Currently Reading: Small Wonder by Barbara Kingsolver and My First Summer in the Sierra by John Muir
Fall has returned from its long hiatus, slipping silently into summer like a diver into water, without a splash. We greet each other as I sit under the tree where I sat a year ago. I see the ghost of myself a few feet off, head bent in concentration, her posture vibrating with nervousness and excitement, unsure of herself at the precipice of something new, yet ready to conquer. I salute her and pull my book from my bag, already stamping this place again with my memory. As the sun swims downward, I read my latest Barbara Kingsolver- a book of essays, the lyrical words and crisp fall breeze knitting a cocoon around my body. I read of hopes and fears and finding solace in the wild things. "Among the greatest of all gifts is to know our place." Yes. Me too. Always. Barbara Kingsolver has it- the magic of blending quiet words with a powerful voice. She pulls the detritus away and reveals shining nuggets of truth in mere sentences. It is a haunting power, and I eagerly sift through the debris with her. "People need wild places...We need to be able to taste grace and know once again that we desire it."
I look at the time and then at the woods nearby. There's time enough. Quietly I stuff the book away, hitch up my bag, and follow the steep trail into a grove of trees that quickly muffles the sights and sounds of students. I take my time, wending down the path, stopping to watch a chipmunk- their voices sound like the chirp of birds, how did I never know that- and coming to a little bridge, shielded from the bike path nearby, utterly alone and yet surrounded by life.
Slowly, I feel my mind stop its whirling dance, like a bird alighting on a fencepost. Letting go of the to-do lists written on the chalkboard inside my head, the endless litany of things to be done and things to worry over, I sink down and lay on the bridge. Pulling my body into various stretches, I breathe in and out, centering myself here, with the trees and the birds and the chipmunks. Now. Now is good. Feeling small is good. I lay down on the bridge, my gaze stretching up and I feel such a surge of love for the plants and animals. A connection thrums through my body like a plucked guitar string, bringing sudden tears to my eyes. I am part of this, I am of this, we are all of the same God. The trees above me seem so strong and enduring, but they are slowly being poisoned as I lay here, the whole earth bleeding out with each second that passes. The trees are the tangible past, our history, hundreds of years of days and nights that I get to witness. I wonder if the seedlings at my feet will someday stretch over the heads of my great-great-grandchildren or if this secret place will be a parking garage or a wasteland and trees will be beyond memory. And I feel such love and protectiveness for this massive system which is dying, but I cannot save it and I am filled with despair.
I stand and breathe in the oxygen these trees are making for me. I exhale some carbon for them. We feed each other. I feel so whole in the green silences, as I always do, as if I found something I forgot I was missing. In the wildness, I can let myself be me in a way I cannot in the world of people. The trees watch me with no judgment, no agenda, and I whisper promises we cannot keep to the leaves that flutter like fragments of paper above me. We could learn from the trees, ways of being that could save our souls. To watch and listen and let others be. To stand firm, but without malice or judgment. To understand our place and the larger picture we fit into. To love without destruction. I want to fill myself with the trees, with their knowledge and patience and beauty, and carry it with me like a talisman against all of the things I cannot change. I lift my arms above my head, like a child begging to be picked up, waiting to be anointed. Trying to slip my fingers into this awesome silence, offering my prayers and holy words to the caverns of leaves and branches above.
The sun is low. As I turn and walk on, the chime of bells from a campus building swells into the silence, the capstone of the sanctuary's architecture. There is still hope. There has to be.
"Look and listen for the welfare of the whole people and have always in view not only the present but also the coming generations, even those whose faces are yet beneath the surface of the ground- the unborn of the future Nation." ~ The Constitution of the Iroquois Nations
Showing posts with label celebrating God in nature. Show all posts
Showing posts with label celebrating God in nature. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Sunday, July 7, 2013
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.
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.
Friday, May 3, 2013
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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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!
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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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!
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
A Birthday
Currently Reading: Brooklyn by Colm Toibin
A quick post this morning, in between homework, cooking, and getting ready for work. It is simply beautiful outside- bright autumn morning sunlight glancing off of our balcony, a chill breeze blowing the leaves, and a perfect palette of blue sky against brown fields. I have never been able to get over how lovely it is outside in the fall. Driving to school on Monday mornings is a little bit dreadful (because I am so tired) but mostly amazing, as I literally watch the sun rise on the fields and barns dotting the land, transforming everything from the still, silent wakefulness that comes with the pre-dawn darkness to a world vibrant with color and light. In those moments, I feel closer to God in a way that is outside the liturgy of Church. It is difficult to explain, but I revel in the feeling of being so wholly alive. As Jane Eyre says, "We know that God is everywhere; but certainly we feel His presence most when His works are on the grandest scale spread before us."
