The Office -- Season 8: "Eutychus on the 17th"

I realized that I'm showing up a lot in this particular quote list, which is unusual. I can only conclude that it's because my office mates aren't giving me sufficient material. Ray, where are you when I need you!?!?!

“That’s it! That’s our image! A woman kneeling in a turnip patch in the middle of the Civil War, eating turnips and throwing up!” – Mom
“The Turnip Sale! I’ll start sketching some concepts.” – David

“Wow, this does taste awful. Well, the point of PEZ isn’t the taste, is it?” – David
“No. Never was.” – Brittainy

“I was utterly befuddled” – David about not being able to remember Judy Garland’s name

“I don’t back up people who threaten me with comforting songs!” – Amy to David

“Actually, there’s a lot I could tolerate if it would annoy you…” – David to Amy

“What was the name of the kid who fell out of the window in Acts?” – David
“I dunno but I can look it up.” – Christy
::Several seconds pass::
“Eutychus.” – Christy
“Thanks.” – David
“What do you want it for?” – Christy
“We’re looking for a name for this [project].” – David
“Why do you want to call it [the project] ‘Eutychus’?” – Christy to David
“Well, I said the phoenix and Dad said we could be more biblical.” – David

“And now you made it fat.” – Christy, commenting on the bird David is designing
“A fat bird is a cute bird.” – David
“It looks dumb.” – Christy
"It so doesn't." - David
::Time Passes::
“I do not accept that phoenix. It’s fat and it looks like a robin.” – Christy to David

“Show me.” – Christy
“No.” – David
“C’mon, show me!” – Christy
“No!” – David
“May I remind you that I share my food with you?” – Christy to David
“Yes but… but… oh, all right. I feel so dirty for giving in to you.” – David to Christy

Dana on IM: “That's all! Brilliant, you are, old chap!”
Christy on IM: “Wow. Um, thanks old chap.”
Christy to herself: "Is that my Dana?"

“What a relief to know that I’m not unnaturally perfect” – David

“Awww… I was engaged on the same day as Spurgeon!” – Lauren
“When was it?” – Christy
“June 10th.” – Lauren
“Oh, bummer. I can’t follow suit; I have to get engaged on the 17th.” – Christy
“Um, why?” – Lauren
“Because everybody in our family gets engaged on the 17th. Mike was September 17th; David was November 17th. I guess, in order to keep the pattern perfectly, I’d have to get engaged on January 17th.” – Christy
“Like you can control it.” – David
“Sure I can. It’s very simple. I just say, ‘You can ask me to marry you whenever you want, but I won’t give you an answer unless you ask on the 17th.’” – Christy
“Oh sure you would. What if you were madly in love? Do you really think you’d do that?” – David
“Yes I would! Well… or Dad can make it a condition of agreeing to let him ask.” – Christy
“What if he comes to Dad on the 18th of January! Are you going to make him wait a whole year less a day!?” – David
“I’m not that picky about the month. It would be nice, but it doesn’t have to be that way so long as it’s the 17th. The traditions must be preserved.” – Christy
“What if he’s got a tradition of fasting and praying for the nations on the 17th of every month! What’s he going to do, call you between morning and evening prayers? Take you out to dinner and say ‘I really love you, but I can’t eat with you?’” – David
“I wouldn’t want to be proposed to over dinner anyway.” – Christy

Cutting Loose

Tonight, Brittainy and I cut loose. We took our work to Starbucks for a couple of hours and then watched Hercules---for the first time. Shock and awe. For those who have not experienced this dumbest of dumb Disney movies, I have only two words for you: "Peloponnesian minute."

It was a much-needed break from the strain. We allowed ourselves to be as silly as girls can and laughed a great deal, mostly at in-jokes and old quotes and references. Tonight I was reminded for the upteenth time of the value of a best friend. Also tonight I drank coffee (not the wisest move) and so will be up for several more hours. Oh well.

The next few days will be crucial for our futures in general, but somehow I can't bring myself to worry about it. What do I believe in God for, if I'm going to worry all the time? How does that bring Him glory? Answer: it doesn't, so don't do it. I'm gonna survive. Check that box. So, I figure, the next thing is to survive with joy!

