Whan that August

Whan that August with its shores soote
The drought of summer hath perced to the roote
And bathed every mind in academic woos
Of which education engendered is the fluer...

My version of Chaucer's prologue. I am reading the Wife of Bath's Tale for Brit Lit I and, as August draws to a close, I am grateful for a bit of Middle English beauty to cool my parched mind. Being sick and gearing up into school at the same time: eh. It's not my idea of fun, but then, it is God's idea of teaching me dependence, and I'm grateful for this piece of education too.

On every front, my Lord showers his blessings--so much so that I am hard-pressed to keep pace with turning them all back to praise. And though my breath may be labored with coughing, still I exhale prayers of thanksgiving, for on all sides I am continually gifted. Relationships restored, new ones forming, excellent quiet times, success in school (hard won, but no worse for that), and the general respect of my peers: all undeserved; all precious.

I would write more, but history and Brit Lit reading presses. All my love to my dear ones, and may your shadows never grow bulkier!

Out of Hock

My computer is out of hock! I have my life back!

And my life has lots of email and responsibilities again.

Sigh.

Oh well. I'm still happy. And I'm having great QT's!

Hangin' On

Today is Tope's wedding day. In two hours I will be at the church, donning dress and shoes and hair curlers for The Event.

Yesterday at the rehearsal, my determination was fixed on not fainting. I had been having feverish nightmares the night before, and woke with a headache, sore throat, and stuffed nose. In addition, the bridal party wasn't able to eat all day because we were too busy preparing. After rehearsal I had to skip the rehearsal dinner and come home to rest. I ate soup, slept, and slept. I said to Mom, "I guess this is God telling me not to depend on my own strength." She prayed for me, and the day was got through somehow, though dragging at every step, and occasionally wanting to crumble.

Today I feel much better, though still keenly aware of my dependence on God. I will be on my feet from 10 AM until 7:30 PM. The goal of the day is simple: bless Tope. The work which I have to do is, thankfully, little: smile, walk when and where I'm supposed to, stand where and when I'm supposed to, and say appropriate things when called upon to do so.

My groomsman is civil, even kind, and knows how to manage a recessional. He is, moreover, tall. I think I shall have no trouble with him. The stage looks lovely--Tope has chosen white and blue as her wedding colors, and we made up her bouquet with delphinium and white roses. We girls have calla lilies and baby's breath. I spent a pleasant hour yesterday morning, helping to make up these bouquets and getting to know the other bridesmaids. We are quite a set!

Allison, the matron of honor, is only about a month married herself. She is small and slim, with brown hair and dark eyes. Her major in college was medieval studies. She is also administratively gifted, and seems completely unruffleable. I am so glad that Tope has her for a helper! Next in order is myself, and then Dhanya, a real-for-true Indian whom I met yesterday for the first time, complete with sari, dark complexion, and waist-length braid. Dhanya has perfect teeth, beautiful eyes, and an energetic personality. She kept me laughing throughout the rehearsal. Her field of study and practice (she is in graduate school) is biochemical engineering.

After Dhanya we have Mimi, an Asian (we are quite a diverse group) with long black hair and a streak of it dyed red. Mimi made our dresses. She is, moreover, a geologist. Last but not least, Tope's Nigerian cousin, Ibuken, whom we call Ibi. Ibi is either finishing or has finished college, and I forget her major. She looks much like Tope, and has spunk enough for any three people. Her conversation is as quotely as my own family's, and Ibi is liable to burst into snatches of song from old musicals. Her voice is quite good.

That is us, or rather, that is we. The bride herself has been a model of relaxed and gentle purposefulness throughout. She makes us feel as though this is all a walk in the park, while handling a million details of her own. I wish her great joy, and am so glad to have a front-row seat (or rather, an onstage standing spot) for the exchange of vows.

Kicking It Into High Gear

The packing is finished, even the books. Courtney and Jess are coming over tonight; they will remain overnight, and then we will progress with Dad to PHC at an indecently early hour tomorrow morning.

We remain at PHC until 5 pm, unpacking, and then collect Peter (a caregroup member, fellow CLCite, and now a PHC freshman) for the trip home. Thursday night I shall probably spend making alterations to my bridesmaid's dress. Friday morning I am due at the church to help arrange flowers, Friday afternoon is the wedding rehearsal, and Saturday is, of course, the wedding. It begins at 2 pm; I'll be lucky if I get home before midnight.

Sunday morning is church at CLC, followed by a hasty lunch, a final packing dash, and the last trip to PHC, which will install me for good and real. It is at this point that I shall probably collapse. Let them scrape me off the floor for T. in History with Sanders at 8 AM the next morning.