Coincidentally enough, today is the 165th anniversary of the publication of my most treasured book-friend, Jane Eyre. You can read all about my relationship with, and musings over Jane Eyre in several past posts from June. To celebrate today, I'm pulling out some more of my favorite quotes:
"It is in vain to say that human beings ought to be satisfied with tranquillity: they must have action; and they will make it if they cannot find it."
"Now I remembered that the real world was wide, and that a varied field of hopes and fear, of sensations and excitements, awaited those who had courage to go forth into its expanse, to seek real knowledge of life amidst its perils."
Helen Burns to Jane: "Yet it would be your duty to bear it, if you could not avoid it; it is weak and silly to say you cannot bear what it is your fate to be required to bear."
Jane to Rochester: "I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will, which I now exert to leave you."
165 years later, they still have such a powerful meaning, such relevance, so much emotion and truth within each line. 165 years from now, I know they will still have that same hold for future readers. Happy Birthday to a fantastic book. How will you celebrate today?
A quick post this morning, in between homework, cooking, and getting ready for work. It is simply beautiful outside- bright autumn morning sunlight glancing off of our balcony, a chill breeze blowing the leaves, and a perfect palette of blue sky against brown fields. I have never been able to get over how lovely it is outside in the fall. Driving to school on Monday mornings is a little bit dreadful (because I am so tired) but mostly amazing, as I literally watch the sun rise on the fields and barns dotting the land, transforming everything from the still, silent wakefulness that comes with the pre-dawn darkness to a world vibrant with color and light. In those moments, I feel closer to God in a way that is outside the liturgy of Church. It is difficult to explain, but I revel in the feeling of being so wholly alive. As Jane Eyre says, "We know that God is everywhere; but certainly we feel His presence most when His works are on the grandest scale spread before us."
Coincidentally enough, today is the 165th anniversary of the publication of my most treasured book-friend, Jane Eyre. You can read all about my relationship with, and musings over Jane Eyre in several past posts from June. To celebrate today, I'm pulling out some more of my favorite quotes:
"It is in vain to say that human beings ought to be satisfied with tranquillity: they must have action; and they will make it if they cannot find it."
"Now I remembered that the real world was wide, and that a varied field of hopes and fear, of sensations and excitements, awaited those who had courage to go forth into its expanse, to seek real knowledge of life amidst its perils."
Helen Burns to Jane: "Yet it would be your duty to bear it, if you could not avoid it; it is weak and silly to say you cannot bear what it is your fate to be required to bear."
Jane to Rochester: "I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will, which I now exert to leave you."
165 years later, they still have such a powerful meaning, such relevance, so much emotion and truth within each line. 165 years from now, I know they will still have that same hold for future readers. Happy Birthday to a fantastic book. How will you celebrate today?
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
An Affair with Autumn
Currently Reading: Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen and Brooklyn by Colm Toibin
As I knew it would, the demands of schoolwork has affected my blogging. I obviously do not write and post as often as I would like, and though it sounds silly, not being able to blog on a regular basis makes me feel guilty- like I'm not a good blogger because I participate so infrequently. While I wonder how this affects my readership, I must remind myself that I write for myself, first and foremost.
About a week ago, I finished The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde, listening to it on audiobook as it accompanied me to and from school. The novel is set in the 1980s in an alternate reality, where the Crimean War is still being waged and literature is taken as seriously as religion is in this country. The story follows a Special Operative LiteraTec named Thursday Next, who must rescue Jane Eyre after she is abducted from the pages of her book. Yes, it is possible in this novel to go into other novels- Martin Chuzzlewit, a Wordsworth poem. It was a fun book- quirky and imaginative, a book one reads just for fun. I absolutely loved all of the literary references: a hotel called Finis; a reporter named Melinda Floss (say it quickly: it sounds like "Mill on the Floss"..hehe); people going door to door Jehovah-witness style to convert people into believing that Francis Bacon actually wrote Shakespeare's plays; people stepping into poems and wandering the corridors of Thornfield Hall. The scenes at Thornfield Hall were of course the highlight of the book- (I may have squealed a bit when Mr. Rochester came on the scene)- though perhaps it was a bit irreverent to a Jane Eyre lover- key plot points are different, and anything can happen in the margins (tourists come and go, villains escape into the environs of Millcote, a certain LiteraTec lives for months hidden inside the hall-all without Jane's knowledge, so as not to disrupt the story-line.) It all adds up to a purely delightful reading experience, one that kept me hooked from beginning to end.
