Work It Out

"I think I'll call it, 'the Roman baths of Caracalla,'" I said, referring to the club which Brittainy and I have recently joined. "It's like a Roman bath. Everybody does their gymnastics and sweats and goes to shower off, and there's a steam room and a sauna! Besides, it's the same kind of community thing---you get men working together and women gossipping 'at the well.....' and I'm pretty sure the most famous ruin of a bath in Rome is the Bath of Caracalla. It's a very nice ruin, too; all mossed over."

"Well, yeah," said Brittainy. "Though it's a little different in that gymnasiums were for aristocrats only, whereas here you have everybody."

"Hmmm. Funny, when you first started talking I thought you were going to bring up the clothes thing: i.e. people at Roman baths not wearing any."

"Well, there's that too."

Sometimes it feels a little brutal to work out right after we leave the office, then get up early the next morning and do it all over again, six days a week. However, it does mean that I finally have a consistent use for my ipod, and I'm getting actual pleasure reading time because I can only read books that I don't have to mark up while doing cardio workouts on the elliptical. The weights, naturally, are a different story. And this week I start yoga.

However, as I have long known about myself, I respond unusually well to regular exercise. Of course it is a principle (almost a platitude) that exercise makes you happy, but in my case I become miserable and even unbalanced when significant exercise is lacking from my routine. By the same token, I don't just become happy when working out consistently; I become stable.

As near as I can gather, my mind simply works too hard. It's wired like that, always running on something. This is a gift in many ways, but it is also exhausting and leads to problems like overanalysis and sometimes violent mood swings. When I work out, I force my mind to concentrate on purely sensory details of physical movement. The same thing happens when I go for a long walk in the woods or lie still for a couple of hours in the grass somewhere. Funny as it may sound, I relax by forcing my mind to stop making connections, posing problems, and generally processing information. People wonder at and praise me for extreme awareness of sensory beauty (taste, touch, feel, smell, hear, and see). The vast majority of them don't realize that for me it is partly a type of survival tactic.

When I can be still for twenty minutes contemplating nothing but the speckling of colors on a single leaf, or the soughing of wind in the trees, I come out on the other side as relaxed as if I had spent two hours getting a massage, or in a steam bath. Funny, isn't it, how God makes people? And it helps to work it out---to know what you are, how you tick, and how you can use these things to serve more effectively. "Know thyself" isn't such a bad motto, so long as it isn't your only motto. I like to couple it with "Fear God in life" (family motto since way back in the 13th century) and "Live to serve" (my dad's dictum).

So, work it out. How do you work?

The Office - Season 5: "My Glyphs are Gone"

“Hmm…. My glyphs are gone.” – Amy
David, bursting into humming: “Where have all the glyphs gone? / Long time passing? / Where have all the glyphs gone? / Long time ago…”

“But where has the rum gone?” – Mom
“I drank it all ‘cause I was really thirsty.” – David
“But where has the rum gone?” – Mom
“Well, first to my tummy…” – David
“Stop!” – Mom

“Well, I think we can all agree that he was blind.” – David, attempting (unsuccessfully, but hilariously) to cut the Gordion knot of Milton’s ambiguities in Paradise Lost.

“Shoot him!” – Mom
“So many threats against my person! So many!” – David

“What we’ve got here…. Obviously… dun-duhn, dun-duhn….” – David, taking a sheet of paper with a fin-shaped printing weirdness on it and beginning to loom towards Brittainy
“Ahhhh! I’m dead!” – Brittainy, playing along
“So, yeah, I think it’s a printer malfunction.” – David, snapping out of it

“Some people are born with e-chang, some people achieve e-change, and some people have e-change thrust upon them. You’re the last kind.” – David to Christy
“What is e-chang?” – Christy
“I don’t really know. It’s got something to do with The Godfather.” – David

“You know, since you’ve moved out here [to the outer office] you’ve racked up so many quotes. I don’t think it’s safe to put you with people.” – Christy to David
“That’s what the doctor said… just before I bit his leg and escaped.” – David
“I don’t even want to know.” – Amy

“Oy, vey.” – Amy
“Yes! I got an ‘oy vey’ out of Amy!” – David

“It just goes to show that even when a guy gets married, he isn’t completely un-helpless-ed” – Christy on Dad and microwaves
“Yes, we remain significantly helpless throughout our adult lives.” – David

It's All Over, Folks...

