Ken Burns on Learning from History and How History Shapes Us

Documentary filmmaker Ken Burns recently gave a commencement speech at Stanford. It has been making its way around the web. There are many good things in the speech, but a couple of sections really stood out to me. As a fellow student and teacher of history,  I wanted to post them here so I could come back to them from time to time.

First, on the importance on learning from history:

Over those decades of historical documentary filmmaking, I have also come to the realization that history is not a fixed thing, a collection of precise dates, facts and events that add up to a quantifiable, certain, confidently known truth. History is a mysterious and malleable thing, constantly changing, not just as new information emerges, but as our own interests, emotions and inclinations change. Each generation rediscovers and reexamines that part of its past that gives its present new meaning, new possibility and new power. The question becomes for us now – for you especially – what will we choose as our inspiration? Which distant events and long dead figures will provide us with the greatest help, the most coherent context and the wisdom to go forward?

This is in part an existential question. None of us gets out of here alive...The hard times and vicissitudes of life will ultimately visit everyone. You will also come to realize that you are less defined by the good things that happen to you, your moments of happiness and apparent control, than you are by those misfortunes and unexpected challenges that, in fact, shape you more definitively, and help to solidify your true character – the measure of any human value. You, especially, know that the conversation that comes out of tragedy and injustice needs to be encouraged, emphasis on courage. It is through those conversations that we make progress.

And on the importance of stories...and moments...that shape us:

I have a searing memory of the summer of 1962, when I was almost 9, joining our family dinner on a hot, sweltering day in a tract house in a development in Newark, Delaware, and seeing my mother crying. She had just learned, and my brother and I had just been told, that she would be dead of cancer within six months. But that’s not what was causing her tears. Our inadequate health insurance had practically bankrupted us, and our neighbors – equally struggling working people – had taken up a collection and presented my parents with six crisp $20 bills – $120 in total – enough to keep us solvent for more than a month. In that moment, I understood something about community and courage, about constant struggle and little victories. That hot June evening was a victory. And I have spent my entire professional life trying to resurrect small moments within the larger sweep of American history, trying to find our better angels in the most difficult of circumstances, trying to wake the dead, to hear their stories.

But how do we keep that realization of our own inevitable mortality from paralyzing us with fear? And how do we also keep our usual denial of this fact from depriving our lives and our actions of real meaning, of real purpose? This is our great human challenge, your challenge. This is where history can help. The past often offers an illuminating and clear-headed perspective from which to observe and reconcile the passions of the present moment, just when they threaten to overwhelm us. The history we know, the stories we tell ourselves, relieve that existential anxiety, allow us to live beyond our fleeting lifespans, and permit us to value and love and distinguish what is important. And the practice of history, both personal and professional, becomes a kind of conscience for us.

Good words to ponder.

Feeling and Thinking

“ Mozart fulfills me. But I cannot think about his music; I have to listen to it.” ~Pope Francis

Not long ago, I came across this beautiful quote from Pope Francis. I so resonated with it, and it keeps coming back to me as I contemplate my experience of both music and stories.

It seems to me that our deepest experience of either music or story comes when we fall headfirst, or perhaps heartfirst, inside the world that's been created. We find ourselves in the world of sound and harmony or the world of narrative and poetry, and while there, all we can do is listen, not think outside of the experience. 

When we're inside that subcreated world, listening is what matters. I think many of us have had the literal sense of being so lost (and paradoxically so found) inside a created song or story that it feels like a "coming back" to the outside world when the last note sounds or the final word is read and we close the book. 

Many of the best things we read or listen to do indeed cause us to think, but the thinking comes later, and that kind of more analytical thinking is a distinctly different kind of pleasure than what we experienced in our initial encounter with the work. We might think about the creation of the work itself: how did the composer, the writer, do what he did, and why? What thoughts or experiences inspired a certain bend or turn in the work that we didn't expect?  Frankly, I love doing that kind of thinking, but not everyone does, and I don't think we need to assume that a person who doesn't love it has had any less of a deep experience, though they may respond in a completely different way.

Just a few rambling thoughts this afternoon...more to come another day. 

Downton Abbey: Seven Reasons We'll Miss Matthew Crawley

We’ve just finished watching the third series of Downton Abbey. We’ve got months to go before we can see the fourth series (just now airing in the UK; not to air in the US till January, and even later for the DVD release we’ll need to wait for) so I figure that gives me plenty of time to muse about characters we’ll miss.

If you’re a fan of Downton Abbey, you no doubt know that actor Dan Stevens, who has played Matthew Crawley for the first three series, decided not to renew his contract for the fourth season. I can only imagine the headache this caused series creator and writer Julian Fellowes, who somehow had to negotiate series 3 knowing what he was going to have to do at the end of it, and how unhappy that was going to make the show’s many fans. If you don’t know precisely what happened at the end of series 3 and you don’t want to be spoiled, read no further. From here out, if you’re still reading, I’ll assume you know or don’t mind knowing.

My goodness, we’re going to miss Matthew. In trying to figure out why I felt so terribly disappointed and saddened by his exit, I realized it wasn’t just that he was a likable character who had been at the heart of the show since the beginning. His character and his character arc were tied up in many things. Here are seven reasons I think we’ll especially miss Matthew Crawley:

1)      The romantic chemistry he shared with Mary.  These two really did have chemistry, but it was more than chemistry that made their love for each other seem so luminous. Matthew brought out the best in Mary. Simply put, he knew how to melt the porcupine prickles around her heart. In series three, after they finally came together and wed (following plenty of ups and downs in the first two series) there was something especially sweet about the ways they realized they were good for each other. More than once, Mary alluded to the fact that Matthew was the only person who truly saw her as a good person, and more than once, Matthew alluded to the fact that it was because he knew her best – helping her gently understand that the person he saw and loved was who Mary really was deep-down. I hope that Mary’s unfolding understanding of herself will continue as she matures through grief and motherhood. I also hope she will remember the laughter and kindness she shared with Matthew and maybe try to share them more with others.