Annnnnnnd...... it's autumn again!
My favorite season of them all. Fall is a time of remembrance and reflection for me, a time to look back on the year and look forward to the year ahead. I think there is something within me and probably within all of us- a genetic memory of sorts- that awakes at this time of year. Something that remembers the harvest, the preparation for winter, My soul leaps at the farm fields bathed in a chill autumn sunrise, a V of geese overhead, the smell of dead leaves, butternut squash soup, slipping my apron over my head, chilly air filling my lungs. As I wrote in my "Halloween Book List" last year, my book list often reflects the time of year as well. Falltime is when I pull out my history books on the Puritans, on colonial history, on the Salem Witch Trials. I have done it for so many years that fall seems like the only backdrop now against which I can read these books. While right now, I am finishing up Northanger Abbey, which I will talk about in my next post, and just started Brooklyn as an audiobook, I have already reserved a book that I am really looking forward to: Welcome Joy: Death in Puritan New England. Oh yeah, baby. It may sound morbid, but I have always been fascinated by the history of our perceptions and relationship with death. "History toward the Attitudes of Death" was my favorite class in college, and I just eat up books and documentaries about cemeteries, funeral rites, beliefs about death. I think my job has something to do with it- or perhaps I have my job because of this interest I have always harbored. Either way, it gives me so much to look forward to, to ponder over, to learn.
My reading and my blogging may have taken a bit of a backseat to this thing we call grad school, but I still have it here, waiting for me and for those moments when I can stop and take a breath. That's a nice reassurance. Have a great week! Go find a fun Halloween read!
As I knew it would, the demands of schoolwork has affected my blogging. I obviously do not write and post as often as I would like, and though it sounds silly, not being able to blog on a regular basis makes me feel guilty- like I'm not a good blogger because I participate so infrequently. While I wonder how this affects my readership, I must remind myself that I write for myself, first and foremost.
About a week ago, I finished The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde, listening to it on audiobook as it accompanied me to and from school. The novel is set in the 1980s in an alternate reality, where the Crimean War is still being waged and literature is taken as seriously as religion is in this country. The story follows a Special Operative LiteraTec named Thursday Next, who must rescue Jane Eyre after she is abducted from the pages of her book. Yes, it is possible in this novel to go into other novels- Martin Chuzzlewit, a Wordsworth poem. It was a fun book- quirky and imaginative, a book one reads just for fun. I absolutely loved all of the literary references: a hotel called Finis; a reporter named Melinda Floss (say it quickly: it sounds like "Mill on the Floss"..hehe); people going door to door Jehovah-witness style to convert people into believing that Francis Bacon actually wrote Shakespeare's plays; people stepping into poems and wandering the corridors of Thornfield Hall. The scenes at Thornfield Hall were of course the highlight of the book- (I may have squealed a bit when Mr. Rochester came on the scene)- though perhaps it was a bit irreverent to a Jane Eyre lover- key plot points are different, and anything can happen in the margins (tourists come and go, villains escape into the environs of Millcote, a certain LiteraTec lives for months hidden inside the hall-all without Jane's knowledge, so as not to disrupt the story-line.) It all adds up to a purely delightful reading experience, one that kept me hooked from beginning to end.
Annnnnnnd...... it's autumn again!
My favorite season of them all. Fall is a time of remembrance and reflection for me, a time to look back on the year and look forward to the year ahead. I think there is something within me and probably within all of us- a genetic memory of sorts- that awakes at this time of year. Something that remembers the harvest, the preparation for winter, My soul leaps at the farm fields bathed in a chill autumn sunrise, a V of geese overhead, the smell of dead leaves, butternut squash soup, slipping my apron over my head, chilly air filling my lungs. As I wrote in my "Halloween Book List" last year, my book list often reflects the time of year as well. Falltime is when I pull out my history books on the Puritans, on colonial history, on the Salem Witch Trials. I have done it for so many years that fall seems like the only backdrop now against which I can read these books. While right now, I am finishing up Northanger Abbey, which I will talk about in my next post, and just started Brooklyn as an audiobook, I have already reserved a book that I am really looking forward to: Welcome Joy: Death in Puritan New England. Oh yeah, baby. It may sound morbid, but I have always been fascinated by the history of our perceptions and relationship with death. "History toward the Attitudes of Death" was my favorite class in college, and I just eat up books and documentaries about cemeteries, funeral rites, beliefs about death. I think my job has something to do with it- or perhaps I have my job because of this interest I have always harbored. Either way, it gives me so much to look forward to, to ponder over, to learn.