I have substantively (though not completely; revisions live on) finished my all-out, drop-dead, bring-on-the-coffee-and-3-AM-schedule, study of Milton's Paradise Lost.

Unfortunately, the effects are lingering...

Scene: Christy, snapping under the influence of too many late nights, too much Milton, and too many caffeine headaches, gets into a bargaining war with the Starbucks barista on her last night of work on Paradise Lost...

"We are not in a Mexican market and I will not bargain for six black-bottom cupcakes when I only want one..." Christy to the Starbucks barista
"Well, we're getting more and more European all the time..." - the barista
"Europe is that way and Mexico is that way.... under the floor, I think." - Christy, pointing
"I think.... hmm... no, I guess Europe is that way." - the barista
"I'm right? Wow." - Christy
"Now about these cupcakes" - the barista
"No. Just ring up the peppermint mocha and one cupcake," - Christy, handing over her card
"This doesn't even look like you! Now look, about the cupcakes" - the barista, peering at the card
"That picture was taken a long time ago and you just ring it up." - Christy
::meanwhile Brittainy stands by, laughing silently::

Scene: Christy, attempting to write "Renaissance Frameworks" under the influence of far too many late nights and too much Milton.

"'All this happened between 1274 and 1610, together with other events hardly worth mentioning, such as the birth of writers like Chaucer, Boccaccio, Spenser, Cervantes, Sidney, Tasso, Shakespeare, De Vega, Ariosto, Boiardo, Marlowe....' do you think that's too.... something?" - Christy

“And then… and then Athena springs fully formed from Petrarch’s head… like Sin springing from Satan’s head in Paradise Lost, only this time it’s the Renaissance springing from Petrarch’s head as he begins the recovery of Athenian literature, and Athena is a sleeping beauty and he wakes her, and then she’s a captive in the North under the English Renaissance and turns all golden for Golden Poetry and becomes a Shepherdess because of the pastoral mode, and then…” – Christy, babbling about “Renaissance Frameworks”
“Oh dear…” – Brittainy
“I’m trying to make this exciting!” - Christy

Awakening

I lay two hours in sunlight on this day, unmoving, all among hairy wet-pearled grasses. I heard the crickets and the birds. I breathed unpeopled air; I heard unhuman music; I tasted the rhythm of the hours and the current of sunshod zephyrs. When I lay down I was sick and weary, but when I rose up I was like one who has returned from the gates of darkness.

I remembered my Creator in the days of my youth, and behold, it was very good. Beloved, you will never be happy but by going higher up and further in. In Him is all delight, dear ones. How could it be otherwise?

Perfect

I seldom mention my work schedule in any detail on this blog, partly because I don't want to sound like I'm complaining, and partly because I don't want to wade through a series of well-meaning comments from friends that amount to "You should slow down!" The fact is, gentle reader, that I simply cannot---for what I believe to be God-given reasons---follow such advice.

However, the picture that I want to draw in this particular post won't work unless you know a few details. So, in advance, I'm asking that my friends avoid the "You should slow down" comment. Believe me, dear ones, I am listening to the Holy Spirit about this and am being careful as I can to balance my life biblically. But it is indeed biblical that there are some seasons of great effort in our lives, and it appears that this is one of them, for me.

Now, to it. Because of a series of crises that occurred last month on both personal and business fronts, we had to adjust our project schedule to a faster pace. As it fell out, the only way for me to accomplish the particular work that I have to do this month was by pushing myself to the limit this week. This meant: 1) staying up until 3 AM on two nights (soon to be three), and 2) and putting down my work only when I had to eat or attend to church commitments (ALPHA, caregroup, a ladies' meeting).