What will I be doing for the next few days? Well, first off, I hope I'll be trusting God. After that, I'll be praying a lot. After that, I'll be cramming my way through the last bits of our current project (tomorrow morning), heading off to attend a birthday party in Frederick (tomorrow afternoon), spending the night with friends up there, doing who-knows-what Friday morning (girliness, doubtless, and probably some work if I can swing it), and wrapping up the unit for my class that afternoon. Phew! At least I don't have triple meetings. Just double meetings. :-P

Then after this weekend comes finishing Unit 3 (yikes), moving house (double yikes), and starting Unit 4 (triple yikes), and all of this by---oh---say---November 15th. Oh yeah, and attending the Feast Night, and talking my kids into actually reading their original poetry aloud to a group of parents. (How am I gonna swing that?) Then too there's the little matter of starting Les Mis...and getting out the unit grades... and... um... oh yes, my birthday happens sometime soon. Gotta plan something appropriate for that, or else my family will lynch me. I've been trying to ignore my birthday since I turned 12, but somehow there are always people who object. Go figure. Mom is the same way, but she always gets talked down too, so I guess I'm in good company.

Anyhow, all this boils down to that Humperdink line... "Frankly, I'm swamped."

I don't really care, though. I'm learning to cut my heart loose from the temptations of complex circumstances and anchor myself in Christ. Let me tell you, dear reader, I can highly recommend that kind of cutting loose. Come on in, the water's fine!

Me? Boil Water?

I myself am often surprised by life's little quirks. This morning I had just finished making my breakfast when David bounced in.

"Oh! Is that leftover hollandaise sauce?"
"Yes it is, and yes you can have it."
"Yay!"
"Out of curiosity, what do you plan to do with it? Are you going to make yourself eggs and toast to put it on?"
"Yep."
::pause::
"Um, Christy."
"Yes David?"
"Are you supposed to put in enough water so that the eggs are covered, or...."
"You know, I was just writing about this last night. Care and feeding of boys and how they should at least know how to heat soup and scramble eggs."
"I know what I'm doing! I just... yeah..."
"The eggs should be covered."
"Thanks!"
::longer pause::
"So how long should the eggs stay in the water?"
I stared at him, marveling at his boy-ness. Then I asked, "Do you want them soft or hard?"
"Medium."
At this point Dad piped in: "You want three minutes for medium eggs and if you want them hard, seven minutes. To be really sure, you can leave them in for 15 minutes; that will make them hard as anything. Unless you're in Denver, where the boiling point is---"

My dad is Exhibit A of the well-trained boy who knows what to do with a kitchen. In fact, guess who taught me to make dropped eggs on toast with hollandaise sauce?

Bingo.

Ten Tips for the Care and Feeding of Boys

Yes, really. I did a post on this awhile ago (read "three or four years ago") and now that I have all kinds of new data, it's time I updated it. Buckle your seat belt. Oh, and if it seems like I'm talking about boys as if they were pets, that's because I am. This should be taken as a form of humor, not disrespect. Besides, I assure you that boys have their own "care and feeding" list for girls.

1. The main point about boys is to feed them well. Danya says that basically boys want food and everything else is secondary. Girls with brothers, you already know this. So, the first thing you've got to do with your boy is feed him. The second thing is to feed him well. If you aren't already a good cook, become one. 'Nuff said.

2. Proper care of your boy also involves teaching him to feed himself well, because there will be times when you aren't there to do it. Make sure your boy at least knows how to heat soup and scramble eggs. Also be sure to educate him about the disastrous effects of fast food and direct his attention to healthier alternatives, like Subway.

3. The same applies to other survival skills like sewing. Your boy should be capable of sewing his own buttons back on when necessary. I'll never forget the time when I came across one of my college friends (aged twenty-three at the time) wandering around the dining hall with a suit jacket and a loose button and a lost look on his face. You don't want your boy to be in that difficult position, so make sure he can sew buttons on at least. More difficult and exacting jobs can be left to you. Under no circumstances should you allow your boy to hem his own pants.

