My friend Janet Batchler, a Christian and screenwriter whose wonderful blog can be found at www.quoththemaven.blogspot.com, has come up with a very fruitful idea for letting Hollywood know exactly how you feel about the Da Vinci Code film being released in May. Rather than trying to explain it myself, I'll repost her post here -- she's given permission for folks to do that, as she wants the word spread!
Read on, and plan to go to the movies in May!
********
From Janet:
May 19th is the date the Da Vinci Code movie opens. A movie based on a book that wears its heresy and blasphemy as a badge of honor. What can we as Christians do in response to the release of this movie? I'm going to offer you the usual choices -- and a new one. Here are the usual suspects:A) We can ignore the movie. ........The problem with this option: The box office is a ballot box. The only people whose votes are counted are those who buy tickets. If you stay home, you have lost your chance to make your vote heard. You do nothing to shape the decision-making process regarding what movies will make it to the big screen.B) We can protest. ........The problem with this option: It doesn't work. Any publicity is good publicity, after all. Protests not only fuel the box office, they make all Christians look like idiots. And again, protests and boycotts do nothing to help shape the decisions being made right now about what movies Hollywood should make (or shape the decisions away from what we might prefer).C) We can discuss the movie. We can be rational and be ready with study guides and workshops and point-by-point refutations of the lies promulgated by the movie. ........The problem with this option: No one's listening. They think they know what we're going to say already. And once again, nothing changes if this is the response we opt for.But there's a fourth choice.On May 19th, you should go to the movies. Just go to another movie.Save the date now. May 19th, or May 20th. No later than Sunday, May 21st -- that's the day the ballot box closes. You'll get a vote, the only vote Hollywood recognizes: The power of cold hard cash laid down on a box office window on opening weekend.Use your vote. Don't throw it away. Vote for a movie other than DVC. If enough people do it, the powers that be will notice. They won't have a choice.Right now there's only one other studio movie scheduled for release, the DreamWorks animated feature Over the Hedge. Based on the early trailers, my kids already want to see it. Let's all go see it. (Or another just-opened movie of your choice, pending the final release schedules.) Let's rock the box office in a way no one expects -- without protests, without boycotts, without arguments, without rancor. Let's show up at the box office ballot box and cast our votes. And buy some popcorn, too.May 19th. Spread the word. Post this on your own blog, send it to friends on your e-mail lists. And let's all go to the movies.
********
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Reading Round-Up, Spring Cleaning Version!
ETA:This post started on April 20th, but I'm just now getting around to posting it on April 25th! (It's our fourteenth wedding anniversary, by the way.) :-)
Well, I've given up trying to do any sort of reading round-up for March...who can remember March? Both the end of last month and the beginning of this one are blurring for me, as I'm far too busy and frankly, exhausted. The past two weeks have been especially difficult: I've been sick with sinus/cough (and it's taken a definite turn for the worst in the past few days so I've had to go on antiobiotics); I've begun my new half-time job as parish administrator at our church (trying very hard to remember all my former secretary skills -- who knew that one could forget years of professional skills and habits so quickly?); my sweet daughter has been struggling with my new schedule and with less time with Mommy and has been acting out her stress through some difficult behavior, especially with her Daddy (and I miss my mornings with her soooo much); and oh yes, I left taxes to the last minute and had to spend several late nights fighting through the craziness of self-employment schedules, etc. Have I left anything out? Well, yes. :-) Those things I listed are just the "biggies" -- all sorts of other things still crowd my days as well, including paper grading, house cleaning, feeble attempts at writing.
I'm feeling a real need of prayer time, significant, real prayer time, rather than hurried prayers of blessing and petition as I run frantically hither and yon. Don't get me wrong: hurried prayers are a lifeline sometimes, and I'm thankful for them. But I need time with God, time to just rest in his presence, time to bring before him some of the hurts in my own heart as well as the hurts of others. After not quite two weeks as chuch administrator, I am already feeling somewhat pummelled by the depth and breadth of need here in our tired little town. More on that later perhaps.
So, with all this going on, have I had any time for reading? You bet. Some nights I'm so wound up after a far too long day, there's no way I can sleep without reading for a while first. And I've had some other moments here and there in the past month where I've been able to cram in reading. I'm doing a good bit of what I call "fluff" reading (helps me in that unwinding process) but I'm also dipping my toes into some more serious stuff. So here's a brief list of what I've been dabbling in book-wise in the past few weeks, though in no particular order:
Dorothy Simpson murder mysteries. Anyone out there know her? I discovered her at a library book sale (all paperbacks ten cents!) and have been absolutely delighted to discover a new Agatha Christie type writer, albeit a bit more contemporary. She's really good at English "cozy" mysteries -- my favorite of the mystery genre. I think she wrote mostly in the 1980s and 1990s (though for all I know she may still be at it) and I love her detective Inspector Luke Thanet. Thus far I've read two books: The Night She Died and Puppet for a Corpse. Very creative.
Jan Karon. I feel like I owe Ms. Karon an apology. I read the first two books of her "Mitford series" about ten years ago, and pretty much ever since then, whenever someone would ask me if I liked them, I added all kinds of qualifiers. "Yes, although they're not really great literature." "Yes, they're so comforting and downhome, I feel like I'm curling up with a copy of 'Southern Living'." "Yes, they're especially good, light reading for when you have the flu." That sort of thing. And...well, there's still some truth in those sentiments, I must confess. But having read through several more books in the series in the past few months (including A New Song, A Common Life and In This Mountain most recently) I have a newfound respect for Karon's narrative art. She manages to capture "slices of life" and very human personalities in poignant ways; she doesn't hesitate to write like people talk and frankly, to write about what real people talk about in the ways they really talk about it (including faith...and let's face it, we don't always talk about our faith profoundly) and she manages to provide her characters and readers with a real sense of hope. In times like ours, I think that's especially valuable. I also think she grew as a writer through the series. I was most impressed with her ability and willingness to have beloved, jovial Fr. Tim, the main character of the books, suffer through the throes of major depression in In This Mountain. Yes, he comes out on the other side (and you want him to!) but it's not cliched and pat at all. And I frankly love some of her minor characters, who remind me a bit of Lake Woebegoners. I'm especially fond of Emma Newland, Hope Winchester, and the regulars who eat breakfast at the Grill on weekday mornings.
And a sidenote: when I started reading Karon ten years ago, I knew almost no evangelical Episcopalians. For the past almost 9 years, I've lived, worked, and prayed with LOTS of them. So now I know just how good Karon is at capturing that particular ethos.
Yikes -- I started this post five days ago and have yet to either post it, or write fully about what I'm reading (I've just covered some of the fluff here!). This is getting way too long, so I'll go on and post. More soon on other things I'm reading by Marva Dawn and Rodney Clapp, among others.
Well, I've given up trying to do any sort of reading round-up for March...who can remember March? Both the end of last month and the beginning of this one are blurring for me, as I'm far too busy and frankly, exhausted. The past two weeks have been especially difficult: I've been sick with sinus/cough (and it's taken a definite turn for the worst in the past few days so I've had to go on antiobiotics); I've begun my new half-time job as parish administrator at our church (trying very hard to remember all my former secretary skills -- who knew that one could forget years of professional skills and habits so quickly?); my sweet daughter has been struggling with my new schedule and with less time with Mommy and has been acting out her stress through some difficult behavior, especially with her Daddy (and I miss my mornings with her soooo much); and oh yes, I left taxes to the last minute and had to spend several late nights fighting through the craziness of self-employment schedules, etc. Have I left anything out? Well, yes. :-) Those things I listed are just the "biggies" -- all sorts of other things still crowd my days as well, including paper grading, house cleaning, feeble attempts at writing.
I'm feeling a real need of prayer time, significant, real prayer time, rather than hurried prayers of blessing and petition as I run frantically hither and yon. Don't get me wrong: hurried prayers are a lifeline sometimes, and I'm thankful for them. But I need time with God, time to just rest in his presence, time to bring before him some of the hurts in my own heart as well as the hurts of others. After not quite two weeks as chuch administrator, I am already feeling somewhat pummelled by the depth and breadth of need here in our tired little town. More on that later perhaps.
So, with all this going on, have I had any time for reading? You bet. Some nights I'm so wound up after a far too long day, there's no way I can sleep without reading for a while first. And I've had some other moments here and there in the past month where I've been able to cram in reading. I'm doing a good bit of what I call "fluff" reading (helps me in that unwinding process) but I'm also dipping my toes into some more serious stuff. So here's a brief list of what I've been dabbling in book-wise in the past few weeks, though in no particular order:
Dorothy Simpson murder mysteries. Anyone out there know her? I discovered her at a library book sale (all paperbacks ten cents!) and have been absolutely delighted to discover a new Agatha Christie type writer, albeit a bit more contemporary. She's really good at English "cozy" mysteries -- my favorite of the mystery genre. I think she wrote mostly in the 1980s and 1990s (though for all I know she may still be at it) and I love her detective Inspector Luke Thanet. Thus far I've read two books: The Night She Died and Puppet for a Corpse. Very creative.