My reading and my blogging may have taken a bit of a backseat to this thing we call grad school, but I still have it here, waiting for me and for those moments when I can stop and take a breath. That's a nice reassurance. Have a great week! Go find a fun Halloween read!
Saturday, June 23, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Book Fate
Spring's a'coming! As I drove home from a friend's house this morning, with the Civil Wars blasting in my car and the sun warming up the picture-perfect farm fields all around me, I felt as if my soul awoke after a long winter of hibernation. Driving through God's creation is like attending a worship service, just as powerful and just as beneficial.
Three books in three weeks- my track record has been pretty good so far and I have enjoyed all three, each one vastly different from the other. So here for your perusal are the random thoughts that accompanied each book, during and after reading. Tonight, I'll discuss Frank Delaney's The Last Storyteller.
Three books in three weeks- my track record has been pretty good so far and I have enjoyed all three, each one vastly different from the other. So here for your perusal are the random thoughts that accompanied each book, during and after reading. Tonight, I'll discuss Frank Delaney's The Last Storyteller.
I believe in book fate. There have been times in my life where I have found myself reading the perfect book for the circumstance I am going through, completely by accident. Just like God brings certain people into our lives at opportune moments, I think sometimes He sees what we're going through and pulls the perfect book from the shelf. The Last Storyteller was my travel companion when I went to my Opa's several weeks ago to sit with him, celebrate his life, and say goodbye. As I sat there at home the next day, soaking in everything that had happened, I read voraciously. Reading is therapy, and Frank Delaney delivered. Delaney is a true storyteller, the kind one reads about in the old Irish tales about seanchai and wandering bards, weaving tales from thin air. When I listen to him read his books, I imagine him in the old tradition, pipe in hand, wreathed in smoke from a hearth fire. His voice makes each word and letter resonate, physically vibrate with depth and substance; it's an otherworldly experience.
The Last Storyteller was the final installment of a three part series, one that is part love story, part coming of age story and entirely captivating. It follows Ben MacCarthy, a collector of Irish mythology for the Irish Folklore Commission, who has wandered the Irish countryside for decades, trying to understand his own life and the decisions he has made. Bereft of his true love, he finds solace in his memories, the words of his mentor, and the stories he collects. It was comforting to return to these places that had become so familiar to me in Venetia Kelly's Traveling Show and The Matchmaker of Kenmare. It was rewarding to revisit Ben, and James Clare, and even Billy "Flocking" Maloney. But the theme of this trilogy that especially resonated with me throughout Opa's last days and beyond was the advice James Clare gives Ben in the first novel and continues to emphasize throughout Ben's life. As James says, "Every legend and all mythologies exist to teach us how to run our days. In kind fashion. A loving way. But there's no story, no matter how ancient, as important as one's own. So if we're to live good lives, we have to tell ourselves our own story. In a good way." Oh, I love those lines. Ben's quest for the love of his life also becomes a quest to tell his own story. In The Last Storyteller, Ben is finally able to do so, to evaluate and understand his life. And it is beautiful to see.
I love stories. I have had people ask why I never studied literature (although I argue, technically I do... I just don't have a degree for it). But the reason I went into history is because I have found that the past is where we find the real stories, the true drama of human existence. Through studying history, I have been privy to the stories of men and women from Crete to Mississippi. When we live our lives, they don't seem glamorous or monumental. Daily life is just that.. marked by seconds, minutes, and hours that are equal parts triumph and disappointment, peace and stress, joy and sadness. But when we see our lives and our world today as acts in a larger play, or a chapter in a larger tale, it starts to make sense. We can see how we fit into the broader scheme of things and even how we can change it. We can look back on the stories of those that have inhabited this Earth before us and see how their stories affect ours and even how ours mimics theirs. But we have to be open to it, we have to realize the potential that comes from our collective stories. There is so much to discover when we learn to listen.