4. While we're on the subject of clothes, let's talk about dressing your boy. Obviously he can't dress himself without help, but if you want him to be comfortable you should consult him about his preferences. As my mother used to say, "If you don't like it, you won't wear it." Sometimes you will have to be firm (but gentle) concerning items such as plaid and hawaiian shirts. Also certain types of sunglasses and all manner of t-shirts. Your ability to dress your boy will ultimately depend on what sort of boy he is. Your brothers are furthest from your sphere of influence unless they have exceptionally good sense. Sons are totally under your thumb (be careful not to abuse your power!), as are boys whom you are courting and, to a middling extent, husbands. I commend to you the example of my sister-in-law, Jessica, who by trickery both devious and cunning managed to get hold of Mike's hawaiian shirt (he was deluded enough to think it looked good on him) and handed it over to his sisters to be made into a pillow. Mike wasn't about to quibble with the girl whom he wanted to marry, and the pillow now adorns the seat of my niece's nursery rocking chair. So girls, it can be done, though sometimes it requires guile.

5. Environment (which is also your home). Your boy will become uncomfortable if you surround him with too much pink stuff, too many frills, or too many fragile, cannot-be-broken, cannot-be-dirtied items. Over time he may grow nervous and irritable. Boys have even been known to sicken and die from such environments (they're more delicate than they look). What to do? Some authorities say that it is best to let your boy do as he likes outdoors as a palliative for his indoor experiences. Others advocate that his environment be decorated in relatively neutral colors. Finally, some feel that if your boy owns items which can be broken and dirtied (knives, guns, socks, legos, etc.) then he will not become overwhelmed by a judicious amount of pink stuff. In this matter, perhaps the best rule of thumb is to let your conscience be your guide. Also keep a close eye on your boy for symptoms of fractiousness and illness due to environment.

6. It may seem from what proceeds that it would be best to keep your boy's environment in a slightly dirty state, so as to make him feel more comfortable. Don't fall into that trap! The cleaner and tidier your boy's habitat is, the happier he will be, up to a point. I do not recommend that you make him wash or change clothing more than twice a day (except under extraordinarily muddy or sweaty conditions); otherwise, you cannot keep him too clean.

7. Emotional and mental stability. Contrary to all appearances, boys have feelings which can be hurt. Some of them are even as sensitive as girls about certain topics. Less surprisingly, they often lack mental stability. It is the rule rather than the exception that boys are incapable of finding anything belonging to them, or anything they are asked to find. Likewise they are unable to remember details, appointments, and chores. If you give your boy a list of tasks to perform, a place to be in at a certain time, or ask him to switch the laundry, be assured that you must accompany your instructions and requests with frequent reminders and even then you may not succeed. When this aspect of your boy's nature becomes particularly irksome, be careful to show him more patience, not less. Remember above all that he can't help it, up to a point, and that beyond that point there is hope if you will be persistent in training. Recall, too, that he does have feelings, and that yelling at him won't solve anything.

8. It is good for your boy to experience a certain amount of unsettling from time to time in their life with you. Routines become dull if they are not broken up. Again I commend the example of my sister Jessica, who once or twice locked Mike out of the house as a playful diversion and an opportunity for him to exercises his forced entry skills. To take another instance, my mother recently put ice down Danya's back as an encouragement to him to stop being silly. There are other methods: preparing a favorite meal or dessert is one that your boy will always welcome. Whatever you do, be sure that it unsettles your boy and, if possible, pleases (or at least amuses) him.

9. Remember that most boys (especially small boys) know only two modes: destruction and construction. Try to keep your boy employed in the latter activity as much as possible, though you should also provide periods of healthy destruction. Sometimes the two can be combined: the classic example of this is chopping wood.

10. Love. To put it quite simply, your boy will die without love. Loving him plenty comes even before feeding him plenty. So, whatever else you are doing, be sure to do that.

I Wonder...

I wonder, sometimes, whether my powers as a writer are more or less directly connected to my awareness of God. Repeatedly I have noticed this cycle, that when my heart is weary, fretful, and far from God (as I am realizing it has been these past two or three months), and caught up in its own misery, then my writing too begins to be repetitive, flat, stale, or otherwise lackluster.