Jan Karon. I feel like I owe Ms. Karon an apology. I read the first two books of her "Mitford series" about ten years ago, and pretty much ever since then, whenever someone would ask me if I liked them, I added all kinds of qualifiers. "Yes, although they're not really great literature." "Yes, they're so comforting and downhome, I feel like I'm curling up with a copy of 'Southern Living'." "Yes, they're especially good, light reading for when you have the flu." That sort of thing. And...well, there's still some truth in those sentiments, I must confess. But having read through several more books in the series in the past few months (including A New Song, A Common Life and In This Mountain most recently) I have a newfound respect for Karon's narrative art. She manages to capture "slices of life" and very human personalities in poignant ways; she doesn't hesitate to write like people talk and frankly, to write about what real people talk about in the ways they really talk about it (including faith...and let's face it, we don't always talk about our faith profoundly) and she manages to provide her characters and readers with a real sense of hope. In times like ours, I think that's especially valuable. I also think she grew as a writer through the series. I was most impressed with her ability and willingness to have beloved, jovial Fr. Tim, the main character of the books, suffer through the throes of major depression in In This Mountain. Yes, he comes out on the other side (and you want him to!) but it's not cliched and pat at all. And I frankly love some of her minor characters, who remind me a bit of Lake Woebegoners. I'm especially fond of Emma Newland, Hope Winchester, and the regulars who eat breakfast at the Grill on weekday mornings.
And a sidenote: when I started reading Karon ten years ago, I knew almost no evangelical Episcopalians. For the past almost 9 years, I've lived, worked, and prayed with LOTS of them. So now I know just how good Karon is at capturing that particular ethos.
Yikes -- I started this post five days ago and have yet to either post it, or write fully about what I'm reading (I've just covered some of the fluff here!). This is getting way too long, so I'll go on and post. More soon on other things I'm reading by Marva Dawn and Rodney Clapp, among others.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
"Death and Darkness, Get You Packing...!"
Alleluia! The Lord is risen! He is risen indeed! Alleluia!
"Let no one grieve at his poverty, for the universal kingdom has been revealed. Let no one mourn that he has fallen again and again; for forgiveness has risen from the grave. Let no one fear death, for the Death of our Savior has set us free. He has destroyed it by enduring it.
—John Chrysostom, bishop of Constantinople; sermon, ca. 400
Death and darkness, get you packing,
Nothing now to man is lacking,
All your triumphs now are ended,
And what Adam marred is mended.
- Henry Vaughan (1621-1695)
Hail thee, festival day!
Blessed day to be hallowed forever;
Day when our Lord was raised,
Breaking the kingdom of death.
Lo, the fair beauty of the earth,
From the death of the winter arising!
Every good gift of the year
Now with its Master returns.
Rise from the grave now, O Lord,
The author of life and creation.
Treading the pathway of death,
New life You give to us all.
Hail thee, festival day!
Blessed day to be hallowed forever;
Day when our Lord was raised,
Breaking the kingdom of death.
--Fortunatus (530-609) translated by Maurice F. Bell
"Let no one grieve at his poverty, for the universal kingdom has been revealed. Let no one mourn that he has fallen again and again; for forgiveness has risen from the grave. Let no one fear death, for the Death of our Savior has set us free. He has destroyed it by enduring it.
—John Chrysostom, bishop of Constantinople; sermon, ca. 400
Death and darkness, get you packing,
Nothing now to man is lacking,
All your triumphs now are ended,
And what Adam marred is mended.
- Henry Vaughan (1621-1695)
Hail thee, festival day!
Blessed day to be hallowed forever;
Day when our Lord was raised,
Breaking the kingdom of death.
Lo, the fair beauty of the earth,
From the death of the winter arising!
Every good gift of the year
Now with its Master returns.
Rise from the grave now, O Lord,
The author of life and creation.
Treading the pathway of death,
New life You give to us all.
Hail thee, festival day!
Blessed day to be hallowed forever;
Day when our Lord was raised,
Breaking the kingdom of death.
--Fortunatus (530-609) translated by Maurice F. Bell
Saturday, April 15, 2006
The Day In Between
I decided to walk into the office this morning...no, not working (at least not officially) but I had agreed to proctor some exams for the sister of a friend, who is taking some extension courses through her university. The church offices on a Saturday provide a quiet place for her to take the tests, and it gave me a marvelous opportunity to walk a good, long walk on a beautiful spring day.
I was almost stunned by the beauty. Did spring really arrive overnight, or have I been so tired and stressed all week long that I just hadn't noticed it coming? The trees are in early golden flowered leaf (especially the maples), the birds are singing, and there are flowers and flowering trees, purples, pinks, whites, yellows, almost everywhere. It looked like Easter had come a day early! Except that two churches along my route both still had wooden crosses swathed in black, reminding me (with a beautiful poignancy, since they stood near flowering trees) that we're still experiencing the day "in between."
I don't think we in the church really know what to do always with the day "in between" Good Friday and Easter. At least not most of the churches of which I've been a part. It's something of a blank day. As we follow along in the Gospel story, Jesus has died and is not yet risen. The disciples are in the dark, literally (hiding in locked rooms) and spiritually.
Perhaps it's a day to enter into that darkness a little -- to know in our depths the sorrow that His closest friends and followers must have felt the day after the cross. To know in our depths what it cost God to win us back to himself, what it cost Jesus to redeem us from our subjection to evil and to death.
Maybe that's why we're given Psalm 88 in the morning lectionary. I've always found this to be one of the saddest Psalms -- there seems to be no real hope, not even at the end when so many Psalms (even of deepest, most harrowing complaints and pain) leap into a ringing affirmation (even Psalm 22 moves into a trust song).
Yet today, reading it again, I was struck by these questions the Psalmist cries out in verses 10-12: "Dost thou work wonders for the dead? Do the shades rise up to praise thee? [Selah] Is thy steadfast love declared in the grave, or thy faithfulness in Abaddon? Are thy wonders known in the darkness, or thy saving help in the land of forgetfulness?"
When I read these on most days, I either read them (sadly) as somewhat rhetorical questions, or (on my better days) as heartrending cries of a lonely and broken heart, but still a heart not expecting to hear an answer.
What we know from the joyous truth of the resurrection we celebrate tomorrow, however, is that there is a resounding answer to these questions. The answer is YES! Jesus is the great YES! God's vindication of His son as he raises Him to new life is a YES! YES, God works wonders for the dead! YES, the shades will one day rise up to praise thee (along with everything else in all creation!) YES, God's steadfast love is declared...even in the grave! YES, God's wonders are known in the darkness (even of our own hearts and lives, even at the foot of a cross, even in locked rooms where we hide)! YES, God's saving help is known even in the land of forgetfulness (which is where most of us live so much of the time)!
May we never ever forget, Lord, the love that took you to that cross. May we never cease to praise and thank you for that love. May we never cease to marvel at how close death and life, sorrow and joy, really are. May we worship and adore you as our scarred and risen King.
I was almost stunned by the beauty. Did spring really arrive overnight, or have I been so tired and stressed all week long that I just hadn't noticed it coming? The trees are in early golden flowered leaf (especially the maples), the birds are singing, and there are flowers and flowering trees, purples, pinks, whites, yellows, almost everywhere. It looked like Easter had come a day early! Except that two churches along my route both still had wooden crosses swathed in black, reminding me (with a beautiful poignancy, since they stood near flowering trees) that we're still experiencing the day "in between."
I don't think we in the church really know what to do always with the day "in between" Good Friday and Easter. At least not most of the churches of which I've been a part. It's something of a blank day. As we follow along in the Gospel story, Jesus has died and is not yet risen. The disciples are in the dark, literally (hiding in locked rooms) and spiritually.
Perhaps it's a day to enter into that darkness a little -- to know in our depths the sorrow that His closest friends and followers must have felt the day after the cross. To know in our depths what it cost God to win us back to himself, what it cost Jesus to redeem us from our subjection to evil and to death.
Maybe that's why we're given Psalm 88 in the morning lectionary. I've always found this to be one of the saddest Psalms -- there seems to be no real hope, not even at the end when so many Psalms (even of deepest, most harrowing complaints and pain) leap into a ringing affirmation (even Psalm 22 moves into a trust song).
