Sanctuary

Currently Reading: Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf and The House at the End of Hope Street by Menna Van Praag



Looking back over the books I've been reading lately, I start to sense a theme. Many are memoirs, many involve travel, and most lead me to more self-reflection and inspiration in my own life. After a bit of a hard winter, my perspective has shifted, brightened like the July sun, illuminating my life and my expectations by focusing not on what I want, but on who I want to be. Much of this has come from the books I have been reading, each one perfect for the inner growth spurt I feel I am having. Though very different, the books Have Mother, Will Travel by Clare and Mia Fontaine, and The House at the End of Hope Street by Menna Van Praag, speak similar words to me. In one, a mother and daughter travel the world, learning lessons about themselves in the places they end up. In another, three women find refuge from pain and hopelessness in a magical home that shelters and guides them. To me, both books depict a sense of refuge, of safety- whether finding oneself amid new vistas or in a safe, magical home, the protagonists learn to breathe, examine their lives and pick up the pieces. It left me realizing how important places of refuge are, both literally and figuratively, for it is often in the quiet and the apart where we finally hear ourselves, and can listen.

The idea of a sanctuary, of a safe place apart from life, has always beckoned me. I am drawn to the silent, to the peaceful. I meander through cemeteries, I sit in darkened churches, I crave the solitude of nature. In a way, books are also my sanctuary, cathedrals in my mind in which I can be alone but also be surrounded by myself and by the world. In Ireland, we spent almost every day exploring ancient monasteries, their ruins one with the ground and the trees and the water that envelops it. At each, a sense of rightness, of belonging, filled me. There, in the sacred and the quiet, where human creation becomes indistinguishably entwined with God's, I could hear myself more clearly than ever before. One day in particular stands out, alone with Nathan on a stretch of Inishmurray Island, the island of Molaise's monks. On a day bright with blue and scudding clouds, I stared out to the sea, listening to the waves and the wind, and thought of nothing but where I was. No worries, no plans, no thoughts beyond gratitude. My mind, for the first time, was truly mine, uncluttered and free. That island filled my bones and it sustains me still. Closing my eyes, it is still my place of refuge, for though I change, it never will.

I need those places of sanctuary, but I also need to learn to carve one out inside of myself. After reading these books, I recognize how much more I want to reflect on my perspectives, my attitudes, and my expectations, how imperative it is for me to listen to that desire for refuge and quiet. I don't have to travel to faraway lands to hear myself; I don't even have to leave my living room. Wherever I am, I want to spend more time seeking out the quiet and stillness, listening to myself and learning from the soft voice that can only be heard when the mind is stilled.

Book Therapy: Carry On Warrior

Currently Reading: Without Reservations: The Travels of an Independent Woman by Alice Steinbach and The Omnivore's Dilemma by Michael Pollan

Never underestimate the power of book therapy. After writing this post last week, I spotted a book sitting on the new shelf at work that was on my list but not on my "in-the-near-future" list. On a whim, I grabbed it, thinking it might be just the thing to heal me and give me some answers. Don't tell me God doesn't find a way to put the perfect book in our hands, right when we need it. He's done it for me before and He did it again.

I've been reading Glennon Melton's blog at Momastery.com for almost a year now. She is funny, witty, sharp, inspiring, and downright relatable. Her blog, unlike others I read, is not about sharing perfect pictures or adorably cute stories about her perfectly dressed kids. It's real and raw, a memoir of sorts, highlighting the beautiful and hilarious alongside the difficult and challenging. Her newly published book, Carry On Warrior, is all of that times twelve. She writes about herself, but in a way that makes you feel like she is writing about you. A former drug addict, alcoholic, and bulimic, Glennon found her healing in writing, in expressing the real and the honest, in being true to her own voice. Hers is a fresh voice, one I had heard in my own soul but not in many other places. But as I've found through the book and in connecting with readers through her blog, we all carry a similar but unique voice within ourselves.

Momastery and Carry On Warrior are like that, a place to go to understand that we are not alone, that we all struggle and mess up and have bad hair days. It's no judgment, it's acceptance, it's community. The words at the top of the blog's page says, "Momastery is where we practice living bigger, bolder, and truer on this earth. Where we remember what we already know: We can do hard things, Love wins, and We belong to each other." Holy amen. That is exactly how I want to live my life and my faith. Faith and living are not solitary endeavors. As both the book and the blog prove, when we accept others, when we share our problems and difficulties, connecting over the funny and the hard, when we all start admitting that we are not perfect, there is no more pressure. Because we realize we are all perfectly imperfect. We can concentrate on the real things in life, not the unimportant things. We can tell the truth about ourselves. We can open ourselves up to each other. We can be honest to the person we are. We don't have to pretend to be someone we're not. In a world where the pressure mounts daily to do everything just so, and to be a certain type of person, this book and Glennon's blog is a refreshing wake-up call. Life is about MORE. More than fitting into a mold or hiding who we are. Life is about finding our passions and being there for each other and teaching our kids about Love and finding the God inside ourselves and each other.

Some of my favorite essays in Carry On Warrior discuss faith and our responsibility toward others. Like me, Glennon holds some beliefs that would probably get us both thrown out of some Bible studies. We are hard-core Christians, and we define ourselves as such. But we also love gay people and believe they go to heaven too. We believe that all religions follow the true God, just in different ways. We believe following Jesus goes above and beyond following the Bible. Do you know how long I've wanted to write these beliefs but have been too scared to do so? I suppose I had good reason, since anytime I have ventured to voice my faith, I have been knocked down. By God-fearing family, no less. But guess what. I'm not hiding anymore. (Even if I'm a teensy bit nervous about posting everything I just wrote.) Reading Carry On Warrior, I realized I am not alone. And isn't that the biggest blessing of life, the biggest gift God can give us? He gave us each other. I loved Glennon's discussion of the meaning of Namaste, which Mother Teresa used to repeat to anyone she met. It means, "The divine spark in me recognizes and honors the divine spark in you." We all have God in us, baby. The God in us allows us to connect with the world, with the people around us, because God is in all of them too. In the last week alone, that sentence, that Namaste, has changed the way I react to people. In a good way, in the greatest way. I am still traveling down this faith-and-life journey of mine, but now I can see that I always will be. I will never have it "figured out." But that is something to embrace, not fix. I don't have a "life plan" but I do have a goal now, one that involves working on running into my life and not away from it. The feelings from last week aren't necessarily gone, but I feel less alone in those feelings than I did.