Eventually my body began to give out. I don't get sick easily, but when I'm run down and then exposed to an illness, I sometimes get it. So, although I started out the week fresh, I am now more or less asleep on my feet, mentally exhausted (Milton is no picnic for the mind, though he is in many ways a feast) and definitely fighting a chest cold. In addition, I have been fueling my late nights with coffee. My body responds very strongly to coffee, which is why I seldom drink it. So, though it keeps me up until 2 or 3 AM quite easily, it also makes it difficult either to work or to fall asleep between 3 and 4 AM, with attendant side effects of headaches and nausea.

That's the stage set for you. Now, gentle reader, pay attention to this. Yesterday was a blessedly quiet day full of mists and warm rain. I spent most of it curled up in front of my work with that curiously still, fragile feeling that you get when you know your body isn't strong. I saw by this that I had passed the stage of conscious pain and entered a sort of drifting. My mind grew curiously clear, but detached, like crystal. It was in this state that I arrived home at the end of the day, and oh....my....

The trees just in front of our house are a blaze of amber and topaz, like the plumage of brilliant parrots. Moreover their leaves crisp up like jeweled feathers in the lawn's cool, green hair. Purple lavender creeps beside the old gray stone walk. Just where the stoop meets the walk, I saw three of those flame-bright feathers scattered against the stone and purple and green.

Reader, I wanted to cry; my soul did cry out at the sight. The knees of my heart buckled because it was so beautiful. It was so beautiful. It was rest and celebration to me---it was beauty, and beauty is a greeting, and the greeting to me from my God was "Rejoice and be exceedingly glad, and be comforted also, because you see by this that I am, and that I love you. Have good courage, my servant, to continue in your work for Me."

It was perfect, and it reminded me that God is perfect. If you must spend all your strength in serving, gentle reader, wouldn't you like to serve Perfection?

The Office, Season 5--"We've Added Amy"

We've lost Casey from this season of The Office (she's moved to another office to work) and added Amy in her place. This is Amy's inaugural funny list, so I'm dedicating it to her. Amy, this one's for you. :-)

“Hmm… that’s interesting.” – Mom
“What?” – Office people
“I just wrote something with which I disagree.” – Mom
“And you even did it grammatically.” – Christy

“I’ve figured it out! Violent threats are our love language!” – Christy
“Yup.” – Dad, David, and Casey

“Dana is pretty much amazing. If it were permissible to worship human beings, we would have a shrine to her.” – Christy

“I guess I need to go kill a chicken or something now; I’m pretty sure I’ve offended a minor internet deity.” – David

“You’ve gotta watch out, ‘cause I’ll get goofy from time to time. I don’t want to startle you.” – David to Mom

“I don’t even know what daily life is!” – Mom
“Do you need me to define it for you?” – Christy
“I was talking about the title of a book: Daily Life In The…” – Mom
“Uh-huh, but you know, most really good quotes are taken out of context…” – Christy

“He’s like a genii. You rub the IM button and he comes.” – Brittainy on Dad

“Look, the bottom line is that the songs Mom likes will go on the 3 PM playlist.” – Christy
“That’s true, and I’ve earned the right to rule this playlist!” - Mom
“But now I’m out here to make my voice heard as well.” – David, who has recently moved to the outer office from the inner office.
“What about my voice?” – Amy
“You have to yell, Amy.” – David

"Well.... do you like sentences?"

The High Queen sent me a blog link and it was so funny and true that I just had to share it. This is my life! Is it yours?

http://www.christianitytoday.com:80/books/features/rumorsofglory/071008.html

Playmates

There is one story in my file of unfinished stories that has been troubling me for some time. I began it when I was seventeen, and it was among the most vivid of my beginnings. Since then I have shown it to many people and worked on it often, but could never find just the right note to strike in it.