Yet today, reading it again, I was struck by these questions the Psalmist cries out in verses 10-12: "Dost thou work wonders for the dead? Do the shades rise up to praise thee? [Selah] Is thy steadfast love declared in the grave, or thy faithfulness in Abaddon? Are thy wonders known in the darkness, or thy saving help in the land of forgetfulness?"
When I read these on most days, I either read them (sadly) as somewhat rhetorical questions, or (on my better days) as heartrending cries of a lonely and broken heart, but still a heart not expecting to hear an answer.
What we know from the joyous truth of the resurrection we celebrate tomorrow, however, is that there is a resounding answer to these questions. The answer is YES! Jesus is the great YES! God's vindication of His son as he raises Him to new life is a YES! YES, God works wonders for the dead! YES, the shades will one day rise up to praise thee (along with everything else in all creation!) YES, God's steadfast love is declared...even in the grave! YES, God's wonders are known in the darkness (even of our own hearts and lives, even at the foot of a cross, even in locked rooms where we hide)! YES, God's saving help is known even in the land of forgetfulness (which is where most of us live so much of the time)!
May we never ever forget, Lord, the love that took you to that cross. May we never cease to praise and thank you for that love. May we never cease to marvel at how close death and life, sorrow and joy, really are. May we worship and adore you as our scarred and risen King.
Friday, April 14, 2006
Why This Friday is so Good
"The other gods were strong; but Thou wast weak;
They rode, but Thou didst stumble to a throne;
But to our wounds only God’s wounds can speak,
And not a god has wounds, but Thou alone."
--Edward Shillito, from "Jesus of the Scars"
What a beautiful poem, and what a beautiful truth. And written by a man who knew the horrors of World War I and knew how badly indeed the world can wound us.
They rode, but Thou didst stumble to a throne;
But to our wounds only God’s wounds can speak,
And not a god has wounds, but Thou alone."
--Edward Shillito, from "Jesus of the Scars"
What a beautiful poem, and what a beautiful truth. And written by a man who knew the horrors of World War I and knew how badly indeed the world can wound us.
Friday, April 07, 2006
A few more poetry "life/lines"
More lines of poetry keep coming to me:
"Hope is the thing with feathers/that perches in the soul..."
"When despair for the world grows in me..."
"He counted every snowflake as it fell..."
"I shall arise and go now, and go to Innisfree"
"I took the road less traveled by and that has made all the difference"
"Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds"
"Little Lamb, who made thee?"
"I who have died am alive again today"
"Hope is the thing with feathers/that perches in the soul..."
"When despair for the world grows in me..."
"He counted every snowflake as it fell..."
"I shall arise and go now, and go to Innisfree"
"I took the road less traveled by and that has made all the difference"
"Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds"
"Little Lamb, who made thee?"
"I who have died am alive again today"
National Poetry Month
Tired from a too long day, I'm jangling
with bumblebuzz of Irish Breakfast tea...
yep! past midnight and I'm blogging again!
******
April may be "the cruelest month" but here's one lovely thing to remember: it's also National Poetry Month. Check out www.poets.org for all kinds of goodies.
I spent a few minutes on the site this evening, trying to unwind, and found out about a wonderful project called "Life/Lines." Poets and readers send in lines of poetry that mean something to them, lines they've suddenly recalled or that they've found lodged in their hearts for years. Brief reflections on why those certain lines of poetry stick with them are included. The project's ongoing -- apparently anyone can send in their favorite lines of poetry.
I'm too tired to think properly, but here are a few favorite lines that come to me now as I let my mind wander...(these are just as they come to me; I can't vouch for accuracy of punctuation or line breaks).
"Lord, send my roots rain."
"They also serve who only stand and wait." (This one was submitted by someone else on the site; it's long been a favorite of mine too.)
"Nature's first green is gold"
"Getting and spending we lay waste our powers"
"I shall be the gladdest thing under the sun!"
"I saw eternity the other night, like a great ring of pure and endless light"
"That never was America to me"
Interesting what pops up when you're tired! More soon...and I'll identify all poets later too (if anyone wants to guess or knows who they are, feel free!).
with bumblebuzz of Irish Breakfast tea...
yep! past midnight and I'm blogging again!
******
April may be "the cruelest month" but here's one lovely thing to remember: it's also National Poetry Month. Check out www.poets.org for all kinds of goodies.
I spent a few minutes on the site this evening, trying to unwind, and found out about a wonderful project called "Life/Lines." Poets and readers send in lines of poetry that mean something to them, lines they've suddenly recalled or that they've found lodged in their hearts for years. Brief reflections on why those certain lines of poetry stick with them are included. The project's ongoing -- apparently anyone can send in their favorite lines of poetry.
I'm too tired to think properly, but here are a few favorite lines that come to me now as I let my mind wander...(these are just as they come to me; I can't vouch for accuracy of punctuation or line breaks).
"Lord, send my roots rain."
"They also serve who only stand and wait." (This one was submitted by someone else on the site; it's long been a favorite of mine too.)
"Nature's first green is gold"
"Getting and spending we lay waste our powers"
"I shall be the gladdest thing under the sun!"
"I saw eternity the other night, like a great ring of pure and endless light"
"That never was America to me"
Interesting what pops up when you're tired! More soon...and I'll identify all poets later too (if anyone wants to guess or knows who they are, feel free!).
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Bread and...Hyacinths!
This is just too wonderful and funny.
Just a few hours after I posted my long, rambling post below (see "Bread and Roses") I found this amazing little poem on another blog:
If of thy mortal goods thou art bereft,
And from thy slender store two loaves alone to thee are left,
Sell one, and with the dole
Buy hyacinths to feed thy soul.
- Saadi (a Persian poet)
Doesn't this just capture the heart of my ramblings?
By the way, it was posted at www.acircleofquiet.blogspot.com -- an absolutely lovely blog. I check it about 2-3 times a month. I don't know the woman who writes it; it's a treasure I found a few months ago, linking from the blog of a friend of a friend of a friend, I think. Although I don't know her, her site often blesses my life and provides me with moments of beauty (some of the "imagined roses" I mentioned before). Isn't it great...the internet can indeed be a means of transmitting good and gracious things!
Just a few hours after I posted my long, rambling post below (see "Bread and Roses") I found this amazing little poem on another blog:
If of thy mortal goods thou art bereft,
And from thy slender store two loaves alone to thee are left,
Sell one, and with the dole
Buy hyacinths to feed thy soul.
- Saadi (a Persian poet)
Doesn't this just capture the heart of my ramblings?
By the way, it was posted at www.acircleofquiet.blogspot.com -- an absolutely lovely blog. I check it about 2-3 times a month. I don't know the woman who writes it; it's a treasure I found a few months ago, linking from the blog of a friend of a friend of a friend, I think. Although I don't know her, her site often blesses my life and provides me with moments of beauty (some of the "imagined roses" I mentioned before). Isn't it great...the internet can indeed be a means of transmitting good and gracious things!
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Bread and Roses
I usually write a "round-up" of the previous month during the first week of the new month, but frankly I've been too tired (and a bit too scatterbrained) to contemplate that posting. Maybe soon. Life is gearing up to be interesting for a while, as I'm taking on a new, half-time job outside the house. It's the first time I will have worked outside the home at all since Sarah was not quite 2 -- in other words, half her life ago. So we've all got big adjustments coming. I'm wishing I didn't have to do this, but I'm also grateful God is providing something for our family -- and I'm trying to be willing to do what needs to be done as he provides.
One of the adjustments I forsee is less time to read and write -- between new work hours during the day, continued work I need to do at night (both as a t.a. and in course development for the course I'll be teaching online next fall) and perhaps most importantly, trying to be as attentive and truly present as I can in the fewer waking hours I'll have with my little girl (not to mention regular "stuff" like ongoing household tasks and -- oh yes! eating! prayer! sleep!) I just can't see how I'm going to carve much of a slice out of that pie to dedicate to writing projects. Once again, I'm faced with the dilemma of having creative fire burning in my bones/longing to flesh out ideas into stories, poems and articles/wanting to use this gift and valuing the gift in and of itself -- and yet being forced to put it low, low on the priority list because it's not "productive" and doesn't help my family economically. I've been here many times in my life, but for some reason being faced with yet one more season of consciously having to push writing into the cracks and crevices of my life hurts a lot more this time around. Maybe because I just had a birthday so am feeling more aware of the swift passing of time. Maybe because the older I get, the more I feel I have to say and the more I long to find ways to say it through story. How ironic that the time periods of my life when I had more time and space to write, I didn't have nearly as much in me that longed to be written.