I am tired; I can't seem to stop sleeping. This is very strange to me since, ordinarily, I am unable to sleep at all during the day. Now my body demands constant rest. Mom thinks it is stress, but I don't feel stressed. I must be, though. My back muscles have been tying themselves into progressively tighter knots over the last few days. Combination of going back to school, leaving my family, and trying to be a bridesmaid in between, I suppose.

The list of administrative details which must be seen to is appalling. I know that my nerves are frayed. I know that I am overwrought. But I know these things in a distant manner. All I feel is weariness, a certain hatred for the very thought of PHC--not my friends, of course, but the leaving home aspect--and a deep-seated desire to let the rest of the week pass over my unresisting consciousness.

If only I could let it all happen to me and refuse to take any of it in... actually, I suppose that that is what my mind is doing, or trying to do. There is a thick, opaque wall in my thoughts, which stands between me and anything outside of the next hour. In the next hour I go with Mama to pick my cousin Sarah up from the airport. I love Sarah; I am looking forward to seeing her. She will be living in my room and attending college here in the States--my uncle and his family are missionaries in Mexico--while I am at PHC. There is nothing outside of this trip to the airport. Nothing at all.

Nevertheless, it's an awfully oppressive "nothing"!

Please pray.

Quite Magic After All

It really is a magical world.

I don't know how to explain, but beauty hurts, like a physical ache. At the same time... Elaine Scarry says that beauty is a greeting. I'm inclined to agree with her.

Have you ever ached with gladness over a greeting?

This last day or two at home, I feel as though the world has been newly dyed for me, or made somehow more alive and present. Immediate. I was reading in my sister's room a few minutes ago, and she put on a CD by George Winston. Winston's instrument is the piano; I have found that contact between myself and a well-played piano has a melting effect on the former; it was like delight made audial.

But it is not only the piano music. It is the soft green-gold carpet in our library. It is the pleasure of discussing statehood and state history with Grandpa over dishes. It is finding out that Alaska and Hawaii both became states in the 1950's. It is the mellow bong of Mama's grandfather clock. My toes are eager for garden dirt. My fingers positively enjoy thorn pricks in the course of pulling weeds. I cannot get enough of singing with Marjorie and Charity.

Of course, I have been about the business of packing. Trips to the bank, the library, and Staples, have been accomplished today. Two suitcases are packed. Tonight or tomorrow I must apply myself to the agony of sorting books--how can I leave any of them behind?--and papers. But I am not at PHC in my mind, and have not been all week. I verily believe that I shall not return to the mental world of school until it is inevitable that I do so... probably sometime around midnight on Sunday. I find myself blocking it out, willing it hence, pushing it away. I don't want to go back.

How can I be homesick already? Very easily--but I am also returning to the heart of worship. I spent extended time with the Lord this morning, and I think that I shall be calm when the inevitable arrives. Calm, perhaps a little grave--my friends must not expect much gaiety from me during the first week or so--and, I hope, purposeful. There is a great deal that MUST be accomplished in the semester upcoming, and I am sure--God being God--that I only know the quarter of it.

The world is magic now, and I will not worry for tomorrow. God will still be God tomorrow.

Not Dead

Not dead... just packing. I'll see most of you in a few days. :-)

Explication of "Gulp"

Sorry, I shouldn't go round posting things like that without explanation and enlargement. If I could put such in verse, I would, both for my own practice and for others' enjoyment. However, I've forgotten everything I ever knew about heroic couplets and dactylic hexameter. Prose will have to do.

The reason for gulpage is that I've had a good look at my next semester, and it's gonna be a doozie. So what else is new? Every semester is a doozie for every student at PHC. Do I think I'm special? Priviliged? Cursed? Nyet. I think I'm normal, average, conventional. However, part of normalcy is the desire to elaborate upon one's position. I do not usually indulge in such, at least, not on the blog, but in this case it occurs that those who will be sharing a campus with me (Sarah, Stars, Domina, Twynkletoes, Spitfire, Thacia, Juno, Lady of Ithilien, Nausikaa, etc.) might like to compare notes, observe conflicts and conflations in social time available, etc.

So you see, my ladies, this is really all for you. :-) Now then, to it.

MWF. Eh. Well, Nausikaa and I share an 8 AM class, which is the best thing about it, 'cause it's the 20th century (which, I confess, I loathe) and Dr. Sanders (whom, I confess, I am disposed to fear). Getting up at such an indecent hour isn't my favorite either, but so be it. The rest of the day will atone. 9 AM I have blissfully to myself, and may use either for long QT's or for Tapestry work (if I am disciplined enough to have my QT before class), which I plan to continue throughout the school year. For those of you who don't know, I have enjoyed my job this summer more than sense or memory have words to express! I look forward eagerly continuing the Evaluations-writing over the school year.