The story is about a girl.... her name is still unknown to me... who rides ogres. The way the story is set up, this is an incredibly difficult and frightening thing to have to do, but it is also extremely lucrative and prestigious. Anyway, the girl is being slowly destroyed by her profession, and one day a young gardener-boy on her estate becomes her friend. Gradually he tries to draw her away from her work, to make her want to give it up, because he can see that it is destroying her. But she won't go, because her pride and her desire to be significant are involved. She aches to go away with him, but she can't. She is consumed with self-love.

The real sticking-place in my story was the boy himself. You see, the story is unique in that he is not in love with her. Rather, he loves her. That's important. I never got the sense that he would marry her; only that he would make it possible for her to be free.

I tried for years to make the young man and the girl fall in love. I thought that a romance was the only suitable way to resolve their relationship. Now, though, I'm not so sure. I've been reading C.S. Lewis's The Four Loves and have been trying to sort out kinds of love. Somewhere in the midst of this, I realized that this boy and girl are not meant to be sweethearts---at least, not in this story. They are something younger and simpler. They are playmates.

I don't know what you would mean by the word "playmate," gentle reader, but I mean by it something only slightly different from (and in many ways related to) the word "soulmate." A playmate is an incredibly important person, because a playmate knows how you play, and is able to play with you.

Have you any idea how significant this is? In our lives we work, and we need people who work well with us. But there is another kind of work called play (for what really good play does not involve a large amount of complex doing, which we might use as a synonym for "work"?). This kind of work is the kind to which everybody longs to escape.

Our hours of ordinary work are satisfying, perhaps. They are bronzy and warm. But our hours of play are golden and radiant. They are the hours that matter. For this reason, it matters immesurably that one have a playmate who really knows how to play, and to play with oneself as one is created to play.

These characters, I realized recently, are playmates. They are not meant to be lovers. What the boy does for the girl is simple: he makes her play. He teaches her the best kind of play, which is worship. He plays with her. He understands how she plays and it is the same way he plays, and so they play together. This is what I wrote originally (remember I was still seventeen and therefore almost a child myself), and this is what I later dismissed as "too simple" and tried to replace with a love interest.

But what I missed completely is that playmates do have a kind of love for each other---not the grownup kind, but another kind that is, in its way and at a certain age only, equally important to the two people involved. Playmates have to have an affinity for one another's souls. They have to be able to respond to the lightest touch of each other's imaginations. They have to expose to one another their own real fears, real dreams, and real vulnerabilities. Playmates learn together, grow together, and go through experiences every bit as vivid as those you read of that belong to people who have swum rivers and survived wars with one another.

A really good playmate is as rare as a blue moon. I have had a few in my entire life. One, my little brother Danya, knows about Heaven. That won't mean anything to you, gentle reader.... but you see, your not knowing only shows how special a playmate can be, and how much playmates understand about each other's inner lives.

I wonder very much what would become of my story if I went back and lived in it as I began to live, but had not the will---whether wisely or unwisely---to go on living. What would happen if I wrote the story of playing... what if I used that model to breathe life into this pair? She, the girl character, has been waiting such a long time to be set free. I wanted to give her a lover, but I think now that she is too young, and that I wanted to give her a lover because "every girl should have a lover."

But what if she doesn't need a lover, doesn't even want one? What if she only needs her playmate back? What if instead she needs and has missed her playmate, now changed into the absurd form of a half-baked lover (for what do I really know about writing a lover)?

What if I have been robbing her, these seven years, of her playmate?

The Soul of Autumn

It is a beautiful day here... the wind is so sportful and exhilerating that I feel I could fly! Autumn's soul, I think, is in her breezes.

The Feast

Amazing. That's how it was. The girls devised a centerpiece of gaudy fall flowers and I never realized how beautifully golden sparkling cider can be against a green brocade tablecoth. The potatoes suffered a terrible mishap (note to girls: never, under any circumstances, remove the skins from potatoes and then refridgerate them overnight without thoroughly cooking them first). However, we whipped up a rice pilaf that got rave reviews, and good old Bisquick still produces some of the best biscuits around. Finish it off with a jumble of colorful veggies (red peppers, broccoli, and sweet corn), and oh my! And let's not forget the ham, which will live in legend and song.... or the dessert: peach halves, whipped cream, dried cranberries, and dark chocolate truffles. Wow.