A week or so ago I read an interesting little book by Jill Paton Walsh, a short novel for middle grade readers called The Green Book. It's fantasy (and sort of rudimentary science fiction) about a family being sent with a small group of other people to colonize a new planet, since earth is dying. This family, a single dad and his three children, are told they must pack light. Each of them may bring one book and one book only. The father agonizes because he longs to bring a Complete Shakespeare but realizes that he needs to bring a book on technology instead, if he's going to help the colony in the new world. He lets each of his children make their own selection without his input, and their choices (and those of the other group members) are interesting, to say the least! When they all realize (after they're onboard the spaceship taking them to their new home) that the youngest child has brought along a blank book (the "green book" of the title) they're dismayed because they think she's made an unwise, even foolish choice. But it turns out to be a creative choice; one that the whole community values once they realize the child has been writing down the stories of the new community/colony. No one else had thought to do that.
I thought about entitling this posting "what book would you choose?" because I'm still genuinely curious to know what other people might pick if you could only pick one book in the world to take with you on a long journey without any real prospect of finding more books where you're arriving. I'm going to presuppose that you could take a Bible, or that the community would have a Bible; otherwise (for Christians at least) the question would be a "no brainer." What one book -- besides the Bible -- would you choose to take? I'm still not sure of my own answer. I think the Complete Shakespeare would be a good choice, actually, or the Complete Austen or the Complete Dickens. Although maybe the "complete" idea is a bit of a cop-out. Any takers here? I'd love to hear some ideas!
But the more I think about it, the aspect of Walsh's story that fascinates me most is that agonizing decision the Dad makes, to choose the "practical" book on technology (needed, productive) instead of the book that feeds the spirit in more intangible ways. How often we think of our more practical, physical needs first -- and I'm not saying that's a bad thing in and of itself, it's just a necessity because we're embodied, physical creatures. But we're so much more than just our bodies. It reminds me of that old workers' song "Bread and Roses" that talks of people's need for both bodily, physical sustenance and for beauty. How often do we have to choose bread and not roses in our daily existence? Most of the time, it seems to me. I also find myself painfully aware that, for a lot of people in our world, the choice between bread and roses isn't even a choice, because they don't have either one. And that should not be.
I know all this may sound a bit simplistic, but it's working on a soul level for me tonight. Bread and roses are more entertwined than we might think, because we human beings are entertwined, made up of body, mind, soul, spirit. Having really struggled with poverty in the past couple of years (although thankfully we've had family to help) one lesson I've learned is that poor people need and deserve good things and beauty as much as anyone else. So often what we give them is our castoffs, our broken and used things; our generic and less healthy food items go into the food pantry box, our faded and somewhat stained clothing goes to the vets, our toys with missing pieces go to the local children's home. Sometime again, when we're not counting every penny and still coming up short, I want to remember this lesson and give someone poor something that they need...on more than one level. Something beautiful as well as practical. Something new.
And as for now, I feel like I'm being asked to make a choice about how to apportion my time, and in some ways I'm having to weight that choice heavily toward practical considerations -- i.e. bread. Which means less time for roses. But I'll survive, and somehow I'll find some time in there somewhere for roses, real or imagined. At least that's my hope.
One of the adjustments I forsee is less time to read and write -- between new work hours during the day, continued work I need to do at night (both as a t.a. and in course development for the course I'll be teaching online next fall) and perhaps most importantly, trying to be as attentive and truly present as I can in the fewer waking hours I'll have with my little girl (not to mention regular "stuff" like ongoing household tasks and -- oh yes! eating! prayer! sleep!) I just can't see how I'm going to carve much of a slice out of that pie to dedicate to writing projects. Once again, I'm faced with the dilemma of having creative fire burning in my bones/longing to flesh out ideas into stories, poems and articles/wanting to use this gift and valuing the gift in and of itself -- and yet being forced to put it low, low on the priority list because it's not "productive" and doesn't help my family economically. I've been here many times in my life, but for some reason being faced with yet one more season of consciously having to push writing into the cracks and crevices of my life hurts a lot more this time around. Maybe because I just had a birthday so am feeling more aware of the swift passing of time. Maybe because the older I get, the more I feel I have to say and the more I long to find ways to say it through story. How ironic that the time periods of my life when I had more time and space to write, I didn't have nearly as much in me that longed to be written.
A week or so ago I read an interesting little book by Jill Paton Walsh, a short novel for middle grade readers called The Green Book. It's fantasy (and sort of rudimentary science fiction) about a family being sent with a small group of other people to colonize a new planet, since earth is dying. This family, a single dad and his three children, are told they must pack light. Each of them may bring one book and one book only. The father agonizes because he longs to bring a Complete Shakespeare but realizes that he needs to bring a book on technology instead, if he's going to help the colony in the new world. He lets each of his children make their own selection without his input, and their choices (and those of the other group members) are interesting, to say the least! When they all realize (after they're onboard the spaceship taking them to their new home) that the youngest child has brought along a blank book (the "green book" of the title) they're dismayed because they think she's made an unwise, even foolish choice. But it turns out to be a creative choice; one that the whole community values once they realize the child has been writing down the stories of the new community/colony. No one else had thought to do that.
I thought about entitling this posting "what book would you choose?" because I'm still genuinely curious to know what other people might pick if you could only pick one book in the world to take with you on a long journey without any real prospect of finding more books where you're arriving. I'm going to presuppose that you could take a Bible, or that the community would have a Bible; otherwise (for Christians at least) the question would be a "no brainer." What one book -- besides the Bible -- would you choose to take? I'm still not sure of my own answer. I think the Complete Shakespeare would be a good choice, actually, or the Complete Austen or the Complete Dickens. Although maybe the "complete" idea is a bit of a cop-out. Any takers here? I'd love to hear some ideas!
But the more I think about it, the aspect of Walsh's story that fascinates me most is that agonizing decision the Dad makes, to choose the "practical" book on technology (needed, productive) instead of the book that feeds the spirit in more intangible ways. How often we think of our more practical, physical needs first -- and I'm not saying that's a bad thing in and of itself, it's just a necessity because we're embodied, physical creatures. But we're so much more than just our bodies. It reminds me of that old workers' song "Bread and Roses" that talks of people's need for both bodily, physical sustenance and for beauty. How often do we have to choose bread and not roses in our daily existence? Most of the time, it seems to me. I also find myself painfully aware that, for a lot of people in our world, the choice between bread and roses isn't even a choice, because they don't have either one. And that should not be.
I know all this may sound a bit simplistic, but it's working on a soul level for me tonight. Bread and roses are more entertwined than we might think, because we human beings are entertwined, made up of body, mind, soul, spirit. Having really struggled with poverty in the past couple of years (although thankfully we've had family to help) one lesson I've learned is that poor people need and deserve good things and beauty as much as anyone else. So often what we give them is our castoffs, our broken and used things; our generic and less healthy food items go into the food pantry box, our faded and somewhat stained clothing goes to the vets, our toys with missing pieces go to the local children's home. Sometime again, when we're not counting every penny and still coming up short, I want to remember this lesson and give someone poor something that they need...on more than one level. Something beautiful as well as practical. Something new.
And as for now, I feel like I'm being asked to make a choice about how to apportion my time, and in some ways I'm having to weight that choice heavily toward practical considerations -- i.e. bread. Which means less time for roses. But I'll survive, and somehow I'll find some time in there somewhere for roses, real or imagined. At least that's my hope.
Monday, April 03, 2006
"The Weight of All My Dreams..."
I've not posted much this past week, and doubt I'll have much chance to in the coming week either. Having to let go of some things right now in a quest to survive and to not give in under the weight of some tremendous stress.
It's not quite Holy week yet, but I think God might be preparing me to walk a passion kind of road. It's hard.
Needing to flee to the life of Jesus. Needing to rest in his arms.
A pause for poetry in the midst of everything. This from W.B. Yeats.
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
It's not quite Holy week yet, but I think God might be preparing me to walk a passion kind of road. It's hard.
Needing to flee to the life of Jesus. Needing to rest in his arms.
A pause for poetry in the midst of everything. This from W.B. Yeats.
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Monday, March 27, 2006
More on Story Shaping
I used the phrase "story shaping" the other day, and have been thinking about it a bit since. I really mean at least two things by the expression: how we shape stories (as writers and storytellers) and how stories shape us.
I've recently reaffirmed how much I prefer old-fashioned story shapes. That is, stories with some discernable linear progression (even if not completely straightforward), with transitions, connections and inner weavings that make sense, with solid beginnings and ends. By solid ends, I don't necessarily mean happy or tidy endings, but I don't like complete ambiguity either. And what completely drives me crazy is stories that really don't end...they just...stop.