2)      The levity he brought to the table. Sometimes quite literally the table – that all-important gathering place for the aristocratic Crawley clan. Matthew was able to use his outsider status to help them thaw out a bit, but more than that, he had a sprightly way of laughing at himself and others that lightened up the family. A raised eyebrow, a slight smile, a self-deprecating remark – those were Matthew’s usual trademarks. There was one scene in an episode of series 3 that made me laugh aloud, when Matthew, alone with Mary in their room, dropped onto the bed with loud sigh over some bit of charged aristocratic drama that had just unfolded downstairs. Mary was sitting primly before her mirror, touching up her hair, and here’s Matthew flopping onto the bed like a fish, letting out a gusty sigh. It cracked me up.

3)      His partnership with Robert and Tom.  This was just starting to coalesce and I will miss seeing its development. Robert (the Earl of Grantham) has had such a hard time coming to grips with the need to modernize the management of the estate. He had come to a grudging acceptance of the fact that he needed to work with the newer generation and their ideas – his two young sons-in-law. Matthew’s outsider status, as the distant solicitor cousin set to inherit, seemed dwarfed by Tom’s outsider status as Irish nationalist chauffeur who dared to marry the Earl’s youngest daughter, but nevertheless, neither grew up an English aristocrat. That grudging acceptance was turning into real respect for what each young man could bring to the partnership.

Robert’s eye-opening conversation with his Scottish cousin Shrimpy, whom he discovered (in the final episode of series 3) was losing his estate due to mismanagement and a lack of courage regarding modernizing, was interestingly timed. I’m glad we had a chance to hear Robert tell Cora how much he had come to appreciate Matthew’s contributions, but I’m sad he never had a chance to tell Matthew himself. And I’m really curious to know how Robert and Tom will work together without Matthew there to act as the gracious but stubborn buffer between them. Once again, Matthew was really good at seeing the best in people – in his old-fashioned, sometimes stuck-in-his-ways father-in-law, and in his hotheaded, still often uncomfortable-in-this-world brother-in-law. They will miss him sorely. I have some ideas how I would move this scenario forward as a writer, but I have no idea where the writer will actually go.

4)      His long-awaited and newfound joy in fatherhood. Matthew was so excited to become a daddy at long last. He radiated that joy. It is heartbreaking that he only ever saw his child one time, and that he will not be there to see his son grow up.

5)      His close relationship to his mother. Poor Isobel. She tends to get a little overlooked amidst all the flashier characters on the show, but I really love Isobel. And one thing I know for sure is how much Isobel loved and respected her only son. She helped him navigate the unexpected inheritance by moving with him into a world that she isn’t entirely comfortable in herself, and she’s not let that world change who she is at the core, continuing on her outspoken, forthright way. I worry about how Isobel will navigate her own grief over Matthew’s passing…most likely, she will stuff it. Then again, this could be an opportunity for the writers to let her character really grow. Is it possible she might rethink Dr. Clarkson’s almost-proposal? And how will she and Mary relate now that Matthew is gone…how much will Isobel want to be involved in her grandson’s upbringing?

6)      His encouragement of Edith. This one feels tiny in comparison to the others, but I’ll still miss it. Matthew has been a stalwart champion and a real confidante for Edith. (Among other things, I’m pretty sure he was the only member of the family who knows that Edith is in love with a married man with a mad wife in the attic. OK, not the attic, but you get what I mean.) Edith doesn’t get close to many people, but Matthew was someone she really trusted.

7)      The way his presence on the show constantly reminded us of the story’s beginnings. It was the sinking of the Titanic, with the heir on board, that drove Matthew to Downton in the very first episode, and it was his coming that “unsettled” this aristocratic little hamlet from the start. You could say that Matthew dropping into their lives was like a rock thrown into a puddle, and the ripples have been moving out ever since. I’ll miss seeing those ripples continue to expand, and I’ll miss the ways the show might have been able to do some neat “full-circle” kind of writing if he’d stayed with it.

And I could have added an eighth: he can’t come back. I really wonder, did his exit have to be so entirely final? Could they not have talked the actor into the possibility of occasional appearances and worked creatively around the absences? Maybe not, but oh, I wish they’d tried.

"New" Van Gogh Painting Authenticated: Hooray for Beauty and Story!

Exciting news in the art world today: they've identified a "new" Van Gogh. You can read about the discovery and see the painting, "Sunset at Montmajour," in the NYT article here.

I found this news fascinating, and not just because Van Gogh is one of the artists of my heart. It seems amazing to me that a painting done in 1888 and hidden from view for many years could suddenly be unearthed from an attic, a little bit like finding buried treasure or something surprising and wonderful in an archaeological excavation.

It's making me muse about beauty. It's also fun to speculate on the details of the story of the painting's journey, just briefly sketched in the article.

The painting, with its incredible light-filled brush stroked sky, was beautiful from the moment Van Gogh painted it, and that beauty has never ceased to be, but it was hidden for years. It was sold from Vincent's brother Theo's collection in 1901, they think, when Theo's widow sold it to an art dealer in Paris. The dealer sold it to a collector in Norway. In 1908, someone told that collector it wasn't authentic and he stuck it in an attic where it was apparently rediscovered several years ago by the people who now own the house. The Van Gogh museum recently authenticated it, saying that techniques for authenticating paintings have improved greatly in the past century.

It makes me wonder...well...so many things! Story brain in high gear this morning. Why was the painting considered inauthentic in 1908, just twenty years after it was painted? Had Van Gogh's work recently come into vogue? Was there a rush of Van Gogh look-alike fakes? Did the person who claimed it wasn't authentic really believe it to be the work of someone else (probably) or did he or she have an agenda (fanciful fiction brain...)

And if you had a painting this gorgeous, would you stick it in the attic even if you believed it to be a fake? That's the part that really pulls me up short. If I had this painting in my possession, I can easily see being disappointed if I was told it wasn't an authentic Van Gogh. While it would change my perspective on the painting's ultimate collectible value, why would it necessarily change my view of the painting's enduring aesthetic value? I would never have stashed a painting like this in a dark attic, even in a fit of pique or melancholy (or so I hope).