10 AM Chapel, of course. Hi to everybody, but especially my row and Spitfire's row. How are you and haven't seen you in hours at least and that's a lovely blouse and WHERE did you get that awful tie!?! And so on. For the uninitiate, please find below a portrait of Spitfire's row.


And for the hopelessly uninitiate, please find below a few miscellanious portraits from my row...

Oh, and here's a random one of Don Pedro because I took it and I like it. He doesn't have a row, and looks as though he is wondering why not. ;-)

We will worship God in spirit and in truth (a highlight of any day), and then bind on cloaks and mufflers and hie we hence. 11-12 AM promises to be uneventful and studious in a back-corner-of-the-Dining-Hall sort of way. Sarah and Stars, we should perhaps reinstitute our MWF Dining Hall study sessions, since my mornings look as though they are going to be spent at Founders, excepting Chapel.

12-2 PM is devoted to Brit Lit I and Worldviews, two Hake classes. Then a break from 2-3 PM (enough time to get a late lunch from the "Dinning" Hall), and another Hake class--yes, I have three this semester. Am I not supremely blest?--my favorite of the day: Novel.

But if you've been paying attention, you might have noticed that I have four classes in one day, three days a week. Phew! Taxing? Yes. Unbearable? No; I know it is not; I had five MWF classes in my freshie fall semester.

Then there is the little matter of a 12-1:15 Topics in Philosophy class on TTh, with Dr. Smith, whom I have not sat under since my double stint in Rhetoric and Logic during freshie year. I look forward to plucking the gowans fine with him once more.

Of course my MWF schedule will mean either A) no lunch or B) a very late and scanty lunch. Since I don't eat breakfast, I have come rather to depend upon the midday meal. But that can't be helped either. It's a tidy schedule, though you may have noticed one peculiarity...

ALL of my classes are reading/time-intensive. Yessir, it looks as though I am about to be thrown back to my sophie days, wherein it was given me to inhale upward of 500 pages a week, with comprehension, mind. In them days it were Freedoms, Western Civ, Latin, Western Lit, and Philosophy. Now it will be Sanders' History, Smith's Philosophy, and three Lit classes. Who says that Lit students don't have to work hard knows not at all; I verily believe that we are required to read more, and with more careful attention, than the denizens of any other major. This is not a complaint, however--our reading load is self-inflicted and we love it.

Add, however, a weekly caregroup meeting (and Clarice is my new caregroup leader! Yay!), plus church involvement and responsibilities, roommate (Salve, Nausikaa!), friends, my Tapestry work, Ecce (eeep!), and the duties of a dorm-dweller, prayer meetings (thanks for the suggestion, Kirsten!), air hockey (Sarah and I are scheduled to play several times a week until I can beat her), editing papers, etc. etc. etc.

Phew! And that's if I stay out of the play, don't get involved in debate (sorry, Spitfire!), ignore Smudge (I hope I shan't have to!), and never play frisbee again. Well, the last wouldn't trouble me overmuch. The little white disk and I have never been on perfectly friendly terms from my want of practice with it.

Ahem... time to clarify my ravings, as Dr. Hake would say. Ladies, please attend. I am going to keep "at home" hours in my dorm room this semester. On Monday and Wednesday evenings, except between 9 and 10 PM, I shall be available for visits. I shall further endeavor to keep chocolate and tea on hand for my guests. TTh afternoons between 2 and 5 I shall likewise be available, though of course studying when not otherwise engaged. Which reminds me: Domina, Twynkletoes, Stars, et al., wouldn't it be charming to have a regular afternoon for walks into town? MWF I shall be in class until 4 PM, after which come exercise and dinner, but on TTh we might take a little... um... well, these days I call them "constitutionals." What think you?

Friday evenings and Sundays are devoted, under ordinary circumstances (that is, outside of paper-writing season), to worship and fellowship. In paper-writing season Sunday remains sacred, but Friday may have to go. We'll see. Now the schedule is complete, and I am eager to hear where the rest of you girls have pockets and gaps that can be filled up with pleasant time well and worthily spent. You know that I am always planning things too far ahead, but I thought it would be as well as not to have a basic schedule laid out, provided that I expect to be flexible. This is my beginning.

And, my dear Thacia, Nausikaa says that you must certainly feel free to leave things in our room or use it whenever it may be convenient to do so. :-)

Gulp

This image perfectly captures my current feelings about the new semester. I guess a picture really is worth a thousand words...

Awful Beautiful Life

I love this crazy, tragic
Sometimes almost magic
Awful beautiful life.

– Darryl Worley, Awful Beautiful Life

Davy introduced me to the above country music song today, though he and I both have mixed feelings about it. We like the chorus; the verses need help.