Carry On Warrior is rejuvenating. I want to stand on the highest peak I can find and shout out my heart, because this book reminded me that it is safe and wise and OK to do that. By sharing my heart and my thoughts with others, I could get burned. I could be judged. I have been before. But more likely, I will just find better, deeper connections with God and with other people. And that will be a glorious, holy thing.

If you decide to read it too, let me know. I'm dying to discuss this book.

Happenings

Currently Reading: The Selected Letters of Louisa May Alcott, The Guynd by Belinda Rathbone, and Life After Life by Kate Atkinson

May is here! Blessedly, my semester is winding down and I am feeling the first breaths of freedom mingling with the scent of spring. My shoulders already feel lighter and I am ready for several weeks of catching up on projects (including some new recipes I'm aching to try) and taking time for reading, walks in the evenings, and ice cream stops with Nate.

Some happenings from the past two weeks:

My seedlings have sprouted! (No picture this time, but I'll get one soon.) The sight of those first little green shoots, poking out of the soil after only several days, gave me such a feeling of awe. Biology aside, there is something entirely magical about the Earth, her resilience and fecundity, the amazing results that come from the harmony of sun, soil, and water. I have always needed to be close to the Earth, shedding my shoes so my bare toes can sink into the grass, pressing my back against trees as I read underneath them, watching the ever-changing sky. Growing up in the country, and part-time on a dairy farm for some years, I was in constant contact with the world around me. I have memorized scents and sounds that I carry with me, that are part of me like the marrow in my bones. So much of my experiences were prompted and encouraged by my parents and my grandparents. My sister and I were raised to be part of the outdoor world, to appreciate it and to care for it. I yearn for the day when we have our own acres to roam on, so that my children can experience many of the same things I did: the taste of carrots pulled from the ground, dirt still clinging to them; the sight of clothes flapping on the line; watching deer at the pond; rescuing crows and baby ducks; making forts and fairy places amidst the trees; letting the magic of nature influence their creativity and ideas. If I hope to pass anything on to my children, it will be our strong connection to the land, and our responsibility to take care of it, emphasizing the magnitude and privilege of that responsibility.
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Nathan has a new part-time job at a living history museum for the summer, which is good news for him and for our pocketbook! He's learning all sorts of amazing historical skills, including fence building and blacksmithing; last week, during training, he got to hold a baby lamb. I couldn't be more envious. He really is an amazing teacher and that translates well into museum work. He knows how to talk to tour groups, how to pass on historical information in ways that are accessible to all age groups. I'm proud of how he has accepted the difficulties and disappointments of not finding a teaching job, and how he strives to find ways to use his talents and follow his passion. His career plans have not followed the path he once imagined, but he does not let that discourage him. He throws himself into the work he does, passionate about all of it, regardless of what it is. He is dedicated, with a strong work ethic, willing to do whatever needs to be done, and I ardently admire that. Sometimes he feels that he doesn't do enough for us, that he could do more. But I think he's Superman.
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I met Dr. Jane Goodall last week.


I'm leaning over awkwardly, barely breathing. She looks stunning, as always.

In a conversation with the woman sitting next to me at the conference, I mentioned that Dr. Goodall was one of my role models growing up. The lady then asked if I had gone into science; when I said no, she laughed and said Dr. Goodall couldn't have been that much of a role model for me. That comment left me speechless for a second. As a young girl, I didn't see her as just a scientist; I saw her as a woman who stuck to her guns, pursued her passion, and made something of herself. Deep down, I think I recognized that I could be like her. Maybe not literally, with chimps in Africa (though at the time, I thought that was the coolest job in the world) but that I too could accomplish anything if I believed in myself. (Cliche? Maybe so, but also a deeply important concept for my young self.) Instead of boy band posters, my walls were papered with posters of animals and Dr. Goodall. She was an inspiration to me, someone I wanted to be when I grew up. I remember thinking we even looked the same, pleased at the semi-similarities- blond, ponytail, plain shorts and T-shirts. No makeup, no fancy hairdo. In my awkward tween years, I appreciated that. Even at 11, I recognized that she had accomplished amazing things by her intelligence and determination alone. I was in awe of her. And in fact, you don't have to be a scientist to appreciate Dr. Goodall, to be inspired by her. I think it makes absolute sense that she can be a role model for any young girl, because of what she accomplished, because of her drive, because she didn't let her gender define her in the field. I still find her awe-inspiring. I cried when she took the stage, as I stood up with the crowd to hoot and cheer. Right before this picture was taken, I looked her in the eye and told her it was nice to meet her. "It's nice to meet you too," she replied. And that was that. I may not be a scientist, but I know she made a difference in my life.
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Tomorrow is my Mom's birthday. As I've gotten older, I've come to appreciate my mom more and more, appreciative of not only everything she has done for my sister and I, but also appreciative of who she is as a person. We share so many similiarities and we've gotten closer as friends. I love calling her up after a day at work to chat and laugh. Like all of my parents, she has been one of the guiding forces of my life, encouraging us, supporting us, teaching us. Happy Birthday to a wonderful mother! I'm so blessed to have you in my life.

 
Reading at Oma's house. I love old pictures.
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Book talks. Books are best when we share and discuss them with others. Thankfully, I work in a library, so I get to talk books constantly. Just this morning, I talked Antigone, Oedipus, Silas Marner, Toni Morrison, and Ethan Frome with my coworkers. The other day, I received a book loan in the mail from my aunt, a memoir set in Scotland, which just goes to show how well my aunt knows my reading tastes. And last night I had a great discussion with one of my best friends on a book we both recently read, Among Others. Just a ten-minute conversation about God and free will and destiny, but it was so refreshing, a reinforcement of our connection and our friendship in one quick book discussion. Sharing books is so much more than just recommending. It strengthens and reinforces our relationships with each other in a way that is hard to emulate in other aspects. Life doesn't offer us many opportunities to bare our souls and reveal what is there beneath the surface. But by sharing books, we are given the chance to open a window that may otherwise remain closed, offering others the opportunity to see deeper within us.
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And finally, my latest used book sale finds.