Once in the attic, it sounds like it was forgotten (sort of like Old Bear) and sold off when the house was. Can you imagine the current owners' astonishment when they found it? I picture a rainy day, the kind good for exploring attics, and a canvas wrapped up in an quilt and tied with twine. (Yes, story brain in overdrive today, folks...hang with me...)

All of which again begs the question of how we think of beauty and value. Sometimes we recognize and celebrate such things, but sometimes we hide them or ignore them or can't see their true worth because of what we've been told is important or what we choose to believe about their worth. Sometimes beauty stays in plain sight and we still overlook it. If this is true of crafted artifacts, how true is it of the natural beauty in creation or the beauty of our fellow human beings? 

Story starter ideas:
Create a character who has come into possession of what he thinks is a rare and valuable painting, only to discover it's not by the famous artist he hoped painted it. What does he do next? (And how many possibilities could you spin from that?)

Create a dialogue between two people arguing over the authenticity of a certain painting. Make each one very vested in his or her position. Write the dialogue once where they reach an impasse. Write it again and have one of them persuade the other of his or her position.

Imagine the attic exploration that leads to the discovery of a rare and famous painting. Who discovers it and how? How does it make them feel? How might it change their life and circumstances?

Jumping Back Into Story: Beginning With the End

On this third day of the new year, I’ve been cleaning, organizing, lesson planning, enjoying time with the sweet girl, and generally trying to get well (still congested, still coughing). Now that end of term grading is done, I’m also trying to get back into the writing groove, but it’s taking a little longer than I anticipated.

What is it that makes jumping back into something creative so hard sometimes? Writing is the thing I love to do beyond all else, and yet when it’s been a while since I’ve regularly written – especially fiction – I can find all manner of things to put off the jump.

I used to think it was because my writing muscles weren’t well exercised. That may still be true, but it’s less true than it used to be since I do other kinds of writing regularly even when I’m not actively writing stories. Still, there is a different part of the brain (and hands) involved in writing non-fiction and even poems, so lack of regular exercise may still be part of it.

For me, I think it’s more often the realization that my jump can never be as deep as I’d like it to be. Although I’ve gotten better at writing in small spurts, out of necessity, I still write stories best when I can dive and dive deep for long, long stretches of time. That time is scarce at best and non-existent at worst some days. Knowing that I can’t give the time or attention needed makes me feel like I'm always “holding back” when I start. When you know there is a good chance you will be interrupted seven minutes in (and twelve, and sixteen, and nineteen) it’s just harder to leap with abandon.

Some of my hesitation may also come from the simple fact that I cannot shut a door. My writing space is in a corner of our living room. Even late at night, often my best writing time, when everyone else is in bed, there is still something that feels not private enough about the space. Add in that my crowded desk is cluttered with books and papers connected to all the different hats I wear in family and ministry, and it sometimes just doesn’t feel like the writerly space I need.

But enough whining. I am here to say, on the third day of the new year, that I need to dive back into story soon. And today I found a fascinating blog that provided me with some creative ideas to jumpstart my WIP. One of the most audacious ideas I found there was the suggestion that I write my story's final chapter now. Yes, now, when I am nowhere near writing the actual end, and when I don't know everything I need to know yet. The mere idea of doing this scares me in a delightful way.  I think I must feel a little bit like my ten year old did when she recently managed a 25 foot rock climb in a gym. When she landed on her feet at the bottom again, she clutched at her heart and announced "That was terrifying...AND awesome!" I suspect writing my last chapter now would feel just like that.

But the idea is resonating with me. Perhaps because a couple of weeks ago, my husband and I sat down and worked on plot points for my WIP -- moving from the end to the beginning. So I already feel as though I've been building from that perspective in my mind.

Wonderful Storytellers: Pixar

We've always been a Pixar watching family. In fact, my husband and I laugh because the first movie we got out to see after we became parents (our first date after the sweet girl was born eight plus years ago) was Finding Nemo. We chuckled a bit sheepishly over the fact that we got a baby-sitter for our newborn so we could have some grown-up time...and then went to see an animated movie. But ah, what animation!

As amazing as Pixar's animation skills are, however, what has always set their movies apart is their amazing storytelling. They give us characters we really care about and compelling tales for them to walk (or run, swim, fly, or "fall with style" through).

We were reminded of that again this weekend when we went to the theater to see Toy Story 3. We don't get to the theater often; this was a belated birthday gift to the sweet girl, and our whole family was blessed by it.

The sweet girl has only become a Toy Story fan in recent weeks. When we realized the third film was coming up, we dug out our old library-sale VHS copies of the first two films and played them for her. (In general, she's more a book-girl than a movie-girl, and somehow we'd just never gotten around to them.) She fell for the characters and stories right away, and has become a particularly ardent fan of Buzz Lightyear. She especially likes to watch the second movie over and over...when she does fall for a story, she tends to like to inhabit it for a while, something I completely empathize with.

What's been particularly fun is watching how the well-crafted story shapes of these films are helping her become more aware of narrative art. She caught on right away to some of the "formula" elements of the tales, noting with great enjoyment how certain things seemed to repeat themselves (like the toys leaving Andy's house and needing rescue) but also got inverted (Woody saves Buzz, then Buzz saves Woody). She noticed more of those elements in Toy Story 3, which does a brilliant job of repeating those old motifs but keeping them fresh and lively. It also does an excellent job of paying off some story moments from the earlier films, including a couple I wasn't expecting.

She's had interesting questions that have actually led to some family discussions about story-telling, especially story-telling in the movies. She wondered why movies get so loud and exciting near the end, commenting on the extended sequences where that happened and where all the problems seemed to get solved. We actually got to introduce the words climax and denouement into dinner-time conversation!

