The End of May

Currently Reading: The Red-Haired Girl from the Bog by Patricia Monaghan and The Obituary Writer by Ann Hood

A quick pop-in! Three things:

I encourage you to check out my new essay published on the Literary Ladies Guide website, discussing nature in Anne of Green Gables. Here's the link: http://www.literaryladiesguide.com/literary-musings/beyond-beauty-the-natural-world-in-anne-of-green-gables/#more-1690
I'm just starting to get into this "writing-outside-my-blog" thing and I would really love to hear some feedback, so feel free to comment!
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Last week, I finished Life After Life by Kate Atkinson, which is probably the best novel I have read so far this year. It was mindblowing. And very difficult to describe, so I won't even attempt it. I can give you a glimpse, however, of the thoughts it raised in my mind as I read: how fragile and powerful are the trajectories of our lives; the pull and tug between free will and choice as the book dipped and flung itself into both; the ponderous, unanswerable questions of life and death and outcomes and consequences and the implications of our lives on the world, on each other, on history. How little things might lead to broader implications. How new decisions might still yield the same result. How little control we have over our destinies. How much control we have over our destinies. Life After Life was exquisite.
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Also finished The Selected Letters of Louisa May Alcott. (Can you tell I'm on break from school?) The letters, like the journals, were such a pleasure because I felt fully immersed in LMA's world, her voice, her perspective. I actually enjoyed the Letters more because they were more conversational and detailed- often, I felt like Louisa was just talking to me, describing her thoughts and her doings. Like Louisa, the words were fresh and vibrant, as if they were written yesterday. I feel a deeper connection to Louisa the more I read of her, and these Letters strengthened that connection intensely. In fact, having read collections of both her Letters and Journals, I feel like I know her intimately, as a friend, as a kindred spirit. She is more real to me now than ever before.
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So, a good May overall. June stretches before us, ripe with the promise of farmer's markets, museum visits, long walks, and a weekend vacation with friends up North. Books in the queue: In the Shadow of Blackbirds, some Ralph Waldo Emerson, Shadowfell, and Mrs. Dalloway. School starts again in two weeks, but I'm not focusing on that yet. My focus is on the good ahead.

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.

Standing for Something

Currently Reading: Charlotte Bronte: A Passionate Life by Lyndall Gordon and Little Women by Louisa May Alcott (My two favorite women authors at once! What is this madness?!)

A lot of deep thoughts have been swirling through my mind recently, prompted and inspired by many unrelated pieces all coming together to somehow influence each other. These pieces include, among other things, the last election cycle, Charlotte Bronte, another blog post, and a Fun song. And after much deep thinking and an inspiring email from my slightly-older-but-so-much-wiser-cousin, I'm ready to write it out.

This blog is one of many pieces in my life where I express myself creatively- my journal, my kitchen, my poetry, my job, and even my schoolwork are other areas of my life that serve as creative outlets and allow me to be true to myself through free expression. I relish these creative outlets, I demand them for my wellbeing and my sanity. Besides the blog world, social media gives us even more outlets for free expression: Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest, Goodreads, and more abound to serve us. We are granted parts of the canvas and encouraged to sling our paint wherever we wish. They serve dual purposes: connecting us to others and giving us a means of creative expression. I am not engaged on all of these sites because I don't have the time or the interest for them all. But I add to my Goodreads shelves and I update my Facebook status and I spend much of my online time seeing what my friends and relatives are up to as well. There is so much good from all of this- seeing pictures of my growing nieces and nephews, messaging a friend to pick a time to get together, or sharing a joke with a faraway friend. All of this is necessary to sustain my relationships with others.

There's an underbelly to it all, of course. I think the last election cycle this past fall proved that social media can be dirty. Facebook became a place where political opinions were shared, misunderstandings arose, and debates ensued. In some ways, I think this is healthy. Every person not only has a valid opinion, but has the right to express that opinion. There is no limit, no hindrance to our ability to express ourselves on social media, and this is especially true when we feel strongly about certain topics. But there is something about this that scares me and it is epitomized in the comment bar. Facebook doesn't just allow us to post our own opinions, but we have the constant ability to comment on the conversations, threads, posts, and shares of others. While this seems innocuous, I actually believe it leads us to the impression that we all have the right to talk each other down without listening to what others have to say. It cuts out constructive and informative conversation, and whittles our dialogue with others down to mere sentences. Social media allows us to communicate our opinions and make our voices heard, while simultaneously drowning out our voices because of the cacophony it produces.

*Enter Charlotte Bronte* I have been reading a wonderful biography exploring Charlotte's life and its influences upon her works. I have not only learned much about Jane Eyre through discovering Charlotte's life, but I have also gained a deeper understanding and respect for women during the 19th century, and female writers in particular. While I do want to discuss her and Louisa further in a separate blog post soon, there was a portion that struck me and stuck with me. After the deaths of her siblings, Charlotte was left living in Haworth, on a lonely Yorkshire moor, taking care of her ailing father. While this did often influence Charlotte's depression, Lyndall Gordon makes it clear that her isolation and loneliness, her separation from others and especially from society, made it possible for her art and voice to develop. While she makes this point right when Charlotte is about to write Villette, it actually is true of the circumstances surrounding her earlier novels too. Her secluded life at Haworth influenced the person she was- her opinions of London, her ease in society, her view of women's roles, and her passionate expression. If Charlotte was a different man's daughter or had lived in a bustling metropolis, perhaps the world would not have been gifted with her voice. I can only imagine the silence, the seclusion, the loneliness Charlotte lived with every day, for that does not exist for us anymore, as it was for her. She created her own mental stimulation and her voice flourished in the silence. Only with her letters and her novels was she able to champion her opinions and views, and so she did so with fervor. As I have read, I couldn't help wondering whether some form of detachment is necessary to inspiration, to art, to forming one's voice. Charlotte herself wrote in a letter to Mrs. Gaskell about the "need for isolation in order to be true to herself."