Why yes, that is my eighteenth Jane Eyre.

There isn't much in this world that beats bringing home a stack of books that cost less than 10 bucks. We did well- Nathan got a stack too. The only downside is that we have started making piles of books on the floor, as our bookshelves can no longer support our terrible book-buying habits. Oh well. Sacrifices must be made. Who needs floor space anyway?

Have a great weekend, friends!

My First Piece

Currently Reading: The Journals of Louisa May Alcott and Through a Window: My Thirty Years with the Chimpanzees of Gombe by Jane Goodall

My piece on Little Women was printed at The Literary Ladies' Guide website several days ago, so I thought I would share the link with anyone who may be interested. I would be honored if you would take a peek:
http://www.literaryladiesguide.com/essays/1312/

I know it may seem like a little thing, but it is the first time my writing has been printed outside of this blog for others to read, and I am excited to share my writing with broader audiences. I don't intend to pursue a career as a writer, but it is something that sustains and fulfills me, and I at least want to see where it leads me. This experience has only served to inspire me further and given me confidence in my writing, which I am grateful for.

As for my reading, I am slowly savoring Louisa May's journals, taking a quiet, solitary stroll through them at a leisurely pace, so that I can be fully present in her world, aware of the sights and sounds and emotions of Louisa's life. Yet I have also been spending time in the forests of Tanzania, listening to Dr. Goodall ardently describe the chimpanzees she has studied and grown to love, illustrating their behaviors and social structures and temperaments. In nine days, Jane Goodall will be at an Earth Day conference I am attending, and reading this book is both rekindling the childhood hero-worship I had for Dr. Goodall and also stoking my excitement for the 15th.

I used to have a poster of this photo hanging on my bedroom wall. It's still one of my favorites.

That's all, friends! Have a great weekend!

Bits and Pieces

Currently Reading: The Journals of Louisa May Alcott

Bits and pieces of the last two weeks:

Spring break came and went, which allowed me to find time to read and finish my third Classics Club book, Early Irish Myths and Sagas by Jeffrey Gantz and my fourth Alice Hoffman, The Third Angel. Myths and Sagas took me almost two months, despite its small size. I have read much of the early Irish literature before, and each time it is hard to get through. Not because it's boring or uninteresting, but because each story is thick with detail and description. It is tempting to skim these tales, letting my eyes flick over the lines of names and places that are mostly unpronounceable. But when I take time to notice and study them, the words and names become so beautiful. I practice sounding them out, checking with the Irish pronunciation guide at the front of the book and smiling with pride when I remember some of the more difficult ones from previous readings. The tales also expand and broaden under my eyes when I savor them slowly. Descriptions of Cu Chulaind's shield or the house Bricriu builds can be tedious, but I try to read them for the history they portray, as much as for the storylines. "The Exile of the Sons of Uisliu" is still my favorite, closely followed by "The Dream of Oengus." (Both tales were the basis of some great Irish Literary Revival works too; long ago, the discovery of Yeats' poem "The Song of Wandering Aengus" began my fascination with all things Irish.) Ever since we returned from Ireland last year, I find that in each Irish book I read, I can picture what I read so much clearer. I know what the Hill of Tara looks like; I can see the deep woods and the crashing ocean foam in my mind as the words take me back to a place I fell in love with, that lives in me still.

 

As for The Third Angel? Alice Hoffman continues to amaze me. I don't know how much more needs to be said.
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Easter weekend, filled with family and prayers and gratitude to God. Good Friday was everything it should be: solemn, tear-filled, hushed, holy. With each light that is extinguished in the sanctuary, I am shocked anew by the raw and the sacred of the night. I left exhausted, utterly spent by the sheer emotion of marking a sacrifice.
But this is what our church looked like Sunday morning. (Courtesy of Pastor Robert). I would say that a balloon-filled sanctuary is the epitome of Easter celebration and joy.


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I swept through Wanderlust by Elisabeth Eaves in only a few days, satisfying the traveling itch that has engulfed me with the first whispers of spring. At first I worried that, far from putting calamine lotion on the itch, it would only irritate it, making me long to leave and fly to new adventures. But the memoir was brutally honest, portraying the good and the bad of ceaseless travel in equal measures. Through the book, I relived the feelings I experienced in Ireland last May: the exhilarating, terrifying feeling of being a stranger among strangers; the awe of gazing upon beauty I could only have dreamed of; the self-consciousness that accompanies being dropped into a new culture; and the fulfillment of desires for adventure, culture, and knowledge. But Wanderlust did not shy away from the reality that constant movement is not always the answer; downfalls exist for those who can never find happiness in settling, who must always be moving in order to feel alive. And I was truly grateful, after reading it, that I am satisfied with the realities of schedules and routine, and that I don't have to be somewhere else to be fulfilled personally and creatively. The travel itch is still there but that calamine lotion felt good.
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Seed planting. With great trepidation, I might add. Spinach and two types of tomatoes. Since I've never started plants from seeds before, I'm nervous that I will inadvertently do something wrong; seeds and seedlings seem so fragile and every gardening website tells you something different to do. I feel so confident in the kitchen (most of the time) but I have no confidence in my gardening ability yet. But I'm glad I've tried- we'll see what becomes of it. Hobbes enjoyed himself that morning, watching over the plants and basking in the sunshine with them.



Wait until his cat grass starts to grow. He'll be ecstatic.
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Finally, some exciting news (for me) that I'm hesitant to share yet but will anyway because when something keeps you up all night with excitement, it's good to share it. I will be contributing a post from this blog on The Ladies' Literary Guide website; they contacted me yesterday about printing it on their site. (By the way, this website, which I was already familiar with, is truly fascinating for anyone interested in classic female writers. Definitely check it out.) Only in the past several months have I thought about spreading my writing beyond the borders of this blog, but it has still only been a thought in the back of my head until now. (Louisa May Alcott may have been an inspiration). I don't know what will come of it, but the excitement is there nevertheless, as well as further inspiration and desire to focus on my writing.