So I'm an antiquated fish, completely at sea as I try to swim in and out of postmodern stories. I honestly appreciate some aspects of postmodern approaches to art: in particular, the way postmoderns don't mind "borrowing" from other places and times and finding new ways to "blend." Stories that can blend vintage sensibility with contemporary characterization and setting, for instance, I like very much.
But I'm getting a little tired of the postmodern celebration of "voices" in fiction. That is, creative and interesting voices that either have nothing truthtful or beautiful to say, or that don't say anything in a way that one can easily discern meaning.
Example: the other day I came upon a creative but frustrating short story titled "Notes to my Biographer" by Adam Haslett. Haslett was a bright star in the literary firmament a handful of years ago when he first got published (not sure what's he's been doing lately; I just happened to pick up his first short story collection) and had one of those writing pedigrees that it would be so easy to envy (studied at Yale, at Breadloaf, won major grants, stories picked up by NPR). "Notes to my Biographer" was apparently the story that garnered him first major attention, and I found it a fascinating read. Well-paced, distinct "voice," interesting characters, kept me turning pages. I think it was hailed as 'fresh' but it felt a bit trite to me, embodying familiar stuff of contemporary fiction -- including an unreliable narrator (strugging with mental illness...or was he?) with a gay son. A few pages from the end, I had to put the book back on the library shelf and didn't get back to it for a couple of days. I was curious enough about the ending to go back and finish it. And argh! It had one of those endings that drives me crazy. It didn't really end; it just stopped. And I can't help but feel that this was a well written vignette, an interesting sketch or slice of life, but not really a story -- at least not a story that feels shaped for any purpose beyond impressing me with its literary tricks. Somehow that doesn't feel like enough. Maybe I'm not being fair, since I often love poetry that seems to exist just to play with language, or to celebrate sound. But stories, though they can have those poetic elements, feel like a different category for me...
When I was not long out of college, I attended (by invitation) a two-week series of workshops at an intensive/low-residency MFA program that was considering inviting me to join the program. I took a lot of things away from the experience, not least the realization that as a relatively young woman (twenty-three) trying to find a way to articulate stories that connected with my faith, I was already an antiquated fish -- or at least an odd duck. :-) One clear memory I have from the two weeks was a one on one coversation I had with a very kind but clearly somewhat weary writing mentor, who kept trotting out good but tired advice about what I should be reading. She kept telling me I needed to "develop my own voice," and that until I did, my writing really wouldn't get anywhere.
It's not bad advice, though I have to admit in the past fifteen years, as I've grown and developed, my writing voice has changed and deepened right along with me. It's not a stagnant thing; its not as though I can reach a point where I think I've "arrived" in the development of my writing voice. I've also come to a place of some creative humility about the relative unimportance of my own distinct "voice" -- in part because I've come to recognize that my voice is simply responding to other voices in an ages-old conversation to which I am a pretty recent arrival. And in art but also on the larger levels of life and prayer, I am always in a position of response: responding to the one who first called me into being, and later called me out of darkness into his wonderful light. The Word spoke first, speaks first, always takes the initiative. He's the real Story-teller; I'm invited into the story (thanks be to God) and even invited to imitate his activity as Maker. Maybe I will always be hungering then to shape stories (with a small "s") that in some way reflect the ultimate (large "S") Story.
I've recently reaffirmed how much I prefer old-fashioned story shapes. That is, stories with some discernable linear progression (even if not completely straightforward), with transitions, connections and inner weavings that make sense, with solid beginnings and ends. By solid ends, I don't necessarily mean happy or tidy endings, but I don't like complete ambiguity either. And what completely drives me crazy is stories that really don't end...they just...stop.
So I'm an antiquated fish, completely at sea as I try to swim in and out of postmodern stories. I honestly appreciate some aspects of postmodern approaches to art: in particular, the way postmoderns don't mind "borrowing" from other places and times and finding new ways to "blend." Stories that can blend vintage sensibility with contemporary characterization and setting, for instance, I like very much.
But I'm getting a little tired of the postmodern celebration of "voices" in fiction. That is, creative and interesting voices that either have nothing truthtful or beautiful to say, or that don't say anything in a way that one can easily discern meaning.
Example: the other day I came upon a creative but frustrating short story titled "Notes to my Biographer" by Adam Haslett. Haslett was a bright star in the literary firmament a handful of years ago when he first got published (not sure what's he's been doing lately; I just happened to pick up his first short story collection) and had one of those writing pedigrees that it would be so easy to envy (studied at Yale, at Breadloaf, won major grants, stories picked up by NPR). "Notes to my Biographer" was apparently the story that garnered him first major attention, and I found it a fascinating read. Well-paced, distinct "voice," interesting characters, kept me turning pages. I think it was hailed as 'fresh' but it felt a bit trite to me, embodying familiar stuff of contemporary fiction -- including an unreliable narrator (strugging with mental illness...or was he?) with a gay son. A few pages from the end, I had to put the book back on the library shelf and didn't get back to it for a couple of days. I was curious enough about the ending to go back and finish it. And argh! It had one of those endings that drives me crazy. It didn't really end; it just stopped. And I can't help but feel that this was a well written vignette, an interesting sketch or slice of life, but not really a story -- at least not a story that feels shaped for any purpose beyond impressing me with its literary tricks. Somehow that doesn't feel like enough. Maybe I'm not being fair, since I often love poetry that seems to exist just to play with language, or to celebrate sound. But stories, though they can have those poetic elements, feel like a different category for me...
When I was not long out of college, I attended (by invitation) a two-week series of workshops at an intensive/low-residency MFA program that was considering inviting me to join the program. I took a lot of things away from the experience, not least the realization that as a relatively young woman (twenty-three) trying to find a way to articulate stories that connected with my faith, I was already an antiquated fish -- or at least an odd duck. :-) One clear memory I have from the two weeks was a one on one coversation I had with a very kind but clearly somewhat weary writing mentor, who kept trotting out good but tired advice about what I should be reading. She kept telling me I needed to "develop my own voice," and that until I did, my writing really wouldn't get anywhere.
It's not bad advice, though I have to admit in the past fifteen years, as I've grown and developed, my writing voice has changed and deepened right along with me. It's not a stagnant thing; its not as though I can reach a point where I think I've "arrived" in the development of my writing voice. I've also come to a place of some creative humility about the relative unimportance of my own distinct "voice" -- in part because I've come to recognize that my voice is simply responding to other voices in an ages-old conversation to which I am a pretty recent arrival. And in art but also on the larger levels of life and prayer, I am always in a position of response: responding to the one who first called me into being, and later called me out of darkness into his wonderful light. The Word spoke first, speaks first, always takes the initiative. He's the real Story-teller; I'm invited into the story (thanks be to God) and even invited to imitate his activity as Maker. Maybe I will always be hungering then to shape stories (with a small "s") that in some way reflect the ultimate (large "S") Story.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Pause for Praise
This morning in church we sang this song. I hadn't heard it for a while, but it seemed needful for my heart, so I'm posting it here so I can come back to it from time to time. And maybe it will bless someone else as well...
(It's by the "Newsboys." Not sure of copyright info. )
What I like about it is the affirmation -- the *choosing* to bless God's name, no matter what our circumstances. I'm still learning this. I need to keep practicing. It seemed to weave together with the sermon preached by Bishop Duncan, who made his pastoral visitation this morning, and who reminded us that God has a plan: for the world, for us as a community, for you, for me (as individuals) and that it's our task to learn to "walk in" that path he's prepared beforehand for us (Ephesians 2).
Part of our cooperation with what God's doing seems intimately connected to praise...
******
Blessed be Your name
In the land that is plentiful
Where Your streams of abundance flow
Blessed be Your name
And blessed be Your name
When I'm found in the desert place
Though I walk through the wilderness
Blessed be your name
Every blessing You pour out I'll
Turn back to praise
And when the darkness closes in, Lord
Still I will say
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your name
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your glorious name
Blessed be Your name
When the sun's shining down on me
When the world's "all as it should be"
Blessed be You name
And blessed be Your name
On the road marked with suffering
Though there's pain in the offering
Blessed be Your name
You give and take away
You give and take away
My heart will choose to say
Lord, blessed be Your name
I will bless Your name
********
I turned 38 today. It was kind of a lonely and tired birthday. But it was a birthday, and I'm thankful to be alive and well.
Blessed be your name, Lord!
(It's by the "Newsboys." Not sure of copyright info. )
What I like about it is the affirmation -- the *choosing* to bless God's name, no matter what our circumstances. I'm still learning this. I need to keep practicing. It seemed to weave together with the sermon preached by Bishop Duncan, who made his pastoral visitation this morning, and who reminded us that God has a plan: for the world, for us as a community, for you, for me (as individuals) and that it's our task to learn to "walk in" that path he's prepared beforehand for us (Ephesians 2).