She's also picking up on the joys of good characterization. This morning (the morning after our big Toy Story 3 in the theater moment) she made me laugh. She told me she'd been imagining a new Toy Story scene, this one involving a big bear with sharp claws. "And I know just what all the different toys would say," she said. Buzz would say "LOOK OUT!" The aliens would say "The CLAW!" Rex would say, "That's not just ANY claw, that's a bear claw! We're going to get stepped on!" and Woody would say "NOBODY is going to get stepped on!"

All of which seemed pretty spot-on to me (fan fiction writer in the making? or perhaps just fiction?)!

As for me, I realized yesterday just how far I trust Pixar's storytelling. I won't go into details (in case you've not yet seen the movie) but there's a scene of intense peril toward the end. It looks like all the beloved toys we've come to know are going to die for certain. I heard a plaintive "Mommy!" and turned to see the sweet girl looking thoroughly alarmed. I'm not sure, but I think she was actually physically trembling ~ and it was that intense. I leaned in close and squeezed her hand and whispered "It's all right. Keep watching. It's all going to come out all right," all the time my brain was working on another level. I was trusting that the outcome would be a satisfying one, praying that John Lasseter and the whole creative Pixar team was going to come through again! And on another level, I'd fallen completely into the story myself and was inwardly fretting about the potential outcome for Woody, Buzz and the gang, not seeing any conceivable way out.

It struck me anew how important it is to me to be able to trust a storyteller. That doesn't necessarily mean to trust a storyteller to always deliver a happy ending, or even the ending I exactly expect/hope for. But yes, I need to be able to trust that the storyteller knows what he or she is doing and is going to deliver an ending that's coherent, meaningful and satisfying.

It all makes me grateful, again, that we live in a world whose Storyteller we can trust, and that in the ultimate sense, we inhabit a Story of great coherence, meaning and sense, one we know is heading for a conclusion beyond all we can ask or imagine. And all the best stories echo that big Story, in ways big and small.

Wonderful Storytellers: Bob Hartman

I'm finding myself loving good storytellers these days, especially those who are particularly adept at retelling old stories in ways that make us hear them anew. Storytellers and writers who manage fresh but faithful re-tellings of Bible stories are at the top of my list, inspiring me to want to dive again into some Bible story re-tellings myself this summer.

I thought I'd introduce a couple of my favorite Bible storytellers here. And I thought I'd start with Bob Hartman.

He currently lives and writes in England, but he used to live in our area, and I had the privilege of attending a storytelling workshop he did at our seminary about a dozen years ago. As much as I enjoyed it then, I had no idea how much his books would come to mean to our family, and especially to my daughter. She loves his stories and could listen to them by the hour. She doesn't mind listening to them over and over, which is a good thing because I find myself wanting to read them over and over, since they lend themselves readily to repeated readings and tellings.

Our all-time Hartman favorite is probably Early Saints of God, a collection of saint stories from the first several hundred years of the church. We read it during the month of November every year, as a way of celebrating All Saints. Just lately, however, we've been reading and re-reading Angels, Angels All Around, a wonderful collection of Bible stories involving angels. Based on Biblical accounts, and on the marvelous diversity of God's creation, Hartman decided to make each angel unique and especially suited to its particular calling, which makes the stories shine with creativity.

Thus the angel who ministers to the despairing prophet Elijah in the desert is a maternal, spoon-wielding angel in an apron, whose recipe for cake is...well, heavenly. The angel who holds up a sword in Balaam's path is properly fierce, and practically rolls his eyes at the stubborn, donkey-ish behavior of the prophet. The angel who slips into prison to rescue Peter is a slender, boyish imp with a mischievous grin (think Peter Pan or Puck) who doesn't mind at all pulling a fast one on the jailers. The angel who ministers life to Hagar and Ishmael in the desert comes in the guise of a vulture (who drives all the real death-preying birds away). The angel in the fiery furnace with Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego has a literally blazing smile and fiery-bright hair. The angel who answers Daniel's prayer and shuts the mouths of the lion's in the den is himself large and leonine, able to distract and wrestle with big cats. And Gabriel's visit to Mary -- well, it's full of surprises, mostly because the young girl is not at all like the angel expects.

Those are just a few of our favorites from the book -- there are several more stories we love too!

What I enjoy about Hartman's saint and Bible stories is the way he manages to sustain attention and interest, through creative uses of repetition and appropriate bits of humor, but how he always manages to hone in on an important truth about God's nature and character. You can tell this is a man who has wrestled, lovingly and faithfully, with the stories he's presenting. We love these stories and we learn from them too.

Hartman has also written a number of folk story and animal story re-tellings. We love his Lion Storyteller Bible and The Lion Storyteller Christmas Book (some re-tellings of the nativity, but also some stories based on traditional Christmas folktales from around the world). And I was really excited to find out that he has a new collection forthcoming, Mr. Aesop's Story Shop, based on the ancient stories of Aesop. I discovered that through this brief but very good online interview someone did with him this past spring. He talks there about the art of storytelling and also mentions some other exciting projects he has in the works, including a book he described as "Tom Wright for 8 year olds." I can't wait!

Wilder Land

We've been languishing a bit in read-aloud time recently. After the sublime heights of The Magician's Nephew, we came down with a prosaic thud. I let the sweet girl choose our last book, and she went with one of the Boxcar Children sequels.

Now I don't mind the Boxcar Children on principle, and even thought the first one was a pretty good story. I also think kids should be able to indulge in a little light pulp reading now and again, just like grown-ups. But as read-alouds the sequels are mind-numbingly boring. Benny and Henry are particularly grating on my nerves; I begin to have sympathy for readers who found Bobby Belden's character so thoroughly annoying. Puh-leeze (as Bobby would say) let these kids grow up!

But today we moved back into literary territory, brighter and wilder terrain. Literally Wilder terrain: we're up to the fifth book in the Little House series with By the Shores of Silver Lake.