Happy Monday!

Morning

Currently Reading: Early Irish Myths & Sagas by Jeffrey Gantz, The Third Angel by Alice Hoffmann, and The Journals of Louisa May Alcott.

The morning spreads before me, all sun-dappled and blue. It is a morning made for inspiration and discovery. And so I sit, welcoming it and fulfilling its wishes by starting The Journals of Louisa May Alcott. All winter, I have waited to start this read; this morning, the anticipation is so palpable I just had to share a piece of it.

Eight Girls Taking Pictures

Currently Reading: Early Irish Myths and Sagas by Jeffrey Gantz and Wanderlust by Elisabeth Eaves

I am not a photographer, although many days I wish I was. My favorite photographs, like my favorite books, are the ones that celebrate the simple details of life, altering perspective in a way that turns the mundane into art, ordinary into beauty. It is a hobby/career/calling that is rooted in passion and self-expression, just as writing is, which is perhaps why I identify with those who use their camera to say what they need to say. A camera, a notebook, a canvas- we all find a way to make our passions tangible, to make statements that reveal glimpses of what lies beneath. I start with this because I recently read Eight Girls Taking Pictures by Whitney Otto, and was paralyzed by how strongly I identified with it, as I laid in bed underlining and marking certain passages, whispering "Yes" or "Wow" at the words that seemed to echo thoughts in my own head.

Such a great title, isn't it?

The novel is a collection of separate but related short stories about eight fictional (but based on actual) women photographers, all in their twenties at the start of their stories. The stories span from about 1915 to the 1980s, covering a century of history and a revolutionary shift in women's history. Each woman is different, each story is different. But each woman is bound together by similar threads- a passion for photography and their art, a desire to express themselves through their work, and the tension that exists in balancing all of that with societal expectations and their roles and responsibilities as mothers, wives, lovers.

Eight Girls is dominated by a celebration of women's creative expression and passion. It also examines how each woman moved within her time period, influenced by the age in which she lived, yet stretching her boundaries further through her work and her life. Some of the protagonists fought against their circumstances, some ran from them, others used them to their advantage. They took husbands, left husbands, traveled the world, or stayed in one place. But each set out to accomplish something, to find themselves, and to express themselves in their work and art, beyond the limited expectations society allowed them. I was struck by the fact that each era seemed to demand something different from its women; the contrast between Edwardian 1915 and feminist 1970 is stark, but the limits and demands on women still existed in both, in contrasting ways- for instance, while at first it was unthinkable to imagine a life outside the home, later it was just as taboo to admit that a life inside the home could be a desired thing. This book seemed to point out that the feminist movement has been just a constant reassessment of how women can and should be defined- and it drove the point that the issue is far from settled, in society or within our own minds.

Photography acts as the common denominator between the female protagonists, and using it as a way to tell these stories was utter genius because photography is all about perspective. It is about choosing what to see, what to focus on, and how to express it. What each photographer does to capture a picture, she also does on a wider scale in determining the outcome of her life. In Eight Girls, photography represented freedom- the excuse for a girl to travel, the way in which the woman can see her lover, the view through which a mother saw her children. It is also vulnerability at its most acute, a self-portrait which none of the women can hide from. Each story starts with the photographer as apprentice, just learning an art for which she is passionate but unfamiliar; the women's ultimate mastery of photography serves to either mirror their own control over their lives, or contrast sharply with the lack of self-mastery they come to have. Through a camera, the photographer can exert control over a moment and an outcome in ways that we never can in life; in this novel, the control and freedom of making art with photographs comes to symbolize the shift in female roles throughout the twentieth century, while demonstrating that that shift is still underway.

I feel this was the first book in quite a while where I fully identified with every piece of it- each protagonist close to my age, on the cusp of womanhood, trying to determine who they are and how to direct their lives.  I felt their desire to fulfill their creative passion, for that desire tugs at me incessantly day by day. But I also understood the struggle of prioritization that comes with wanting to fulfill oneself, trying to balance the tightrope that exists between what I am and what I am required to be. It is the challenge of definition. There is so much to me, to all of us, that one label or one identifier is not enough. I don't want to be defined with only one term: as mother only, as careerwoman only, as wife only. I want the entry behind my name to extend to a variety of roles, all capturing my various shades and hues like a child's kaleidoscope. But how? That is the question of Eight Girls, the ultimate game-changer, the thought that trips each woman up. And, like those women, just when I think I have it figured out, as I stand in the mirror watching myself be the woman/wife/student/careerwoman/writer/reader/cook/follower-of-passions that I want to see, the mirror shifts its focus and I must start again. It's a trick, this balancing act, a trick of perspective. Like taking a picture.

March Anticipation

Currently Reading: Early Irish Myths and Sagas by Jeffrey Gantz, Under Wildwood by Colin Meloy, and Eight Girls Taking Pictures by Whitney Otto

Anticipation. Wind blows drifts of snow across the road and past my window; the light outside is still a pale grey, colorless and brooding. But it is March nevertheless and the promise of brighter, color-drenched days hovers somewhere above it all. The hump of February has been traversed and spring is on its way. The anticipation is palpable, buoying my spirits and chasing away the shadows and dust of winter. Every spring is the same. Inspiration and anticipation for the future surround me like playful ghosts, reminding me of winter's eventual demise and the promise of opportunity and growth- not only in the natural world but also within myself. I relish this feeling and welcome it with open arms.

Today I anticipate. I daydream of warm weather, the sound of spring peepers, the earthy, loamy smell of freshly ploughed farm fields. (I crave it so much in fact that I prefer "ploughed" to "plowed". I think it looks more buoyant). I itch for the traditions of spring and summer that define the seasons for us: farmer's markets, long walks down farm roads, evenings on the balcony.