One thing that strikes me about these lines is, of course, the study in contrasts. The last, especially, I find interesting, because "awful" actually means "full of awe." Naturally the author meant it in the way it is used by modern folks everywhere: that is, to signify a bad or disgusting state of affairs. But if one were to take the older meaning... well, I like it.

These three lines affirm the paradox of life with fresh, vibrant expression. Sometimes almost magic--how true! I have so many times felt that, if I could just touch a fingertip to some invisible curtain hanging before my eyes, it would melt away... and the magic would be just on the other side, waiting for me. Crazy, oh yes!--and tragic, oh, yes. And then the final line, with my meanings: full of awe, beautiful. Life. Such a big word, for all it has only four letters. "Life means so much," Chris Rice sings. "Teach us to count the days. Teach us to make the days count." Chris Rice reminds me of King David. His songs remind me of God. I'm grateful.

I was deep-cleaning and rearranging my room last night--we've been in our house for seven years, and my windows just received their very first curtains--when a friend called. The first question he asked me was, "How do you define 'whim'?"

"Whim?"
"Whim."
"Um... 'a transient desire which one may or may not act upon, depending on one's degree of self-control or self-indulgence'?"
He laughed. "Okay. I was going to say 'me calling you on August 4th.'"
"That would work too."

We chatted of this and that, but wound up on the subject of what made us turn to literature, specifically poetry, as a source of pleasure and voluntary study. Neither of us had, at one point in our lives, enjoyed the ars poetae.

"It's just so..." I paused, searching for an example. "Well, here... there's a song called Passenger Seat. Let me quote a few lines to you."

Passenger side I slide right in
Vinyl seats soft from the heat of the sun

- Shedaisy, Passenger Seat

"I think that what I love about this," I continued, "is the way the sounds work together. It's so intricate and complex...I mean, listen to just the use of the letter 's.'"

This morning, while taking our Constitutional (that is, walking around the building for a mandatory exercise break), Laura asked me if I had any practical tips for the practice of joy.

"I know you've been working on joy for the past year..."

I thought about it, and told her what had made the difference for me. Certain books, certain teachings, a certain season of deep pain that turned me to God in ways I had never imagined possible, the cultivation of prayer, an attitude of gratefulness, etc.

"It's just about looking deeper in the first place you looked." I told her. "No different from what we've always known. It's the Gospel all the way."

Now, my dear, this is the binding tie of all that I have related to you in this post. It just occurred to me as a true thing... I see beauty, so much more and so much more vividly, because I have learned how to be--in some small measure--joyful. Poetry never mattered to me before I began to study joy. Becoming joyful has been the result of beholding my God in his radiant loveliness, and, almost as a byproduct, I have become exquisitely, achingly sensitive to beauty.

Thus the sharp sweetness of these lyrics and poems and songs, which never mattered to me before. Thus the sense of awe, the feeling of having been pierced by light. Thus... and may I never recover.

Beauty, and life, and joy... what has God not given me?

Thus Spake...

“Laura, necking is fun!” – Mom
“With a license, it’s fine.” – Nate
“Hey! I’ve got a ring!” – Mom

“I can’t imagine that InDesign doesn’t have this feature. Can you?” – Mom to Davy
“I try not to.” – Davy

“I need my gods, and I can’t find them anywhere!” – Christy, searching for the Egyptian gods and goddesses page in Ancient World.
::Pause while Mom and Davy give Christy a bemused look::
“Yeah, Laban had that problem too.” – Davy

“Flee youthful passions, Sam.” – Nate, removing the trash from Sam’s reach.

“It looks like one of those sketches that somebody drew to plan their escape from prison.” – Laura, examining the new company structure design, entitled “Free Mommy,” which will (in theory) allow Mom to do development only.

“I’m happy and chugging…. And gurgling and making other pleasant noises.” – Laura

“Why is this document not like any other document?” – Mom, peering at the screen
“Um… because it’s the one that we eat with our sandals on and our staffs in hand?” – Davy

“Sam is a Republican!” – Mom

I Love My Biggest Brother

“Nate, I’m stymied until Mom gets here. Is there anything you’d like me to do?” – Christy
“You can tell me what you think of my armor…” – Nate, coming round the corner in the beginnings of a full Roman legionnaire’s suit.
::Thoughtful pause::
“That’s the Roman, right?” – Christy
“Yeah. Of course, it’s not finished yet. It’ll have another piece here…” – Nate, indicating his chest, above the triple-plated cardboard and duct tape that already encase his torso.
“Uh-huh… what are you gonna do with it? I thought you were teaching Year 4 next year?” – Christy
“I’ll beat up little kids, of course!” – Nate
“Oh, of course.” – Christy, knowing that he would do nothing of the sort, except in the gentlest big-teddy-bear manner, because the kids love it when he does.
::Nate wanders off::
“He is just SO CUTE.” – Christy, to no one in particular