Part of our cooperation with what God's doing seems intimately connected to praise...
******
Blessed be Your name
In the land that is plentiful
Where Your streams of abundance flow
Blessed be Your name
And blessed be Your name
When I'm found in the desert place
Though I walk through the wilderness
Blessed be your name
Every blessing You pour out I'll
Turn back to praise
And when the darkness closes in, Lord
Still I will say
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your name
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your glorious name
Blessed be Your name
When the sun's shining down on me
When the world's "all as it should be"
Blessed be You name
And blessed be Your name
On the road marked with suffering
Though there's pain in the offering
Blessed be Your name
You give and take away
You give and take away
My heart will choose to say
Lord, blessed be Your name
I will bless Your name
********
I turned 38 today. It was kind of a lonely and tired birthday. But it was a birthday, and I'm thankful to be alive and well.
Blessed be your name, Lord!
Saturday, March 25, 2006
One more for the "story bag..."
I've recently revived my old practice of plumbing newspapers and magazines for story ideas. I often have an eye out for interesting items: odd events, fascinating names and the like. But lately I feel as though story ideas are jumping out all over the place. From time to time, I think I will drop them here into a virtual "story bag" (a kind of grab-bag of creative goodies).
Here's a fun one: http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2006/03/24/AR2006032400365.html
It's a recent Washington Post article on the death of a tortoise in an Indian zoo. He was, believe it or not, around 250 years old. A tortoise who was alive before the American Revolution! Now that's a character worth writing about.
Here's a fun one: http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2006/03/24/AR2006032400365.html
It's a recent Washington Post article on the death of a tortoise in an Indian zoo. He was, believe it or not, around 250 years old. A tortoise who was alive before the American Revolution! Now that's a character worth writing about.
Friday, March 24, 2006
Katherine Paterson wins Astrid Lindgren Award
I just found out yesterday that Katherine Paterson, one of my favorite children's authors, has won the Astrid Lindgren award. Heartfelt congratulations to her! What a joy to hear someone of her caliber has won such a prestigious award.
Paterson has written numerous wonderful stories. Her best known are probably Bridge to Terebithia, Jacob Have I Loved, and The Great Gilly Hopkins, but she's written many others as well. Award recipients are chosen from many nominations by a committee in Sweden. The award is an international honor, named for the author of the Pippi Longstocking books. It's also the largest award given to children's authors -- the prize money totals (get this!) $640,000! Even a long-established mutliple Newbery winner like Paterson must be reeling over the total. Children's book authors just do not make that kind of money in our world...at least not usually.
Actually, that was one of the nicest things about this, I think -- although the money seems like an huge amount, we know that that kind of cash (and more) is regularly doled out to people for accomplishments of a much less profound and much more ephemeral kind. Six figures are usually reserved for people who can throw a ball in a hoop, or make people laugh on a thirty-minute sitcom fourteen times a year, or who run companies with questionable practices. OK, I'm being slightly cycnical. But only slightly! Not everyone who makes large amounts of money has questionable ethics, but a lot do. And although it takes skill to tell a joke or play sports with grace and speed, I think our culture needs to ask itself some hard questions about why we award those skills with so much money while so many people working dilligently and hard at professions that make huge difference in people's lives (like teachers, for instance) often struggle to earn a living wage. Where is our treasure? That's where our heart is, as Jesus tells us.
OK, enough of my soapbox. :-) Let me revel for a moment that an author like Paterson, a simple, grounded, Christian woman who has spent years creating stories that are beautifully crafted and that provide helpful formation for young imaginations, hearts and minds, has been rewarded so tangibly. I'm sure she'll spend the money wisely (she's already gone on record as saying so...adding that she was taught that trait was important from childhood on) and I'm sure she would be quick to admit that she's been as richly rewarded in less tangible ways all through her careeer. All of which makes this news very nice news indeed.
Paterson has written numerous wonderful stories. Her best known are probably Bridge to Terebithia, Jacob Have I Loved, and The Great Gilly Hopkins, but she's written many others as well. Award recipients are chosen from many nominations by a committee in Sweden. The award is an international honor, named for the author of the Pippi Longstocking books. It's also the largest award given to children's authors -- the prize money totals (get this!) $640,000! Even a long-established mutliple Newbery winner like Paterson must be reeling over the total. Children's book authors just do not make that kind of money in our world...at least not usually.
Actually, that was one of the nicest things about this, I think -- although the money seems like an huge amount, we know that that kind of cash (and more) is regularly doled out to people for accomplishments of a much less profound and much more ephemeral kind. Six figures are usually reserved for people who can throw a ball in a hoop, or make people laugh on a thirty-minute sitcom fourteen times a year, or who run companies with questionable practices. OK, I'm being slightly cycnical. But only slightly! Not everyone who makes large amounts of money has questionable ethics, but a lot do. And although it takes skill to tell a joke or play sports with grace and speed, I think our culture needs to ask itself some hard questions about why we award those skills with so much money while so many people working dilligently and hard at professions that make huge difference in people's lives (like teachers, for instance) often struggle to earn a living wage. Where is our treasure? That's where our heart is, as Jesus tells us.
OK, enough of my soapbox. :-) Let me revel for a moment that an author like Paterson, a simple, grounded, Christian woman who has spent years creating stories that are beautifully crafted and that provide helpful formation for young imaginations, hearts and minds, has been rewarded so tangibly. I'm sure she'll spend the money wisely (she's already gone on record as saying so...adding that she was taught that trait was important from childhood on) and I'm sure she would be quick to admit that she's been as richly rewarded in less tangible ways all through her careeer. All of which makes this news very nice news indeed.
Monday, March 20, 2006
Today Marks...
It's March 20th, which means several things (some wonderful, others sad...)
- It's the first day of spring, over which there is great rejoicing in my heart. Despite the fact that it's still quite cold here, and I'm not seeing many buds on the trees yet...I know warmth and green are coming!
- On a very personal note, it's my parents' wedding anniversary, their 52nd. What a wonderful day for them and for our family. I am giving thanks for their love for all of us and for one another, and how that love has persevered and grown through the years.
- It's the birthday of Fred Rogers. Our beloved "television neighbor" died in February 2003; today would have been his 78th birthday. I'm always very aware of this anniversary since I live near Pittsburgh (his actual neighborhood!). Once again, I posted a tribute on epinions in honor of this loving, gentle man (this time a review of the book The World According to Mister Rogers: Important Things to Remember).
- It's the third anniversary of the US led invasion of Iraq. There have been over 2,500 coalition deaths (over 2,300 U.S. deaths) and by conservative reckoning, over 33,000 Iraqi civilian deaths. A time to remember, a day to pray for peace. May we keep longing for, working toward, and especially praying for a day when war shall be no more. May we become peacemakers in our own small sphere of life, wherever that may be.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Story Shaping
About fifteen years ago when I was finishing up my undergraduate degree, I had a literature professor who somewhat mischievously set her graduating seniors the task of writing an essay on the question "What is Literature?" I say mischievously because we were probably a month or less from graduating, most of us with degrees in Literature and/or Writing (I was a double major) and presumably most of us were feeling rather good about the fact that we'd survived three or four or five years of study and could pat ourselves on the back for having become at least somewhat proficient in our field of endeavour.
Heh. I think Betsy (my professor) knew that attempting to answer the question would provide us with some moments of humour and humility. Perhaps she even knew that for some of us, instead of providing "closure" to the college experience, contemplating such a question could help invite us into the realization that the field we'd chosen to study would continue to be a rich terrain to explore for the rest of our lives. At least that was my experience. As I struggled to answer the simple question, I think I began a conscious awareness that my studies in school had merely opened the door. I've always been a reader, a writer, a lover of language and especially of stories. I've always needed those things in my life to help make sense of my life, and to help me think through (with mind, imagination and heart) all that I'm learning.
I don't remember much of what I said in that essay. I do know that I fumbled for words, that I moved quickly from prose into the language of fairy-tale in an attempt to answer it. And I do recall that the metaphor I tried rather clumsily to employ was literature as a "cup" -- something that helps provide a shaped container for our experiences, be they sweet, sour, or something mixed.
I thought of that essay when I read these wise words this week from Rebecca West:
Art is not a plaything, but a necessity, and its essence, form, is not a decorative adjustment, but a cup into which life can be poured and lifted to the lips and be tasted. If one's own existence has no form, if its events do not come handily to mind and disclose their significance, we feel about ourselves as if we were reading a bad book. We can all of us judge the truth of this, for hardly any of us manage to avoid some periods when the main theme of our lives is obscured by details.