And I start to dream about the books waiting for me, the partners that will accompany me through the light season. This spring, I hope to return to Louisa May Alcott, in both her journals and at least one of her novels- I think I am going to first read Moods, since that was one of her personal favorites. Another biography will also soon be in order, most likely Madeleine Stern's Louisa May Alcott, since that has been deemed the quintessential Alcott biography. Also with the advent of spring, my travel bug starts biting, so I am trying to decide on Ireland/travel books that will ease the itch. So far, Wanderlust: A Love Affair with Five Continents and People of the Sea seem to be the top contenders. There's also a memoir called The House on an Irish Hillside that I am absolutely desperate to read but have not been able to get my hands on yet. From the reviews (and the author's blog/Facebook page), I am in for a worthwhile trip. Any other recommendations for armchair travelers?

With so much to look forward to, it's hard to wait and savor the present. I try to do a little of both though, balancing the "now" with the "soon." But spring is coming. It's almost here. And I'll be ready.

Loving...

Currently Reading: Villette by Charlotte Bronte and Early Irish Myths & Sagas by Jeffrey Gantz
(Finished The World of Downton Abbey in one day though... but I don't regret that 1 a.m. bedtime)

Every year, for Valentine's Day, Nate and I watch Jane Eyre (the phenomenal 2006 version from the BBC with Ruth Wilson and Toby Stephens). It debuted on PBS in February of 2007- the first Valentine's Day we celebrated together. Since then, it has become our Valentine's tradition- no fancy dinners, no bouquets of flowers... just the two of us (with Hobbes), burrowed in blankets on the couch,enjoying one of our favorite love stories.



Today, a list of things I love and am grateful for- because what better day to celebrate it all?

- At the top of my list: Nathan. While I won't get all sappy here, he really is my best friend, the sharer of all my adventures, my "sweetheart of the hawthorn hedges." I wouldn't be the same without him.

- My family and my friends. My life is so full with love from so many wonderful souls- my parents, who support me at every turn; my sister, who is my other half; my grandparents, those here and not here; my extended family, who are really just members of my immediate family because we're so close; my friends, with whom I share a million memories, and with whom I am closer than ever, despite the distances. I know God has blessed me when I think on all of the people He has put into my life.

And other little things:
- Watching birds with Hobbes as they gather the bird seed on our balcony, swooping and diving and chattering to each other in the cold winter breeze.

- The lovely purple shawl my Oma crocheted for me several Christmases ago that I hardly part with during the winter. Whether I'm cleaning, cooking, doing homework, or reading, it's there on my shoulders, keeping me snug and warm.

- Hot mugs of tea, steam curling from the surface invitingly.

- Inspiration. I have a harder time finding it during the winter months, but I'm starting to feel it take hold of me, like the first buds of spring returning. Inspiration to write, to desire, to explore. My blood quickens when it comes and the potential of the life ahead of me takes hold in all of its strength and its wonder.

- Writing this blog. I am so lucky that I have the chance to write about what inspires me, to share my thoughts and impressions with friends and family, as well as readers who have become friends and family. Writing has always been an outlet for me, but this blog has allowed me to challenge myself more and discover just how much I need writing.

- Stacks of books on my bedside table, waiting to be read and experienced.

- Mumford & Sons, every song resounding in my ears like a beautiful prayer.

- Creating in the kitchen.

- Our Ireland pictures.

- Serving communion at church.

- Dreaming of summer- farmer's markets, hikes in the State Park, starting another balcony garden, and driving with the windows down.

- Sunshine.

- Adding books to my Goodreads list.

- Wearing cardigans.

- Doing research at work.

- Accomplishing projects.

- Eating homemade yogurt.

- Shopping at Goodwill.

- Finding antiques.

- The color green.

-  Talking about kids' names with Nate, even though that's several years off.

- Adding quotes to my quote book.

- Listening to Opa's stories on my tape recorder.

- Planning for the future.

- Silence. I love stopping, making an effort to take in silence and calm for a few minutes of the day. Centering myself, saying a few words to God, recognizing the blessings I have. It doesn't happen every day, but when it does, I feel refreshed and in tune with who I am and who I want to be.

Love yourself, love the ones around you. "The greatest of these is love."

Happy Valentine's Day!

A Piece of Myself

Currently Reading: Villette by Charlotte Bronte and Wildwood by Colin Meloy

Winter is slowly dragging on, never quite making up its mind whether or not it wants to be over. Tantalizing whiffs of spring hang in the air on the warmer days, only to be masked by gusts of snow blowing over the farm fields and reminding us that winter is still here to stay. Nevertheless, Nate and I dubbed today our "cleaning day," finally putting away the Christmas decorations (I know, we're pathetic!) and brightening the interior with anticipation of brighter days to come. I always have a difficult time in the winter- the lack of sun and chances to go outdoors makes me moody and sullen. By February, my cheerful/optimistic side goes on vacation, while my grumpy/morose side takes the field. Poor Nathan. He's a trooper though, especially since I tend to fight the negative feelings with everything I have.



I moved my pot of ivy to the coffee table and that alone makes spring seem closer than ever. So this morning, I am back to cheerful, enjoying little things like a clean bathroom, a mug of hot cocoa, almost-finished homework, and an afternoon of writing and Villette. Tomorrow I am meeting a good friend that I haven't seen in far too long, and I look forward to that too.

Last week, Nate and I finished Little Women, my first for Classics Club. This was my third re-read, but Nathan's first introduction to it. We did it right- Nate stretched out on the couch or on the bed as I read out loud, enacting each scene and character, complete with voices. I'm sure Jo would have been proud of me.

I have always loved Little Women. There is no need for me to explain what it is about the writing and the characters that are so powerful and endearing, for I know that many, many readers have experienced that too. We laugh at Jo's antics, and feel Teddy's heartbreak, and weep when Beth takes her last breath. But this time, the book tugged at me a little bit more, pulled me in a little bit deeper, and spoke to me in a way it never had before. I can't put my finger on why that is. Perhaps it is because Nate and I read it out loud together. It is amazing how much difference it makes to read with your voice, for it turns words from flat, two-dimensional blotches of ink into a conversation, a dream, an inward sigh. (Reading out loud has always been far superior to me than reading quietly... probably to the detriment of my family, but they never seemed to mind). The book took on a new life when I read it out loud, more real than before, more concrete, more alive. And sharing the reading experience together turned every evening into a literary date night. Now, I will always have the memories of sharing Little Women (and all of the discussions and laughs and tears that accompanied it) with my husband.

