because I didn’t like the idea that no matter which way it went, I was wrong, I refused to try talking to anyone about the situation. My loss on that count—it unfortunately meant that no one had the chance to knock some sense into me and point out that the loose screw in my reasoning lie in my misconception of the difference between fact and opinion. “Utah is stupid” is an opinion. Not a fact.
     And opinions change. That’s part of the fun of being alive: you’re allowed to change the way you view things. Once it finally occurred to me that it was alright to not hate Utah, I found reasons to love it instead. One evening I spent almost three hours, spellbound, looking through books with photographs from all over the state while a close friend who grew up here sat watching with a bemused smile, offering tidbits of information and snips of memories about the amazing landscapes.
     Probably the biggest factor in my turnaround was Temple Square and all it represents. From the magnificent Salt Lake temple to the lights at Christmastime to the stories of faithful pioneers in the Church History Museum, I fell in love with Utah’s heritage. Many of my ancestors sacrificed immeasurably to come here, to build a Zion where they would be protected and safe. That means I have a part in this heritage too, and I wouldn’t let it go for the world.
     Every now and again, though, I have to let my mountains go. Often for days at a time. But when the clouds roll away and the sky is clear, they stand as guardians, watching over not only me but anyone who will look to them as sources of strength—not as prison walls. For the moment, I simply trust that they’ll return, as will the hot summer days, the sweltering sun, and the “Happy Valley” bubble. And you know what? I look forward to it all.