I resonated with this quote on so many levels, both aesthetic and personal. And I felt tremendously pleased to finally find a well-written description of what I tried (fumblingly) to say when I was 23.
What kind of book is your life right now? What's happening in the story, and what or who is shaping its plot twists, its deepening characterization? What is the main theme of your life? Questions worth asking. We need stories that help us think through the answers, stories that help us to order and shape all the "raw data" and ordinary details of our lives. Stories that challenge, heal and startle us. Stories in which we see ourselves...both as we are, and as we wish to be.
More on this soon...
Heh. I think Betsy (my professor) knew that attempting to answer the question would provide us with some moments of humour and humility. Perhaps she even knew that for some of us, instead of providing "closure" to the college experience, contemplating such a question could help invite us into the realization that the field we'd chosen to study would continue to be a rich terrain to explore for the rest of our lives. At least that was my experience. As I struggled to answer the simple question, I think I began a conscious awareness that my studies in school had merely opened the door. I've always been a reader, a writer, a lover of language and especially of stories. I've always needed those things in my life to help make sense of my life, and to help me think through (with mind, imagination and heart) all that I'm learning.
I don't remember much of what I said in that essay. I do know that I fumbled for words, that I moved quickly from prose into the language of fairy-tale in an attempt to answer it. And I do recall that the metaphor I tried rather clumsily to employ was literature as a "cup" -- something that helps provide a shaped container for our experiences, be they sweet, sour, or something mixed.
I thought of that essay when I read these wise words this week from Rebecca West:
Art is not a plaything, but a necessity, and its essence, form, is not a decorative adjustment, but a cup into which life can be poured and lifted to the lips and be tasted. If one's own existence has no form, if its events do not come handily to mind and disclose their significance, we feel about ourselves as if we were reading a bad book. We can all of us judge the truth of this, for hardly any of us manage to avoid some periods when the main theme of our lives is obscured by details.
I resonated with this quote on so many levels, both aesthetic and personal. And I felt tremendously pleased to finally find a well-written description of what I tried (fumblingly) to say when I was 23.
What kind of book is your life right now? What's happening in the story, and what or who is shaping its plot twists, its deepening characterization? What is the main theme of your life? Questions worth asking. We need stories that help us think through the answers, stories that help us to order and shape all the "raw data" and ordinary details of our lives. Stories that challenge, heal and startle us. Stories in which we see ourselves...both as we are, and as we wish to be.
Friday, March 17, 2006
Happy St. Patrick's Day!
This morning I read the story of St. Patrick from Bob Hartman's Early Saints of God. It's a very well written book for children. A bit old for Sarah still (who got antsy during the introduction and tuned out) but I enjoyed it a lot. In fact, it reminded me of one of the most obvious but amazing facts about St. Patrick, one we tend to forget: Patrick wasn't Irish.
He was, in fact, a Briton, born in what we now know as Wales. He was abducted by Irish raiders and became a slave in Ireland. It was while a slave that he found new freedom in Christ, who answered his anguished prayers and helped him find his way home again. Years later, having become a priest and then a bishop, Patrick returned to the land of his captivity as an evangelist.
My good friend Gail sent me a timely note last night, along with a copy of the wonderful St. Patrick's Breastplate, a beautiful hymn/prayer for protection and and help. I've loved it for a long time, but it never ceases to move me, especially that last stanza:
Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,
Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ on my right, Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down,
Christ when I arise,
Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of every one who speaks of me,
Christ in the eye of every one that sees me
Christ in every ear that hears me.
I arise today [I bind unto my self this day]
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through a belief in the threeness,
Through confession of the oneness
Of the Creator of Creation.
********
I also spent part of the day remembering with great fondness how much fun St. Patrick's Day always was when I worked with the Cabrini sisters. Many of the Cabrini sisters are Italian, but some of them are Irish, and at any rate, they always know how to celebrate...not just St. Patrick's, but almost every other occasion, small or large! I can almost taste those yummy pastries the sisters in the Radnor community would bring into the office on March 17 -- I think they were called Irish Potatoes. I actually looked up some recipes online, but apparently there are lots of ways to make them...most of them featuring cream, coconut and cinnamon. Perhaps I wil have to try to make some of these, if not this year, then next. (If anyone out there has a favorite recipe, let me know) Yum!!
He was, in fact, a Briton, born in what we now know as Wales. He was abducted by Irish raiders and became a slave in Ireland. It was while a slave that he found new freedom in Christ, who answered his anguished prayers and helped him find his way home again. Years later, having become a priest and then a bishop, Patrick returned to the land of his captivity as an evangelist.
My good friend Gail sent me a timely note last night, along with a copy of the wonderful St. Patrick's Breastplate, a beautiful hymn/prayer for protection and and help. I've loved it for a long time, but it never ceases to move me, especially that last stanza:
Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,
Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ on my right, Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down,
Christ when I arise,
Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of every one who speaks of me,
Christ in the eye of every one that sees me
Christ in every ear that hears me.
I arise today [I bind unto my self this day]
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through a belief in the threeness,
Through confession of the oneness
Of the Creator of Creation.
********
I also spent part of the day remembering with great fondness how much fun St. Patrick's Day always was when I worked with the Cabrini sisters. Many of the Cabrini sisters are Italian, but some of them are Irish, and at any rate, they always know how to celebrate...not just St. Patrick's, but almost every other occasion, small or large! I can almost taste those yummy pastries the sisters in the Radnor community would bring into the office on March 17 -- I think they were called Irish Potatoes. I actually looked up some recipes online, but apparently there are lots of ways to make them...most of them featuring cream, coconut and cinnamon. Perhaps I wil have to try to make some of these, if not this year, then next. (If anyone out there has a favorite recipe, let me know) Yum!!
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Flourishing Oak Trees, Deep Roots
Several years ago, when I was a seminarian, I remember journaling about a pattern I noted in my life...the way the Lord often gets my attention by nudging me over and over with similar images or words. I usually know He is trying to get my attention and help me into new growth in a certain area when I suddenly find myself almost tripping over certain specific images or verses of Scripture wherever I turn, from books to conversations.
It's been happening lately, especially with the image of a tree. Not just any tree, but a green and flourishing tree with deep roots.
The odd thing (or perhaps not so odd, really) is that I truly don't feel like such a tree right now. Many circumstances in my life are combining to make me feel rather weary and parched, and I fret (and oh, I can fret with the best of them) over what can feel like a lack of fruitfulness. I have days when I'm not only not flourishing; I feel like a tiny little sapling about to get torn up by a heavy wind.
But I think during this Lenten season God is working in me a desire to become a flourishing tree, a Psalm 1 and Jeremiah 17 tree. Why was I surprised when a woman in our small group this evening read out the exact verses from Jeremiah 17 that God had just snagged my attention with yesterday as I was reading...verses I went back to this afternoon? A threefold reminder:
"Blessed are those who trust in the LORD, whose trust is in the LORD. They shall be like a tree planted by water, sending out its roots by the stream. It shall not fear when heat comes, and its leaves shall stay green; in the year of drought it is not anxious, and it does not cease to bear fruit." (Jeremiah 17:7-8)
I'm feeling especially meditative right now about oak trees. Last fall when the leaves were turning, I would take Sarah on walks and we'd pick up different leaves and bring them home, talk about them, make crayon rubbings of them, note their different shapes. In our neighborhood, the most plenteous kinds of trees are sycamores, maples and oaks. So Sarah's gotten very good at identifying those three kinds of trees and leaves. I found myself especially in awe of oaks, and how they grow from tiny acorns. I've written a couple of acorn and oak poems in recent months.
A few weeks ago, while reading in Esther DeWaal's The Celtic Way of Prayer, I came across a writing by St. Columba. He wrote this as he was leaving his home in Ireland for exile in Scotland. In Derry, he dwelt in an grove of oaks: It is for this I love Derry,/For its smoothness, for its purity; All full of angels/Is every leaf on the oaks of Derry he wrote, and I can't get that wonderful image of oak leaf angels out of my mind.
Then yesterday, reading further in Called by a New Name: Becoming What God Has Promised (a rich book by Gerrit Scott Dawson) I dwelt for a while both on the Jeremiah 17 verse, and on Isaiah 61:3 They will be called oaks of righteousness, the planting of the LORD, to the display of his glory. And my heart cries out, make it so, Lord Jesus!
Finally, Sarah was rummaging through a drawer in her room today (she's got a newfound fascination with drawers, which means I'm needing to do some throwing away and reorganizing!) and found a small cardboard "Jesse Tree" we'd put together a couple of advent seasons ago. I have no idea how it got in that drawer instead of with the advent things in the closet, but there it was. She trotted it out to the kitchen where I was and we fit the two slotted halves together to make it stand up. I asked her if she remembered it and we started talking about what it was. At which point she smiled her lovely Sarah smile and said "It looka like an oak tree."