Maybe the book meant more to me this time around because I identify even more with Jo now that I've gotten older. How could I not see myself in her when I was a child- dramatic, feisty-tempered, bookish, and imaginative as we were? As a girl, I realized it was OK to be who I was, because Jo was too. But now, as a young woman working on discovering who I am and what my role is in life, Jo comes back, feisty as ever, to show me that we can still be ourselves, even with new responsibilities and expectations. We can still have moody February days, and be dramatic, and wonder whether we will ever achieve what we desire, yet still be good sisters and wives and daughters and mothers. Neither Jo nor I really changed when we grew up, and that gives me so much comfort.

And maybe the book means more to me now because I have recently been learning so much about its author, Louisa May Alcott, who is also a kindred spirit to me. Knowing the context of Louisa's life, as well as her relationship with the book, really helped me understand it in a new light. Nate and I often stopped to discuss the description of Mr. March, or Jo's relationship with her mother or with Beth, in light of how that reflected Louisa's own thoughts and realities. I believe it was Eve LaPlante's Marmee & Louisa which stated that Jo March is Louisa's alter ego, but she is also just as much Louisa as she wished she were, rather than Louisa as she was. Whereas Jo is loved and humored, despite her scrapes and mishaps, Louisa had a much harder time of it, very often misunderstood by her own family. Instead of living poor but comfortably in a stable home, the Alcott's moved all over Boston and Concord, from one temporary house or boarding house to another, and were often separated as the girls grew older and worked to support the family. In Little Women, Louisa wrote of herself and her sisters' childhoods, but she also imagined a new childhood for all of them, a childhood she wished she could have had. That knowledge and understanding illuminated Little Women for me in a new way and made the re-read both rewarding and unforgettable.

I know that Little Women will always be a book I come back to for comfort, guidance, and enjoyment. It will be a book I will read to my children. It will be a book that will still teach me, even as I age. And I hope I will never cease to find a piece of myself within it.

A Peek Into the Kitchen

Currently Reading: A Passion for Books by Harold Rabinowitz

I love my kitchen.



It's a tiny galley kitchen with barely any counter space but it is one of my favorite rooms in the apartment. Cooking was never my "thing" growing up; it was my sister who helped my mother make pizza dough and chop ingredients. It was never very interesting to me until I moved out and started living on my own in college. Suddenly, cooking became exciting and I looked forward to trying new recipes.



In my kitchen, I am able to express another aspect of my creativity. I savor the act of slipping my apron over my neck and rolling up my sleeves, grabbing mixing bowls and measuring cups. And with the holidays right around the corner and the semester wrapping up, I'm looking forward to all of the days I will have to spend creating in the kitchen. Lately, I have been very interested in creating homemade pantry staples, thanks to my new favorite cookbook, The Homemade Pantry by Alana Chernila. (Her blog is linked here; she is a great cook and very helpful. Both times I have emailed her with questions about yogurt firmness or cleaning my Dutch oven, she has responded within days.) Thanks to her cookbook, I blanched my first batch of corn on the cob this summer and I learned a wickedly delicious butternut squash soup recipe. Best of all, we no longer buy cereal, yogurt, canned beans, hamburger buns, or vegetable stock- I now make all of these things from scratch, which is gratifying in so many ways.


Granola cereal and yogurt
 
Not only do I know that we are saving money on our monthly grocery bill, but I have the satisfaction of knowing that we are putting healthier food into our mouths, without preservatives or an influx of sugars or sodium. It is thrilling and deeply soul-satisfying to cook. I agree with Alana: "the thrill is what keeps me cooking and sharing."



I am far from done with my experimentation. Cheddar crackers, fruit roll-ups, Italian salad dressing, and more are on my list. I have also found another cookbook that I will be reading over Christmas break called Make the Bread, Buy the Butter by Jennifer Reese, which will hopefully yield even more ideas and inspire me further to grab my kitchen tools.

While I am far from the perfect cook, it is a hobby that I have come to really love. It is relaxing (as long as I'm not rushing to put dinner on the table) and it is therapeutic. Turns out, cooking itself has a pretty fascinating history as well. Yesterday I finished the book Consider the Fork: How Technology Transforms the Way We Cook and Eat by Bee Wilson. I will never look at my kitchen gadgets the same way again. Turns out there was much I didn't think about when it came to what was in my kitchen and how the devices I take for granted- forks, fridge, oven- has had a profound impact on what we eat. The history of cooking is the history of humankind and a history of our cultures. Everything from ice cube trays to spatulas have a history, one that affected our ancestors and their survival for centuries. For instance, the invention of pots allowed humans to cook different foods together, instead of hanging individual pieces of meat or vegetables over an open flame. In addition, pots helped move us from a hunter-gatherer society to an agricultural one, for we finally had the means to cook the food we grew. Wilson includes discussions of how ovens have changed our relationship with fire, how the type of knives we use have contributed to human jaw's overbites, and the fear people had of refrigeration. I feel like I have a better appreciation for and a new awareness of how my tools affect my cooking. Occasionally, while reading late at night, I found myself sneaking into the kitchen just to open the cabinets and study my kitchen tools- what they're made out of, how they're shaped, and think about how much harder it would be without these devices. I truly feel that anyone who has a passion for cooking would learn so much from this book. I know that it has increased my passion and inspired me even further.

Have a great weekend! Here is a little holiday magic to start December off right!

Why I Love Goodreads.com

Currently Reading: Flame of Sevenwaters by Juliet Marillier and Welcome Joy: Death in Puritan New England by Gordon Geddes




What is Goodreads.com? Only my newest obsession (besides experimenting with new recipes and listening to Mannheim Steamroller Christmas music).  Goodreads.com is a free website that functions as a virtual personal library. Here are some of the many reasons I have fallen in love with Goodreads:

1) In my opinion, one of the best things about Goodreads is the ability to find new books that are very similar to books I have already read and love. Here's how it works: I add and rate books that I have read and/or enjoyed throughout my life, ones that I feel best represent my reading style. In addition, I add books to my already-read list as I finish them. Based on these collections, Goodreads compiles these amazing lists based on the genres I tend to read most or my Favorites List or my Want-to-read list and provides me with recommendations for new books I can add to my Want-to-read list. And it is good. I have already discovered a huge amount of books that I had never heard of before but that seem to fit my reading styles and preferences perfectly. I feel like I am an explorer discovering new worlds, and Goodreads is my map.