We had quite a mixed table, actually. Mama has been suffering from dizzy spells related to allergies, so Dad presided over a table full of young singles. Charity had brought her friend Emily home from college, and I had invited the High Queen at the last minute. Marjorie and Juli between them contributed Ned, Dan, and Jack. Then we had Nate, another bona fide member of the family.

Dad immediately raised the topic of a verse in the New Testament about husbands living with their wives in an understanding manner and what exactly the Word means by the term "weaker vessels." Yikes! The conversation camped out there for the entire meal, but I didn't really join it except to make occasional quips---I mostly kept my head down and served the food. Good thing, too; it's not safe for me to get involved in an intellectual (and potentially controversial) topic unless A) I am feeling extremely mellow, or B) I am discussing the topic with just one or two other people whom I trust absolutely, or C) both of the above.

I'll hash it over with the High Queen and (or) Brittainia later, and see what they think. Meanwhile, by the end of the feast we had all reached a state of bon homme that reminds me of a seventeenth century country house poem (praising good dinners and gentle, dignified elegance). Thinking back over it made me wonder whether I really am one of those creatures who loves luxury.

I reached the conclusion that I'm not. I like an arcadian lunch as well as a feast, and an afternoon of tramping the woods suits me as much as sitting here on a fine-grained leather couch in my study, surrounded by books and pools of classical music and lamplight. I feel like Dante's description of Fortuna---the only way to define her is as changing changes evermore.

Increasingly I love variety, variety within unity, but always variety. Tomorrow I shall want a lunch of vegetables to balance today's feast; a week hence fruit will be my whim, no doubt; and after that, who can tell? I have pleasure in all forms of artistry that have pleasure in truth, and increasingly no pleasure in any that are formed to fit a lie.

Inebriate of light, am I, and debauchee of dew... misquoting Emily Dickinson, I suppose. "Do you find it easy to get drunk on words? So easy, that I am scarcely ever sober"---and that was Dorothy Sayers.

Oh dear, I am drunk on words! Milton, Milton...

"Dude, stay away from the food store when you're reading Milton!"

Charity's words. I guess she has a point; I went to the food store tonight looking for inspiration for Sunday lunch (which is the meal that I prepare each week) after reading Paradise Lost all day (for work---don't ask), and the results were... um... epic.

"Sparkling cider? What did you do, go to the food store hungry?"

"No, I ate before I went. It's just that I was reading Milton today and..."

Then she saw my truffles and whipped cream. Yeah. I guess I should be grateful that she didn't notice the peach halves. 0:-)

You know how it is. All you want is something a little different. It's the biggest, most elaborate meal of the week because we always have 2-6 guests, plus us, for Sunday lunch. You have an excuse to flourish a bit. Then you go to the food store, hopped up on Starbucks (which is conveniently located next door to the food store), and you're wandering the aisles and you see, wow, this great sale on hams.

Then you start thinking what would go with ham... and one thing follows another. You get potatoes and vegetables and biscuits and fixings for an amazing peaches-dark-chocolate-whipped-cream-craisins dessert, and then there's this sparkling cider that simply sings of autumn... and after all that Miltonic language about Paradise, you go down like a lamb to the slaughter.

Bingo. That was me. And you know what? I'm not a bit sorry. It was my own money, and what are food budgets for if you can't blow them every so often? However, since I'm going to be reading Milton for two more weeks, I guess I'd better devise a way to circumvent my epic tendencies before next Sunday rolls around. Budgets, after all, have to be stuck to most of the time if they are going to stand being blown sometimes.

But oh, it was blown with a lovely BOOM!!!!

I'll let you know tomorrow how the feast turns out. ;-)

--- Me