Just Be Silly

Another line from David Archuleta's book Devout sunk deep into my core.

He talks about his tour experience after American Idol — touring with Demi Lovato, an evening where Demi and a friend snuck into his room with a platter of cheese and meat to start a food fight. And what struck him about that moment, what he carried forward from it, was this:

"I didn't know how to relax and just be silly."

I read that and something in me went very still.

We Like Hyper Eric

Suddenly, I was back in my teenage years. I was hanging out with a couple of girls. A moment when I let the walls come down — I don't even remember exactly what I was doing, just that I'd stopped editing myself. And then one of those girls said: "We like hyper Eric."

That moment has stayed with me for decades. If I were to guess why, it might be because I allowed myself to stop performing and just let myself be who I was. I also remember wishing I knew how to do it more often.

I knew how to be good. I knew how to be obedient. I knew how to show up, say the right things, and act the right way. What I didn't know how to do very well was play.

The Eternal Ledger

The Mormon church teaches you that Heavenly Father and Jesus are always watching. Every action is being written down in the Book of Life (2 Nephi 29:11). More than that, every thought is preserved on that eternal ledger. Depending on the balance at Judgement, your eternal destination will be determined. Just imagine walking around with that kind of presence in the back of your mind.

It's no wonder that, with this kind of theology hanging over my head, I didn't feel like I could be the person I really wanted to be. I didn't want to do anything bad. I didn't want to hurt people. I didn't want to hurt myself. I didn't want to destroy anything. I just wanted the space to be silly, to be hyper, and to be okay taking chances and making mistakes without my eternal salvation being on the line.

When every moment is a moral audition, there is no room for a food fight.

The Real Me, Still Trying

It reminds me of a couple of experiences from my mission. I recall the Manaea family — a beautiful Samoan family that had recently started going to church again. The father was working on quitting his smoking habit. I played chess with his son. His daughter liked to show off her abs because she'd been working out and liked to have others acknowledge her dedication. The mother introduced me to one of my favorite Polynesian dishes: Ota 'ika, which is a raw fish and coconut milk concoction. I feel like I grew pretty close to them. They were one of my favorite families from my mission.

But I remember something the father said when I told them I was transferring out of their area. He told me that when I first arrived, he expected I wouldn't be any fun. But during my time visiting his family, he was happy to see my walls come down — to see a person, not someone that was focused 100% on mission work and making sure he was staying obedient.

That landed differently reading it back now. I was on a mission. I was supposed to be losing myself in the service of Jesus. And yet, even there, the real me was trying to break through — finding the places I thought were safe, the edges of the role where something more human could slip out. The fact that a Samoan father noticed the difference between the performance and the person says everything.

There was a woman named Rosario, too. Her word choices were something along the lines of me being "prim and proper." Even now, those words feel strange to attach to myself — they carry a particular gendered weight that sits oddly in my mind. But I know what she meant. She meant I was stiff. Guarded. Performing. And like the Manaea father, she said her first impression had softened as we'd talked more.

Both of them saw through the missionary-shaped version of me to something underneath. That they saw it at all feels like a kind of grace. That it was only glimpsed is a loss I'm still accounting for.

The One Permission

I think some of the most relaxed times I had as a teenager were when I was on the ballroom dance team.

Mormonism does, at least, encourage dancing. It's one of the few genuinely human activities it doesn't prohibit — though it does place guidelines on the kinds of dancing you're supposed to do and how close you're allowed to be to your partner. In ballroom, those rules weren't there as strongly. The form itself created a kind of permission. You were supposed to be close. You were supposed to move together.

We did competitions, and those could be a little stressful. But our early morning practices — where I could just move and interact with girls in a way that felt allowed — were undoubtedly where I exhaled. The gym we used only had us in it, the day hadn't started yet, and for a little while there was nothing to perform for. Just music and movement, the specific warmth of a partner's hand, and shared smiles as we moved around the floor.

Life of the Party

Since coming home from my mission, it's harder to think of moments when I was truly relaxed.

The next one that comes to mind: I was living near Utah State and we were hosting a General Conference watching party. We invited the girls from across the hall and sweetened the deal by offering to make them lunch.

We had nachos. And I still remember that plate as something of a religious experience in itself. The chips were just right, the ground beef was perfectly seasoned. There was sour cream, jalapeños, and pico de gallo. They were perfect.

But that's a tangent. After the party, one of my roommates remarked that I'd been the life of the party.

I remember that catching me off guard. I'm usually more inclined to stick to the shadows and watch things from a distance — but somehow, in that moment, I'd stepped into the spotlight without finding it repressive or performative. I hadn't been managing anything. I was genuinely enjoying the girls' company, making sure they had enough food, that they felt welcome. The food just made it better.

I wasn't performing joy. I was just having it.

Chelsea and the Airplane Noises

Another memory comes to mind with a girl named Chelsea. She lived in an apartment where myself and a roommate were considered honorary residents. We spent a lot of time with those girls.

At some point, Chelsea pulled out my silly side by making airplane noises with her lips. Just brrrrrrr — right at me. And I went brrrrrrr back. And we just kept going, back and forth, until we were both laughing uncontrollably.

I still see her face sometimes. The way her eyes sparkled with mischief as we tried to see who would break into laughter first. Then we'd catch our breath and start all over again.

That silliness is something I find myself craving often now. Not with Chelsea specifically — though she's a warm memory — but what she gave me in that moment. She didn't ask me to be anything. She just made a ridiculous noise and waited to see if I'd meet her there. And I did. And it was enough. It was more than enough. It was fun.

What the Church Didn't Teach

Of all the things the church teaches, it doesn't teach people how to play, not in a meaningful way. Work always comes first. And I think that's one of the greatest tragedies.

Throughout the whole time in church, it's all about making covenants, being solemn about keeping those covenants, about walking the straight and narrow path. There's no allowance made for exploration. There's no room for loud laughter. Doctrine and Covenants 88:121 advises, "cease from all your light speeches, from all laughter, from all your lustful desires, from all your pride and light-mindedness."

And yet the same church that tells you to put away your laughter and light-mindedness also claims that joy is the whole point of existence. There is one scripture that says men are that they might have joy (2 Nephi 2:25). But it's always a spiritual joy, or something tied to what supposedly comes after this life, not about the here and now.

How is a person supposed to reconcile that dynamic?

Surrender

In one of those small moments of synchronicity, as I'm writing this, I'm listening to Emmy Rossum's Inside Out album and the song High is playing. She talks about letting go and letting the dream take over. She sings about surrendering to ecstasy, moving with her, making her real.

I've always known this song is sensual — but hearing it just now, it was something else. It brought me back to just wanting to give in to ecstasy — not in an erotic or romantic sense, but in just having a love for life. I want to move with it rather than try to control it.

Silliness is a form of surrender. It's a way of letting your real self out — the childish part that should never have been told it needs to be quiet. The part that makes airplane noises and doesn't care who's watching, because the eternal ledger isn't the point. The laughter is the point.