And I'd forgotten what a whammy those first two chapters give us. A couple of years or so have passed for Laura and family, still living on Plum Creek in these opening pages. Pa has that wild glint in his eye which can only mean one thing: time to pack the wagon and head west again! The family has weathered scarlet fever and Mary is now blind, a sad and sobering fact that seemed to hit the sweet girl hard. We talked a bit about how Laura "became Mary's eyes" (as the story tells us) and how that might be one reason why she grew up to be such a fine writer of description.

And then came the death of Jack. Dear old Jack, the family bull-dog, the one who has stood by Laura and the rest of the Ingalls through wolves and fires and grasshoppers and who knows what all else. I always forget this is coming, and I always have the hardest time in the world reading the description of Jack's last hours over the lump in my throat. How poignant that he lay down and died on the night before the wagon was to pull out and head west again, after all the many miles he walked.

When it comes to read-alouds, I like being back in Wilder Land. Even when it makes me cry.

LOST in Thought...One More Time

Since my husband and I watch LOST episodes a couple of days behind the rest of the world (you could say we’re untethered from time!) I always feel behind the curve posting my thoughts and reflections. By the time I can get anything up, much wiser and creative minds than mine have already weighed in. And yet… it’s so much fun. I’ve so enjoyed thinking and conversing about this show, I can’t quite resist the opportunity to put my thoughts down one last time before we reach tomorrow night’s finale.

And yes, we will miss it, not watching it until probably around Tuesday night. I am pretty sure I am putting myself on a media blackout until then, including not checking Facebook (I know too many of our friends will post status updates with their reactions). It’s not unlike what I did when Deathly Hallows was published. I basically went offline the day before the book came out, taking special care to avoid any HP related websites for even longer beforehand, and I didn’t go back on until I’d finished the book. Once again, I find myself not wanting to be spoiled in any way.

D. and I keep talking about what we think will happen, what we hope will happen, what might happen. We’ve actually compiled a list of things we think the show’s writers need to do. We split the page in two, making separate lists for what needs to happen in Sideways world and what needs to happen in Island world. When you put the lists together, it all comes to about three dozen items, which sounds like a lot. But they do have a couple of hours (feature film length!) and we’ve agreed that some of these things don’t need to be given a whole lot of time, but could be hinted at. In fact, we figure some of them will need to be given that sort of treatment, given what’s left to accomplish to bring this amazing and convoluted story to a satisfying conclusion.

D. keeps joking that the writers have a dream assignment – they get to kill lots of characters off in heroic battle, and yet they also get to write them their happy ending (in sideways reality). I think he’s on to something there. Although most of my energy at this point is moving toward mining this story for grace moments and character transformation (and has been tending that way for a long time…see my earlier LOST posts) I do find myself still really intrigued by the whole conceit that has made this last season so interesting, the two branches of reality.

And that’s what I’m seeing them as right now – two branches, one tree (or river, whatever metaphor works best for you). The Jughead moment at the end of last season was far more crucial than ever we realized. “It worked” said Juliet, from the grave, and that’s a pretty amazing thing for them to have told us right off the bat. Our castaways, those who heard that news, couldn’t comprehend it. How could it “have worked” and yet “not worked” at the same time? For obviously there they were, still on island, still struggling with the same old stuff. I still don’t understand it myself, but the way I look at it now, when Juliet (the true heroine of this epic in many ways) detonated the bomb, the explosion seemed to accomplish the splitting of reality. Remember that our castaways were actually fugitives in a time in which they did not belong. So the explosion, on the one hand, jarred them from one record groove to another (to use yet another Daniel Faraday expression) and at the same time, shut down the 1970s reality and changed that timeline from that time forward, so that their plane accident never happened. Reality, for these people, moved in two directions, and we’re going to see those directions meet back up and merge.

But first there’s the matter of unfinished island business. I think one reason that my hubby and I feel confident the writers can pull off most of what they need to in the short time left is that really only two big things need to be accomplished (though in bits and pieces) in the two realities. I looked back over our lists and realized what they each boiled down to. In Island reality, we need to see a victory over Smokey. In Sideways world, we need to see resolution – major resolution within characters (as they become Island enlightened, their current stories merging with the stories/relationships/wisdom gained in their Island reality) and between characters. In fact, almost our whole Sideways list had to do with characters resolving relationships, or at least us being given glimpses that such resolution was on the way.

The victory over Smokey will not come without great cost. Desmond the “fail-safe” is going to be key (pun intended) as I think we all agree. But I think what will turn the tide for the side of right is the willingness of the characters to do whatever they need to in this battle. Choice has always been a big LOST theme, and it’s been shining like a lighthouse beacon lately.

Can I tell you how proud I was of Jack when he stepped up and said “I’ll do it” when Jacob finally came square on what he was asking the candidates to consider? My friend Erin talked about what a wonderful Frodo moment that was, and I loved that comparison, since I’m pretty sure Frodo’s “I will take the ring” would figure into one of my top ten most loved story moments of all time. And I certainly see the comparison. (I also liked her idea that the cave of light is going to be our “Mt. Doom.” Who might be our Gollum, hmm?)

But for me, Jack is so Harry right now. I think it’s partly because both Rowling and LOST are working out of post-modern frameworks, though Rowling’s single-author epic vision seems a lot more cohesive and thankfully a lot less monistic. But consider if you will, with your spello-taped Harry glasses on:

--Jack’s willingness to step up and meet his destiny, even though he has no clue if he’ll survive (and probably doubts he will)

--Jack’s growth from loner guy with a “saving people thing” complex to a man who understands his need for community and family

--Jack’s struggle to have faith, especially when not given complete (or fully honest) information from a mentor figure who has, at times, infuriatingly kept his distance

--Jack’s anger at Jacob for not telling him what Jack thought he needed to know and when (remember the Lighthouse smashup? That immediately called to mind Harry in Dumbledore’s office)

--Jack’s mentor being a wise and powerful yet flawed and broken man who has spent years trying to make up for past mistakes, hoping and praying he’ll find someone who will be the “better man” and be able to do what he can’t

--Jack’s walking away from “ordinary” love and life (in the Oceanic Six storyline, when he sabotaged the good relationship he had going with Kate) and realizing he has a destiny

--Jack constantly being looked to as the leader, and yet powerless in some situations and having to watch the people he loves die

Like Harry, I think Jack is going to have to be willing to sacrifice himself. My husband thinks that the cut on his neck – the one we’ve seen getting worse in Sideways world all season, the one Sideways-Jack doesn’t seem to have a clue about? – is the mark of the fatal wound he’ll receive from the ceremonial knife. He’s the island protector now, and that seems to be the only way a guardian of the island can die.