2) I can see what my friends are reading. This is great because I get so many new ideas of books to read when I see my friends reading and rating them. Not to mention that it's fun to see what my friends are reading... forget Facebook statuses- I just want to see your reading updates! :) Also, think of the Christmas present potential here! I now know EXACTLY what my friends and relatives want to read! Perfect Christmas present in the bag.

3) While I already have a little journal in which I keep track of the books I read each month, Goodreads allows me to also track the books I want to read and keeps it all in such nice order.

4) The snazzy covers. I am probably the only one who would actually write about the aesthetics of Goodreads, but just like at the library and on my own bookshelves, seeing all of those colorful covers lined up next to each other makes my heart skip a beat.

5) The Christmas-morning sense of anticipation when I scroll through my "to-read" books with growing excitement for the day I will start reading them. Anticipation and potential are like my bread and butter, and looking forward to my next reading experiences is especially helping me get through the rest of this semester.

6) Best of all, I feel that my bookshelves and book recommendations are so ME. Like my bookshelves at home, my Goodreads lists reflect my personality and my interests. From The Brontes: A Life in Letters and Farm City: the Education of an Urban Farmer on my "To-Read" list to The Awakening and The Bean Trees on my already-read list, the books on my shelves serve as an affirmation of who I am. Looking at my book lists is like viewing little reflections of my soul. And I love that.

Feeding My Soul

Currently Reading: On Celtic Tides by Chris Duff and Bossypants by Tina Fey

These past few days, with another birthday celebrated, memories of Ireland haunting my thoughts, and pondering the thoughts and reflections I have read in On Celtic Tides, I have been doing so much thinking. Looking inward, exploring the crevices of my soul, looking at who I am and how I live this wild and precious life I have been given. Jotting down words, eager to capture the thoughts that dart like small fish from rock to rock through my mind. It is so healthy to stop, and breathe, and peel back those inner layers. So life-affirming to focus on each breath and recognize that I am alive! There are several reasons why I should not be here, why this exclamation means so much to me. And though I too often let life pass me by, this year I truly have made a conscious effort to stop and notice the happiness that abounds in the little things around me. There are days where I forget and I let the unimportant things overwhelm me but, in an honest conversation with myself, I can say that I feel I am slowly but surely succeeding in fully living my life.

And I don't know why the urge to write all of this out came upon me tonight but my soul feels like it will burst with all of the images and thoughts that have been brewing inside, so writing will be my form of release, helping me sort and organize the contents of my soul tonight. My soul.. that beautiful, enigmatic thing inside me that cannot be X-rayed or operated upon, but that is so obviously there. I feel it more assuredly than I feel my own blood in my veins. This precious and delicate thing that I hold inside an imperfect body, the only thing I will take with me when I discard my body here on Earth. I live to feed it, to make it strong, and to help it grow. Like an athlete building muscle tone, I follow the passions and intuitions that allow my soul to expand and try to notice the little gifts God drops into the day, adding substance to the soul inside of me.

Things like: reading books, getting lost in the words and worlds to be discovered in each one; spinning in my living room to music that moves me; dust motes dancing in a band of early morning sunshine; kneading pliant bread dough, feeling the smooth elastic under my hand as I shape it into place; watching the clouds change second by second as the sun sinks ever closer to the horizon; forming poems out of nothing but images and letters twisted into words; gazing at the moon; feeling connected to the stories and the mysteries of times past, and the sacred wonder of the fragility of time; the hum of good conversation; baring my soul to someone I trust; an early morning hug in a coffeeshop; remembering, with bittersweet happiness, our front-seat viewing of the dance of sun on water and water against cliff, on a holy island in Donegal Bay, my head on my true love's knee.

Little, simple things that form a life, like ingredients coming together to create a feast. And I am oh, so grateful.

My soul feels calm again, and I am satisfied. Thank you for listening.

Louisa and I

Currently Reading: Eden's Outcasts: The Story of Louisa May Alcott and Her Father by John Matteson

During our wanderings through life, we inevitably run into people we admire. People who inspire us because of their passions, their successes, or their perspective on life. Like anyone else, I have my heroes- my parents and my sister, my grandparents, my husband. I also have a world of heroes that exist beyond the flesh-and-blood world, ones that exist only as characters in novels. Jane Eyre is my ultimate literary heroine, closely followed by Jo March, Anne Shirley, Hermione Granger, and Liadan, while their male counterparts include Pa Ingalls and Sydney Carton.

It wasn't until I started reading Eden's Outcasts that I realized that historical personages don't figure among my heroes. There are many that I admire, certainly, men such as MLK Jr. or John Muir, women like Abigail Adams or Emily Dickinson, but none that I could truly count as heroes. My definition of a hero is a person whom I find is similar to myself, yet possesses qualities that I strive to emulate in my own life. A soul friend, an inspiration. Surprisingly for a historian, I never truly found that person in the annals of the past- until now.



I should have known, with my affinity for Jo March, that I would have been just as enchanted with Jo's creator, Louisa May Alcott. But I have found, while reading this biography, that I love Louisa May even more. With every journal entry or letter, I draw closer to her, realizing we share many of the same characteristics- good and bad. Unlike a literary hero, Louisa is human, and far from perfect. As someone who struggles to overcome my faults, I find in her a reassurance that we are all imperfect in some way and that it is part of who we are.

We are both passionate and creative; we are also both irritable, moody, and strong-tempered. As children, we tore voraciously into books, and stimulated our imaginations out of doors. We share strong bonds with our sisters and we find inspiration in nature and fellow intellectuals. We both grew up trying to please our parents, even in the midst of upheaval and strife. My excitement over the discovery of this new bosom friend reached its ultimate pinnacle when I read that Louisa even listed one of her favorite books as Jane Eyre, the novel I have prized since the age of 11. I couldn't help leaping off of the couch and doing a happy dance in my living room when I read that.