I believe I was fated to read The Last Storyteller, with its emphasis on looking back to understand one's life and the importance of sharing our stories, just as my Opa stepped from this life into the next. The book helped me grieve and made it easier to focus on the gift of life, as well as death. During the past two years, I made it a point to ask Opa for his stories, and record them for my family and my descendants. And I saw with what joy he looked back on the life he had lived and recounted details and moments that may have seemed trivial, but all added up into making him who he was. I believe we can learn from everyone's story and I know I learned much from Opa's. My job now is to make my life worthy so that I may tell him a good story when I meet him again.
The Last Storyteller was the final installment of a three part series, one that is part love story, part coming of age story and entirely captivating. It follows Ben MacCarthy, a collector of Irish mythology for the Irish Folklore Commission, who has wandered the Irish countryside for decades, trying to understand his own life and the decisions he has made. Bereft of his true love, he finds solace in his memories, the words of his mentor, and the stories he collects. It was comforting to return to these places that had become so familiar to me in Venetia Kelly's Traveling Show and The Matchmaker of Kenmare. It was rewarding to revisit Ben, and James Clare, and even Billy "Flocking" Maloney. But the theme of this trilogy that especially resonated with me throughout Opa's last days and beyond was the advice James Clare gives Ben in the first novel and continues to emphasize throughout Ben's life. As James says, "Every legend and all mythologies exist to teach us how to run our days. In kind fashion. A loving way. But there's no story, no matter how ancient, as important as one's own. So if we're to live good lives, we have to tell ourselves our own story. In a good way." Oh, I love those lines. Ben's quest for the love of his life also becomes a quest to tell his own story. In The Last Storyteller, Ben is finally able to do so, to evaluate and understand his life. And it is beautiful to see.
I love stories. I have had people ask why I never studied literature (although I argue, technically I do... I just don't have a degree for it). But the reason I went into history is because I have found that the past is where we find the real stories, the true drama of human existence. Through studying history, I have been privy to the stories of men and women from Crete to Mississippi. When we live our lives, they don't seem glamorous or monumental. Daily life is just that.. marked by seconds, minutes, and hours that are equal parts triumph and disappointment, peace and stress, joy and sadness. But when we see our lives and our world today as acts in a larger play, or a chapter in a larger tale, it starts to make sense. We can see how we fit into the broader scheme of things and even how we can change it. We can look back on the stories of those that have inhabited this Earth before us and see how their stories affect ours and even how ours mimics theirs. But we have to be open to it, we have to realize the potential that comes from our collective stories. There is so much to discover when we learn to listen.
I believe I was fated to read The Last Storyteller, with its emphasis on looking back to understand one's life and the importance of sharing our stories, just as my Opa stepped from this life into the next. The book helped me grieve and made it easier to focus on the gift of life, as well as death. During the past two years, I made it a point to ask Opa for his stories, and record them for my family and my descendants. And I saw with what joy he looked back on the life he had lived and recounted details and moments that may have seemed trivial, but all added up into making him who he was. I believe we can learn from everyone's story and I know I learned much from Opa's. My job now is to make my life worthy so that I may tell him a good story when I meet him again.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Music and Nature... Celebrating the Snow Billy Collins-style!
Currently Reading: David Copperfield by Charles Dickens and Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix by J.K. Rowling
IT SNOWED! I know, I know. Everyone is now groaning and thinking, "Not another wacko who thinks snow is something to celebrate!" Yes, it's dangerous and terrible to drive in and scares the bejebus out of me when I or someone I love has to travel during the winter. Who would like shoveling the freezing stuff off of their car, I ask you? I have a love-hate relationship with snow, believe me. I personally think snow is the Devil's plaything when it blows sideways into my face in sharp gusts of wind; and I certainly can't take the cold for long... (If you know me at all, you'll know that I get cold in summer time... so winter is especially detrimental to my inner thermometer.)
But this.... sigh. This shimmer of sunlight reflected off of newly fallen snow dancing across my bedroom wall... this slight dusting of snow on the bare world like powdered sugar on freshly-baked brownies... this sense of peace and calm that fills my beauty-hungry soul when the world gets dressed in completely different attire from its everyday garb. This is why I love snow. And in honor of our brave new world today, here is a poem that I love revisiting with every new and gentle snow. (It's another from Billy Collins.... is it obvious that I love the man?) He has written several about snow (I also like Shoveling Snow With Buddha and Neither Snow, but this is my favorite.) Music and nature just go so well together. Enjoy!