Okay, I get it. :-) I'm supposed to be dwelling on what it means to be a tree, and not just any tree, but one planted by the Lord, strong and flourishing, with my roots deep in the soil of his love.
It's been happening lately, especially with the image of a tree. Not just any tree, but a green and flourishing tree with deep roots.
The odd thing (or perhaps not so odd, really) is that I truly don't feel like such a tree right now. Many circumstances in my life are combining to make me feel rather weary and parched, and I fret (and oh, I can fret with the best of them) over what can feel like a lack of fruitfulness. I have days when I'm not only not flourishing; I feel like a tiny little sapling about to get torn up by a heavy wind.
But I think during this Lenten season God is working in me a desire to become a flourishing tree, a Psalm 1 and Jeremiah 17 tree. Why was I surprised when a woman in our small group this evening read out the exact verses from Jeremiah 17 that God had just snagged my attention with yesterday as I was reading...verses I went back to this afternoon? A threefold reminder:
"Blessed are those who trust in the LORD, whose trust is in the LORD. They shall be like a tree planted by water, sending out its roots by the stream. It shall not fear when heat comes, and its leaves shall stay green; in the year of drought it is not anxious, and it does not cease to bear fruit." (Jeremiah 17:7-8)
I'm feeling especially meditative right now about oak trees. Last fall when the leaves were turning, I would take Sarah on walks and we'd pick up different leaves and bring them home, talk about them, make crayon rubbings of them, note their different shapes. In our neighborhood, the most plenteous kinds of trees are sycamores, maples and oaks. So Sarah's gotten very good at identifying those three kinds of trees and leaves. I found myself especially in awe of oaks, and how they grow from tiny acorns. I've written a couple of acorn and oak poems in recent months.
A few weeks ago, while reading in Esther DeWaal's The Celtic Way of Prayer, I came across a writing by St. Columba. He wrote this as he was leaving his home in Ireland for exile in Scotland. In Derry, he dwelt in an grove of oaks: It is for this I love Derry,/For its smoothness, for its purity; All full of angels/Is every leaf on the oaks of Derry he wrote, and I can't get that wonderful image of oak leaf angels out of my mind.
Then yesterday, reading further in Called by a New Name: Becoming What God Has Promised (a rich book by Gerrit Scott Dawson) I dwelt for a while both on the Jeremiah 17 verse, and on Isaiah 61:3 They will be called oaks of righteousness, the planting of the LORD, to the display of his glory. And my heart cries out, make it so, Lord Jesus!
Finally, Sarah was rummaging through a drawer in her room today (she's got a newfound fascination with drawers, which means I'm needing to do some throwing away and reorganizing!) and found a small cardboard "Jesse Tree" we'd put together a couple of advent seasons ago. I have no idea how it got in that drawer instead of with the advent things in the closet, but there it was. She trotted it out to the kitchen where I was and we fit the two slotted halves together to make it stand up. I asked her if she remembered it and we started talking about what it was. At which point she smiled her lovely Sarah smile and said "It looka like an oak tree."
Okay, I get it. :-) I'm supposed to be dwelling on what it means to be a tree, and not just any tree, but one planted by the Lord, strong and flourishing, with my roots deep in the soil of his love.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Harry Potter Book Seven
I've been so busy lately that I haven't been keeping up with the latest Harry Potter news. When I finally did "check in" in HP land the other day, I discovered what most serious fans of the books (at least those who check in at Rowling's website or the Leaky Cauldron regularly) probably already know...Rowling is still hard at work on book 7, and it's getting LONG.
Is anyone surprised by this?! :-)
JKR posted an update to her website journal on the last day of February, in effect worrying out loud a bit that the book-in-progress might be turning into an Order of the Phoenix size finale. She made a comment that what she thought would be two chapters had already become four, and then joked about it being as long as Phoenix, while trying to assure herself and her faithful readers that she didn't think it would be. Not that most of her readers would mind.
Frankly, I'm not surprised that she's discovering it's a lengthy story. She's left herself a huge amount of ground to cover, and lots of important questions to answer. She's such a good writer that I think she will deliver on everything major that she needs to deliver on. If it turns out to take 700 or 800 pages, so be it. (I for one will enjoy the ride!)
I do think Phoenix could have been slimmed...I said then and I think I stand by it now, that it could have used a good final edit. Still, I like it a lot, and I admire it far more now than I did in my first read-through. I think it will go down in HP history as the most difficult book in the series -- for JKR to write, and for readers to read. Books 1-4 each have their own sort of "character" and each provide an important part of the overall epic; she's already said books 6-7 are more or less all of one piece, providing the end of the saga. Book 5 was the transition book, moving us from the return of Voldemort to the "begnning of the end" in book 6. It was also the "nigredo" book, if you follow the ideas about alchemical literary symbolism as put forth by John Granger (which I do, with much delight). Meaning, it was in book 5 that Harry had to go through the process of being completely "broken down" by his experiences and trials, prior to the final stages of the purification process in the last books. What it meant was a darker tone and a more depressed Harry than we'd ever seen before (or since). The plot also advanced the least in book 5, despite its length.
At any rate, I don't think she will have the same problems with book 7. It's a completely different place in the Potter epic, and if she's struggling to keep words to a minimum, it's because she's created such a rich world, and set such rich questions, obstacles and quests in motion that she's got a lot to deal with in order to give us a satisfying ending. I'll post more soon on some of what I think she's got to address in the final story...as well as why some readers are bound to be dissatisfied no matter how long it ends up being!
Is anyone surprised by this?! :-)
JKR posted an update to her website journal on the last day of February, in effect worrying out loud a bit that the book-in-progress might be turning into an Order of the Phoenix size finale. She made a comment that what she thought would be two chapters had already become four, and then joked about it being as long as Phoenix, while trying to assure herself and her faithful readers that she didn't think it would be. Not that most of her readers would mind.
Frankly, I'm not surprised that she's discovering it's a lengthy story. She's left herself a huge amount of ground to cover, and lots of important questions to answer. She's such a good writer that I think she will deliver on everything major that she needs to deliver on. If it turns out to take 700 or 800 pages, so be it. (I for one will enjoy the ride!)
I do think Phoenix could have been slimmed...I said then and I think I stand by it now, that it could have used a good final edit. Still, I like it a lot, and I admire it far more now than I did in my first read-through. I think it will go down in HP history as the most difficult book in the series -- for JKR to write, and for readers to read. Books 1-4 each have their own sort of "character" and each provide an important part of the overall epic; she's already said books 6-7 are more or less all of one piece, providing the end of the saga. Book 5 was the transition book, moving us from the return of Voldemort to the "begnning of the end" in book 6. It was also the "nigredo" book, if you follow the ideas about alchemical literary symbolism as put forth by John Granger (which I do, with much delight). Meaning, it was in book 5 that Harry had to go through the process of being completely "broken down" by his experiences and trials, prior to the final stages of the purification process in the last books. What it meant was a darker tone and a more depressed Harry than we'd ever seen before (or since). The plot also advanced the least in book 5, despite its length.
At any rate, I don't think she will have the same problems with book 7. It's a completely different place in the Potter epic, and if she's struggling to keep words to a minimum, it's because she's created such a rich world, and set such rich questions, obstacles and quests in motion that she's got a lot to deal with in order to give us a satisfying ending. I'll post more soon on some of what I think she's got to address in the final story...as well as why some readers are bound to be dissatisfied no matter how long it ends up being!
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Chesterton on Misplaced Humility
I've begun reading Alan Jacobs' book of "Essays in Truthtelling," entitled Shaming the Devil. In his introduction he quotes the amazing G.K. Chesterton on the the subject of humility:
What we suffer from to-day is humility in the wrong place. Modesty has moved from the organ of ambition. Modesty has settled upon the organ of conviction; where it was never meant to be. A man was meant to be doubtful about himself, but undoubting about the truth; this has been exactly reversed. Nowadays the part of a man that a man does assert is exactly the part he ought not to assert -- himself. The part he doubts is exactly the part he ought not to doubt -- the Divine Reason.
It still rings true all these years later.
What we suffer from to-day is humility in the wrong place. Modesty has moved from the organ of ambition. Modesty has settled upon the organ of conviction; where it was never meant to be. A man was meant to be doubtful about himself, but undoubting about the truth; this has been exactly reversed. Nowadays the part of a man that a man does assert is exactly the part he ought not to assert -- himself. The part he doubts is exactly the part he ought not to doubt -- the Divine Reason.
It still rings true all these years later.
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