*Enter Fun song* Their new song, called "Some Nights", to be exact. It is a beautiful song, a moving commentary on war, particularly the Iraq War. The lyrics are outstanding, sheer poetry. (Check out this music video- goosebumps, I tell you.) These are the songs I love, the ones that make me stop and read the lines and feel their meanings in the depths of my soul. There are two lines that have haunted me the past few days: the first says, "I found a martyr in my bed tonight/stops my bones from wondering just who I am, who I am, who I am, oh who am I?" The second: "Oh Lord, I'm still not sure what I stand for/ What do I stand for? What do I stand for? Most nights, I don't know." Powerful stuff right there. And it hits me because knowing what we stand for, what we believe in, what matters to us, is essential to our growth as individuals, to the inward development of our characters throughout our lives.

There are things I stand for, things I believe in with my whole heart and soul. But communicating those things has become the barrier that I cannot cross, the locked gate I can find no key for. Since November, and even much earlier, I have struggled with the truth that in order to avoid the negative comments of others or the debilitating, faceless debates with ones I love, I must hide who I am, that I am actually not free to express myself and therefore, am not free to be who I am. As a person who seeks expression through my writing, through my creative outlets, it frustrates me and makes me feel hindered because I am constrained by the very medium that is supposed to free us all. Another blogger, Kelle Hampton on Enjoying the Small Things actually just wrote about a similar point the other night, which was another part of the catalyst that inspired me to write this post. Her post was about the negative criticism that comes from others when we share and connect and bare our souls through social media. She wrote, "Validation is an interesting thing though, and no matter how strong or unphased by criticism we are, there is an undeniable human desire to have people like what we feel passionate about--our art, our words, our stories, our styles, our writing, our opinions.  It's why we sometimes feel hesitant to publish or share.  What will people think?"

Of course, I could counter all of this by asking why is it so important for me to express my opinions at all? Publicly expressing my opinions or publicly affirming what I stand for does not make them any more solid or real. So why share them at all? And in the same vein, why do I feel the need to comment on the opinions and beliefs of others? Why do I have the right to insert myself into another person's mind and life? Perhaps the real answer lies in figuring out the role that personal expression should take in the world of social media.

Am I bothered that people I love do not and probably will not ever truly know or understand me? If I was being honest with myself, the answer is yes. What I believe and what I stand for are part of who I am. I want to share that, not to make others think the way I do, but so that I too will be heard. So what to do? Do I limit my interactions on social media to avoid anything that might anger or be misunderstood? Do I step back from it all, in order to let the silence inspire my own life? Do I express my inner thoughts and share my beliefs, despite the criticism?

I want to stand up. I want to live what I believe. And I want to find my voice. The question is finding a way to do so.

Immortal Words

Currently Reading: Princes of Ireland by Edward Rutherford (It is heavenly to read about Ireland again.)

Whew.. it feels wonderful to be blogging again. Even though it's time consuming and sometimes I can't think of what to write, the act of sitting at my desk in my pajamas, typing on my laptop while my husband tries to get the cat to stop clawing the couch is so satisfying. I always feel scholarly when I sit down to write my blog- I imagine myself back at school, cranking out history papers. Or I let my imagination wander as I create something out of nothing- I am Hermione Granger finishing an essay in the Gryffindor common room; Emily Dickinson, pacing her room in Amherst as words drop into her mind; or a monk in a scriptorium in medieval Ireland, reverently copying Scripture verses onto vellum. Ever since language was created, man (and woman) has had the need... no, the urge... to write. Like art and music, it is a great universal constant, regardless of time and place, language and culture. We breathe words and language every day- how natural that we should want to add our own words to the mix. I find it amazing how much power words have. First of all, they are immortal- one of the only things that survives when we do not. I am reminded of this every day at work when I read articles and letters by people whose bodies now rest in the earth. As I read their words... words they created... they continue to exist for a little while. It's beautiful really... and it's part of the reason I love what I do. I can learn so much from others' perspectives- from Rilke, Barbara Kingsolver, or even a letter to the editor from 1922.

I have always found that the best writers tend to be readers. Sure, it's helpful to know the definition of an adverb. Conjugating sentences can even be kind of fun (don't judge me). But learning about plot development and sentence structure and word choice in English class does nothing to create a good writer. Reading is the best way to learn how to write, just as watching someone demonstrate a skill is the best way to learn. (Try learning how to crochet from a book. It's hard.) I could preach until dawn about how reading broadens our minds, exposes us to new things, feeds our imagination, teaches us, challenges our deepest beliefs and prejudices. But there's something else that reading does. It allows us to articulate our emotions and our deepest thoughts in writing. Not all of us can publish books. Not many of us could make writing into a career. But when we write, we feed our soul for a little while. We contribute something to the world. We prove, through our own words, that we exist and we matter and we need to be heard. Because we read, we not only know how to express ourselves, but we also have a desire to.

I've discovered in the past two weeks how desperately I love writing this blog. And I will try fervently not to go this long again without sitting down to my keyboard. I have so much to write about the books I read lately, especially Sarah's Key and Lolita, as well as thoughts on libraries and the digital age that are still brewing within me. I'll be back soon. Here are some pictures that show a little glimpse of life lately....


Hobbes helping Nathan play our new Hogwarts Lego game.


Horses watching me as I drive to work. Don't worry, I stopped the car for the shot. :)


Barns are so photogenic.


Hobbes says "Good night."