I think Jack will die, but like Harry, there’s protection in place, a safeguard, something that “tethers him to life” (to use the Rowling phrase) and in this case, it’s the reboot, along with the willingness of the other castaways to do what they need to do, especially Desmond.

In case you can’t tell, I’m loving that there’s not just one hero in this piece. The more we unpack what’s been going on, the more we’re “enlightened” as to the overall story, the more we see how crucial so many people’s actions have been. Jack and Desmond are our key players now (not surprising we lingered so long over their meeting, is it?) but so many others have played crucial roles. Juliet and Daniel, yes, but others too. Sayid, who gave the castaways one more day with his heroism. Ben, broken as they come, and yet I still think deep-down on the side of right, and conning Smokey right up to the finish. Even Kate, whom I know has not gotten a lot of fan-love, has been there at crucial times. Let’s not forget she saved Ben’s life in one reality. I’m also thinking especially of the many times she has been there when Jack, needing reassurance that whatever crazy thing he was about to do was the right thing (or at least that he wasn’t alone in doing it, even if it wasn’t) turned to her. How many times did Kate say “I’m with you,” or “I’ve always been with you” right at the crucial moment, looking him right in the eyes? I can’t help but want them to be soul-mates in the end, mostly because of that.

Oh and John Locke. Beautiful, real John Locke, flawed and lovable. John who wasn’t right about everything, who got played by the Smoke Monster (who seems to thrive on holding people in his thrall – I do so hope that in defeating him, the tortured soul of MIB, used all these years, will finally be able to rest in peace) but John who was right about more than anyone might have guessed. While it’s true that John’s own destiny was not as he wished, and that he made a lot of mistakes based on listening to the wrong voices, John’s simple and unwavering trust that life must have meaning and purpose (despite all evidence in his own life to the contrary) was a huge witness to Jack. It’s what got Jack back to the island, when all was said and done. And if Jack hadn’t gone back – no reboot, no Sideways world, no final battle with Smokey. So John too had his role to play, and I’m so glad that in Sideways world he and Jack can finally like and respect each other, and Jack can do something beautiful to help John heal.

I think it will be fascinating, when this whole story is over (except for the conversations!) to look back over the epic and pull out central pieces. In other words, to look back over the story and ask ourselves, what would it have been like if ______ had not been part of the story. Fill in the blank with the character of your choice! I think we will discover just how important they each were in the unfolding of events.

Ah…so much more I could say. So many questions I still have about the theological ramifications of all this (particularly pertaining to fate and free will and providence) and so many questions about how all this might play out. I find myself curious to know (and a bit worried) about the protection extended to the candidates. Does it vanish when Jacob does? Of course, if Jack gets to make? inherit but bend? the rules now, then I think it’s likely all his friends are still safe, because he’ll do anything to protect them. Yes, I know…I love Jack and it shows. I always have, and I’ve always resonated most profoundly with his struggles and journey, so I’m glad this has turned out to be more his story than anyone else’s – perhaps not too surprising given that our opening moments were literally seen through his opening eyes. (Has this whole story been about Jack’s eyes opening? I think I read that somewhere, and I love the thought.)

I am hoping that Jack will be like Harry in one other profound way too – that he will get his chance at ordinary life and love.

I’ll stop for now. And like I said, I’ll be tuning out a bit until I’m able to tune back in (hopefully unspoiled) a couple of days after the finale.

See you in another life, brotha.

LOST and Letting Go

Well, folks, we're in the homestretch. Only three episodes of LOST to go, counting the two-hour finale. By the end of this month, it'll be all over...except for the countless hours of talking we'll get to do about how it all ended.

"The Candidate," last week's episode of LOST, would have been emotionally wrenching any time, but given what I've been going through with my family in the past couple of weeks, it hit me at an especially vulnerable time. I confess I cried, and I don't often cry over television shows (the final episode of MASH being one major exception). But good storytelling is good storytelling, and I found the tears cathartic.

If you've been following my on-again/off-again LOST musings this season, you'll know that I found Doc Jensen's quotations from Flannery O'Connor a great springboard for some reflections on the show's creative artistry. I ended my last LOST ramble by saying that, thanks to Flannery, in these final weeks of the story I would be on the lookout for:

"mustard-seed gestures, invisible lines of spiritual motion, the action of grace (no matter what the body count), and the revelation of essential and indispensable qualities in characters faced with violent situations who just may be on the verge of eternity."

It was hard to keep those glasses on as I was bawling my way through the deaths of Sayid, Sun, Jin (and possibly Frank) but as I reflected in the calmer hours and days afterward, it hit me again what a terrific narrative lens those things provide.

Let's talk about Sayid. First of all, I found myself so relieved that he was back (albeit so briefly) really and truly back. "Sayid is himself again!" I said to my husband, almost in tears of relief, and of course that should have been my warning.

But we really did have a brief, shining moment when we looked in Sayid's eyes and saw the man we'd come to know...the flawed, broken, but loving man, not the zombie-man he'd turned into when stuck in the service of darkness. And in that moment, we saw the choice Sayid was making as he made it, the choice to die for his friends, and we honored him for it. What better way could we have seen the essential and indispensable qualities that Sayid was carrying with him into eternity as we saw him grab the bomb and make a dash for it, a soldier on a final, merciful mission, giving his comrades one more day and one more chance to defeat the darkness? Even his final instructions to Jack, letting him know about Desmond's whereabouts, were part of a loving act on the side of right and hope.