Snow
by Billy Collins
I cannot help noticing how this slow Monk solo
seems to go somehow
with the snow
that is coming down this morning,
how the notes and the spaces accompany
its easy falling
on the geometry of the ground,
on the flagstone path,
the slanted roof,
and the angles of the split-rail fence
as if he had imagined a winter scene
as he sat at the piano
late one night at the Five Spot
playing "Ruby, My Dear."
Then again, it's the kind of song
that would go easily with rain
or a tumult of leaves,
and for that matter it's a snow
that could attend
an adagio for strings,
the best of the Ronettes,
or George Thorogood and the Destroyers.
It falls so indifferently
into the spacious white parlor of the world,
if I were sitting here reading
in silence,
reading the morning paper
or reading Being and Nothingness,
not even letting the spoon
touch the inside of the cup,
I have a feeling
the snow would even go perfectly with that.
IT SNOWED! I know, I know. Everyone is now groaning and thinking, "Not another wacko who thinks snow is something to celebrate!" Yes, it's dangerous and terrible to drive in and scares the bejebus out of me when I or someone I love has to travel during the winter. Who would like shoveling the freezing stuff off of their car, I ask you? I have a love-hate relationship with snow, believe me. I personally think snow is the Devil's plaything when it blows sideways into my face in sharp gusts of wind; and I certainly can't take the cold for long... (If you know me at all, you'll know that I get cold in summer time... so winter is especially detrimental to my inner thermometer.)
But this.... sigh. This shimmer of sunlight reflected off of newly fallen snow dancing across my bedroom wall... this slight dusting of snow on the bare world like powdered sugar on freshly-baked brownies... this sense of peace and calm that fills my beauty-hungry soul when the world gets dressed in completely different attire from its everyday garb. This is why I love snow. And in honor of our brave new world today, here is a poem that I love revisiting with every new and gentle snow. (It's another from Billy Collins.... is it obvious that I love the man?) He has written several about snow (I also like Shoveling Snow With Buddha and Neither Snow, but this is my favorite.) Music and nature just go so well together. Enjoy!
Snow
by Billy Collins
I cannot help noticing how this slow Monk solo
seems to go somehow
with the snow
that is coming down this morning,
how the notes and the spaces accompany
its easy falling
on the geometry of the ground,
on the flagstone path,
the slanted roof,
and the angles of the split-rail fence
as if he had imagined a winter scene
as he sat at the piano
late one night at the Five Spot
playing "Ruby, My Dear."
Then again, it's the kind of song
that would go easily with rain
or a tumult of leaves,
and for that matter it's a snow
that could attend
an adagio for strings,
the best of the Ronettes,
or George Thorogood and the Destroyers.
It falls so indifferently
into the spacious white parlor of the world,
if I were sitting here reading
in silence,
reading the morning paper
or reading Being and Nothingness,
not even letting the spoon
touch the inside of the cup,
I have a feeling
the snow would even go perfectly with that.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Friday Poetry Slam- Drink It In
Currently Reading: The Burning of Bridget Cleary by Angela Bourke (almost done!) and Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K. Rowling
Happy Friday, everybody! It is a beautiful autumn morning; from my balcony I can gaze upon bright blue skies, a colorful horizon of changing trees, and shorn cornfields, indicating another successful harvest. There is nothing that smells quite so delicious as an October day. Nate and I plan on celebrating the day and the gorgeous weather with a late afternoon stroll through one of the local cemeteries. Today, I'm pulling out Robert Frost, per the suggestion of a very dear teacher of mine. :) Once you read it, you just may be inspired to take a little walk through the leaves.
O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
To-morrow's wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
To-morrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow,
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know;
One from our trees, one far away;
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes' sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost--
For the grapes' sake along the wall.
 |
| Photograph taken by my friend Jill B. I just love it! :) |
Happy Friday, everybody! It is a beautiful autumn morning; from my balcony I can gaze upon bright blue skies, a colorful horizon of changing trees, and shorn cornfields, indicating another successful harvest. There is nothing that smells quite so delicious as an October day. Nate and I plan on celebrating the day and the gorgeous weather with a late afternoon stroll through one of the local cemeteries. Today, I'm pulling out Robert Frost, per the suggestion of a very dear teacher of mine. :) Once you read it, you just may be inspired to take a little walk through the leaves.
October
by Robert Frost
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
To-morrow's wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
To-morrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow,
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know;
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf; One from our trees, one far away;
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes' sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost--
For the grapes' sake along the wall.
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