Yet there is still so much more about her that I admire- her drive and determination, even her struggles. I love her faults and imperfections just as much as I love our similarities. As I read, I imagine the questions I wish I could ask her or the conversations we could have had. I feel as if I understand her, and that is something I have never found with a character outside of a novel. It is refreshing and exhilarating. It is inspiring.



I still have several chapters to go before I finish this wonderful biography; this summer, I plan on diving into some primary sources- journals and the like, going straight for the woman past the analyses of others. I cannot wait.

I hope everyone had a happy Easter! Here are some of my favorite moments from my weekend.


Loving on my niece Lena


The bridge, overlooking the creek


Oma, the master chef

My lovely sister and I... and a tree which I then fell in love with


Oma, playing with her great-grandbaby


Newspaper reading is serious business


Dancing to "Let's Go Fly a Kite" :)

GRASS!!(Thank you, Lisa, for your amazing photography skills).
Have a great week!

I Arise Today...

Green beer. Leprechauns. Blarney and pots of gold. All sorts of things come out of the woodwork every March 17^th in the United States as we get ready to celebrate everything Irish for St. Patrick’s Day. This Saturday, I plan on indulging in my favorite St. Patrick’s Day tradition. No, I don’t paint my cheeks with “Erin Go Bragh” or pin a leprechaun button on my shirt. Instead, I pull my copy of The Confession of St. Patrick off of my bookshelf and reacquaint myself with the amazing man whose name has become famous but whose life and legacy are often forgotten. I won’t give you a biography of St. Patrick today, but merely a glimpse of what you can discover through his written work.

Yes, St. Patrick did exist. While exact dates of birth, death, and work in Ireland are hazy at best, the fact remains that he was real and he did spread the word of God in Ireland. He was not the first to do so but he seems to have been the most effective. While other missionaries, namely Palladius, were not familiar with the Irish people they were trying to convert, Patrick had lived in Ireland for many years and had a deep respect and love for the Irish and their culture. Two historical documents have come down to the 21^st century from this holy man of long ago. One is A Letter to Coroticus, Patrick’s response to a Roman general that had been kidnapping Irish people and forcing them into slavery. A former slave himself, Patrick’s ardor and strength of character are evident in every word. The second document is my favorite. The Confession of St. Patrick is an autobiography of sorts, in which Patrick explains the beginning of his own faith and dependence on God, his call to Ireland, and his work there. It reveals a man who was very different from the well-known depictions of an aged, white-haired, stooped man in a cloak. Patrick was tough, he was strong, he was quick-witted. He greatly respected the Irish people; he knew the Irish language. He felt uncomfortable and embarrassed of his lack of learning, especially his Latin. He was adamant and he didn’t back down. He was a force to be reckoned with, but also gentle and caring. He admired women and welcomed them with equal fervor to the fold. He felt grief, he felt doubt, he felt shame for the sins he committed in the past. He embraced the Celtic Irish culture, allowing it to flourish alongside the new Christian religion, thus preserving a language and an oral literature that otherwise would have disappeared. And, most admirably of all (for me), he had a very strong faith, a true faith. Not a faith of recent times, dripping in judgment and hypocrisy. But a true, unwavering faith in a power that loved all man... not because we deserve it, but because grace is stronger than our proclivity to sin. I think I would have liked to have known him- each time I read his work, I feel a little closer to a man I greatly admire and gain a little more inspiration on how to live my own life.

There is a poem attributed to St. Patrick that is fitting for today called “Faed Fiada” in Irish and “The Cry of the Deer” or “St. Patrick’s Breastplate” in English. Simple yet profound, it is a fitting symbol of how the Christian faith and the Celtic culture converged and intertwined, creating a beautiful and powerful new culture. As Katherine Scherman writes in The Flowering of Ireland, “If Patrick did write it...it exhibits not only his glowing imagination but an intuitive appreciation of the pagan background of his adopted country.” When I read it, I picture a man standing on a hilltop, shouting his words to the sun and the wind, celebrating God, celebrating the Earth, celebrating life. It is moving in its imagery and I share it with you today.

I arise today

Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,

Through the belief in the threeness,

Through confession of the oneness

Of the Creator of Creation.

I arise today

Through the strength of Christ's birth with his baptism,

Through the strength of his crucifixion with his burial,

Through the strength of his resurrection with his ascension,

Through the strength of his descent for the judgment of Doom.

I arise today

Through the strength of the love of Cherubim,

In obedience of angels,

In the service of archangels,

In hope of resurrection to meet with reward,

In prayers of patriarchs,

In predictions of prophets,

In preaching of apostles,

In faith of confessors,

In innocence of holy virgins,

In deeds of righteous men.

I arise today

Through the strength of heaven:

Light of sun,

Radiance of moon,

Splendor of fire,

Speed of lightning,

Swiftness of wind,

Depth of sea,

Stability of earth,

Firmness of rock.

I arise today

Through God's strength to pilot me:

God's might to uphold me,

God's wisdom to guide me,

God's eye to look before me,

God's ear to hear me,

God's word to speak for me,

God's hand to guard me,

God's way to lie before me,

God's shield to protect me,

God's host to save me

From snares of devils,

From temptations of vices,

From everyone who shall wish me ill,

Afar and anear,

Alone and in multitude.

I summon today all these powers between me and those evils,

Against every cruel merciless power that may oppose my body and soul,

Against incantations of false prophets,

Against black laws of pagandom

Against false laws of heretics,

Against craft of idolatry,

Against spells of witches and smiths and wizards,

Against every knowledge that corrupts man's body and soul.

Christ to shield me today

Against poison, against burning,

Against drowning, against wounding,

So that there may come to me abundance of reward.

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 everyone who speaks of me,

Christ in every eye that sees me,

Christ in every ear that hears me.

I arise today

Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,

Through belief in the threeness,

Through confession of the oneness,

Of the Creator of Creation.

Slainte.