It's harder with Sun and Jin. There's a part of me that felt like raging "not again! It's just like Charlie!" Their deaths felt so unnecessary. After all they've been through and survived (remember Sun's dash through the jungle with Smokey in pursuit?) to see them defeated by the crush of metal furniture dislodged in a bomb blast, and a roar of rushing water, felt painfully unfair and prosaic. It felt, in fact, like a stupid, senseless casualty of war, which is what it was. And when Jack swam away with the unconscious Sawyer, you saw he knew it for what it was and that it grieved him to the heart.

And what a hard moment that had to be for Jack, the man we know best as a "fixer," the hero who likes to make everything all right and save everyone. He's been slowly, painfully learning that he can't always make everything better. But how difficult this must have been: Sayid just blown apart, Sawyer's life hanging in the balance and dependent on Jack getting him safely to the surface, and then Sun tragically pinned down, helpless. For a surgeon, it must have felt like triage on the battlefield. I suspect swimming away was one of the hardest things Jack ever did.

And yet...left to themselves, with the water pouring in, there were those invisible lines of spiritual motion there, and the grace of Sun and Jin holding onto each other in the final moments, after all those years apart. I will be forever thankful that LOST gave us the earlier scene, when Sun slipped Jin's wedding ring back on his finger, a sort of renewal of their vows to one another. One of the vows in my own wedding service contained the line "until we are parted by death" and it was the line that floated to the surface of my memory as I watched their hands loosen and come unclasped. Jensen, in his recap/commentary, seemed oddly disturbed by that image, angry at the writers for emphasizing their "apartness" after all the time the show took to bring them together again, but I found the image beautifully right. It reminded me, poignantly, weepingly, that the *only* thing that had the power to part these two people now was death. "Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the flood waters drown it."

It also served as a poignant reminder that death is real. (Let's lay aside, for the moment, the fact that Sun and Jin, Sayid too, continue to exist in sideways world, in another dimension where they are themselves but not quite themselves, living their stories but not quite their stories, on a different trajectory.) As we experienced the very real deaths of Sun and Jin, characters we've come to love, we realized anew that it's very hard to "let go" -- of one another, of loved ones, of this earth that isn't our home but is a beautiful, broken and blessed place in which to sojourn.

The whole "letting go" theme was perfectly played in this episode, first in the image of Sun and Jin's hands, and then in the scene between Sideways John and Jack, in which they tentatively explored the theme of letting go of the things in life which hold us back from living fully. Jack, newly wise in this particular reality, seems to get that completely, and is just looking for the courage (and camaraderie) to go forward and do it as he knows he needs to do. John isn't quite there yet, but then John's always had a hard time letting go -- of good things, and of things that hold him back. He tends to be a wallower and needs some help getting unstuck.

Of course, the letting go theme has another dimension for us viewers too -- pretty soon we've got to let go of this fascinating story. I'm not quite ready to do that yet, so I'm glad we've got a couple more weeks before we have to.

Alchemical LOST?

Geek question of the week…

Is LOST working within an alchemical framework?

I know I’ve been sitting at the feet of John Granger for a few years now, so you could say I have alchemical imagery on the brain. But as I’ve pondered the first couple of shows this final season, I find myself wondering if the show’s writers are somehow tapping into, if not a full alchemical framework, at least some serious alchemical imagery.

What makes it difficult to ascertain, beyond the fact that this isn’t literature on the page, is that we really don’t have just one central character. We have a whole group (or groups) of them, all of them seeming to struggle toward redemption and purification. But whether or not you look at the alchemical journey in terms of the community story arc, or just one central character, like Jack Shephard, some of the imagery seems to leap off the screen.

I’ve been particularly pondering it at the beginning of this sixth and final season because our characters have certainly been through plenty of nigredo moments. Think about Jack in L.A., but really think about any of them and the kinds of things they’ve gone through in recent months, on and off the island.

Although I think it’s possible that you’ve got frameworks within frameworks (individual characters at different places in the journey toward purification; individual seasons with discrete alchemical frameworks from start to finish, working like a book in a series) I think it’s possible we’re also seeing the show as a whole working within the three symbolic stages. And if that’s the case, I think season 6 is beginning with the albedo stage and working steadily toward the rubedo.

Here are some of the clues I’ve noticed. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that when the screen went to white, instead of its traditional black, at the end of season 5, that was our signal that we were beginning the transition from the nigredo to the albedo stage. Think about it: our survivors, when they detonated the bomb (in their attempted time reboot) have seemingly been “reborn” (their old, outmoded selves “dead”) into a new state of being. Or maybe two states of being, given our island timeframe and the sideways timeframe, where we’ve actually met with former characters who have died (Locke, Boone, Charlie…)

If you miss the symbolism of dying to their old selves, the show gave us an exploded hatch that literally functioned as a grave for Juliet ~ and yes, tragic Juliet shares a name with one of the most famous couples in alchemical literary history. Sawyer descends beneath the earth to try to retrieve Juliet, who dies in his arms. He carries her back above ground, and not long after receives a message from her (via Miles, who can listen to the dead) that seems to indicate the explosion “worked.” Worked how? To give them back their lives? The survivors, of course, were always mixed in their hopes and fears of what it might accomplish, but there has always been some doubt that a reboot would restore them to their pre-crash selves. What if a reboot somehow restores them instead to new-forged, purified selves? Or at least to an ongoing process of purification toward that end?

At the moment, of course, they seem to be existing in two alternative time frames, but it seems as though the time-frames may somehow be connected, and that washing/purification (the work of the albedo stage, which readies the material/person being purified for new life/resurrection) is possibly going on in both, or is reflected in one while going on in the other. Isn’t it fascinating to note the places where things keep happening in 2004 sideways world that seem to mirror, or echo things that have happened on the island? Jack saving Charlie’s life, Kate connecting with pregnant Claire (is Kate destined to be at Aaron’s birth, whenever/wherever it may occur?).

The water/washing symbolism seems especially potent right now. We’ve plunged beneath the ocean from the skies. We’ve seen Sayid, literally, physically dead, put into a healing pool. What that might or might not have affected, we don’t know, and there are troubling indications that dark is on the rise in some of our survivors, including Sayid and Claire, but still. We’ve seen Sawyer, of all people, dissolved in tears. Actually, the possibility that the water of the healing pool and the water of Sawyer’s tears could be functioning on some alchemical symbolic level gives me the best hope I have at the moment that we’re not going to lose either man totally to the powers of smoky darkness.

Beyond the things I’ve already mentioned as alchemical possibilities, I have to mention this one: doppelgangers. As John Granger writes (in his book Unlocking Harry Potter) “This staple of 19th century Gothic and romantic fiction is of a creature or pair of creatures that have complementary figures or shadows, which shadows reveal aspects of their character otherwise invisible.” In the HP stories, all sorts of things functioned as doppelgangers: twins, brothers, half-breeds, liminal characters, etc. In LOST, it seems to me we have a storyline currently run amok with doppelgangers, from the re-animated bodies (“claimed”? by Jacob’s nemesis Smoky, and/or potentially by Jacob?) to the timeline doubles of our castaways themselves. However else the double-timeline story plays itself out, I don’t think we can get away from the symbolic power of the fact that our survivors, perhaps brought to the island in part to “work out their salvation” in some sense, currently have “shadow selves.”

And I won’t even begin to speculate on the fact that of our two married couples on the island, the women are named Rose and Sun….

Or that the island has been rife with “quarreling couples” of all sorts (with Jacob and his nemesis perhaps the biggest quarrelers of all…)

I’m not arguing that the alchemical framework/imagery is the only or even most important element of the story-telling. I’ve not even convinced myself that it’s completely conscious…so much of the LOST narrative depends on references to other stories and story-telling traditions, some of them are bound to be alchemical literature. But I’d love to hear your thoughts. So my fellow geeks, have at it. Is there alchemical imagery at work in LOST?

P.S. Re: potential spoilers in the comments, please know that I am running a few days behind in my LOST watching. I generally see the current week’s show over the weekend (thank you, Erin!) so I’m only up through “What Kate Does” for now.

The Editing Dance

I've done editing work for years. Both in paid positions and as a volunteer, I've edited many newsletters. I've edited articles. When I was in seminary, I spent a semester copy-editing and formatting footnotes and bibliography for a doctoral dissertation, possibly the most tedious job ever.

And of course I revise and edit my own work: articles, reviews, short stories, academic essays.

But until recently, I've never been asked to edit someone else's novel. I'm finding it a fascinating experience.

That's what I've been doing for the past few nights: a second read-through of a mid-grade allegorical novel (with some fantasy elements). My first read-through came last month. The author of the book, someone I've been acquainted with slightly for years, had a self-imposed deadline for a phase of the project and was looking for someone who could give him a quick read-through and a fast copy-edit, all in a week. I agreed with enthusiasm, but discovered something I should have already known (and will now never forget): you can't read through a novel for the first time with a pencil in your hand.

At least I can't. I love stories, and when I read a new story, I try to be as open and receptive as I can be to the story itself. That's partly by natural inclination and partly a habit I've tried to train myself in, thanks to sitting at the feet of the charitable and wise C.S. Lewis for so many years. So moving into a story for the first time is an intense experience for me, and I had a hard time separating out my "receptive reader" from my "clear-headed critic and copy-editor." I realized it almost immediately, but simply didn't have time to read a 22 chapter book through more than once in the middle of a busy week near the end of a school term. So I soldiered on, though as I told the author later (when he and I both realized that such speed had not served us as well as it might) I had a hard time catching small errors in passages I read through blurred vision due to tears over the death of a major character.

So I was delighted when the author came back to me with a proposal that I read the work again, this time more slowly. He had shifted his timeline (he's self-publishing) and we were in agreement over some areas of the story we thought could be improved. This time through, I'm getting to take my time, to linger, to really think through issues of story: the way the narrative flows, how action reveals character, issues of pacing, ways the author can show more and tell less. It's more of a developmental edit. I'm still copy-editing, but that's a side dish this time: the main course is getting to savor a story I already know and love and help make it even better.

I'm discovering that there are moments in this "editing dance" that are especially challenging. It's been so long since I've provided feedback on someone else's deeply creative work, I'd almost forgotten (though not really) the importance of respecting the music and tapestry of their work. It came back to me as I tried to decide what to advise cutting, changing, re-arranging.

If this were my manuscript (and would that I had a full-length manuscript of a novel anywhere near this quality...maybe in another season of my life...) I would know precisely what to do with it. I don't mean that in an arrogant way, and I don't mean to indicate that my own work doesn't need feedback from other readers. I'm simply saying that I have a confidence when revising my own work that I lack when when making suggestions about someone else's. I can be quite ruthless in my own revising, cutting words with abandon, tightening for the sheer joy of tightening...but then, when it's my own story, I know the characters intimately, and where I'm hoping to take them, and how the story first came to me and what's imperative that I keep. I understand its particular rhythm and flow.

Aside from obvious helps to the flow of the story, I'm less certain about how to proceed with stylistic advice to someone else. Just as a for instance, this particular author tends to use slower, more passive construction and pacing than I would use. My initial tendency was to want to change all that wholesale, until I began to stop and think about why he might have chosen that particular rhythm in certain places...because of some particular chapter settings, the cultural context of the tale, the natural way some of the characters speak, and simply the "music" of his own prose. There are still places where I'm recommending more active construction and a tightening of some of the prose, but I find myself treading lightly in other places, especially now that I realize how much that particular rhythm just suits this story. My questions regarding his original intentions and purpose for those places, however, have provided some good food for discussion so perhaps ultimately that will help strengthen the work too.

It's all a bit of a dance, and I feel a bit clumsy with the steps still, but oh I'm enjoying the process. Even better is the blessing of realizing how much of my life as reader and writer (in the past ten years or so in particular) has equipped me to be able to learn on my feet. Loving story, as it turns out, is a pretty good prerequisite for this kind of work.