But when God draws me back to Himself, it is as though someone unsealed the fountain of artistry. I draw fresh water, rainbow water, stained-glass colors and crystal brightness, and splash it around and am glad. New ways of writing crowd into my brain. I am aware again of texture, devices, rhetoric, as if being aware of God and in love with Him sharpens and brightens and deepens everything.

It is either very strange or not strange at all, and I can't decide which.

Home

Tonight my heart aches---not for myself, but for others whom I love who are weary and pressed down. I notice how, when circumstances crowd in and begin to weigh, they have the effect of compressing our spheres of consciousness to a single thought or belief which we hold absolutely. We retreat before the waves, like people deserted on a sandy spit at rising tide, until the water forces us to that one high place, that one bit of rock where we come to stand and in which we believe.

It need not be a hopeful belief. For some, I know, it is a belief that leads to despair. When pressed, a person may be forced to recall that the one belief they hold absolutely is their own utter worthlessness or guilt. That is a terrible belief, because it is part (but not all) of the truth.

Weariness drags at the heart; troubles confuse it; shame or the possibility of shame makes it bleed. Physical pain, too, adds its voice to the clamor of evil clicking and humming and whispering, until the sufferer wishes only to be released into sleep or death or anything, just so it stops.

I don't know what you do at times like this, gentle reader. For myself, it is one of two things. Either I begin at the beginning and tell myself the whole story of the Bible, or I unlock the place in my mind where my mental picture of Heaven lives. For the latter purpose, Revelation 21 has long been a favorite of favorite passages. It tells how the city of Jerusalem has the "glory of God" and a "radiance" like a rare jewel and is "clear as crystal." It tells about the bigness of the city wall and of its twelve gates and the twelve angels that guard the gates. And it tells how the foundations of the city are made of jewels, and the walls of jasper, and how each gate is made of a single pearl.

In another place Scripture explains that there is a rainbow around God's throne, and again in another one reads that the river of the water of life flows from that throne, "bright as crystal," and goes through the middle of the city street, and the tree of life is on either side of it, bearing twelve kinds of fruit every month, with healing leaves.

And this isn't all, for I have not mentioned the glassy sea, nor the lack of temple, nor the fact that the gates are never shut by day and there is no night there, nor the inscriptions on the twelve foundations and at the twelve gates, nor the twenty-four elders, not the streets of gold, which are "transparent as glass."

Don't you find it rather remarkable that God tells us so much about our home? It almost seems to me that He wants us to picture it, to try to imagine what it will be like to live there. Since I was a little girl, I've been doing that---trying to imagine.

One of my favorite pretends was that the bed of that river is all made of jewels instead of pebbles, but that they are soft and squishy like gummi bears, and don't hurt your feet. Another that I like to imagine is that there are flying horses (we know that there are at least a few horses in Heaven) of all colors and that you can ride about on them and have mock battles.

Another favorite idea is that the city is a sort of water-city, almost like Venice, with the river flowing through every street and those groves of trees of life giving shade all up and down them. I like to pretend that the twelve gates, each made of a single pearl, are hollowed-out pearls and that some of them at least are water-gates, so that you can float through the milky center of the pearl and into all that splendor of crystal and gold.

One of my dearest imaginings is that the streets, being transparent as glass, have huge moving murals painting underneath them which show all of the universe's history from God's perspective. By now of course I am beginning to be a little dazzled at it all: the transparency and shiningness, the white and gold and green and slap and rush of water, the singing and the throngs of laughing dancers, the delicate carvings, perhaps, and gorgeous dress of the people who live there, and all that blaze of jewels---sapphire, ruby, emerald, carnelian, lapis lazuli, diamond, topaz, amethyst---and the rainbow.

I am beginning to be overwhelmed, but I don't want to stop. So I go on, and now I see the palaces rising turret on turret. Now I see how at the top of the holy hill (is it a hill, I wonder?) there is no temple, but rather the Lord's throne. The glory of it humbles me to the dust (is there dust?) and exalts me to rapture. And then there is the Christ, and the Father, and the Holy Spirit....

Then I really do get dizzy. Then all at once, my heart is beating high for joy. Then I realize, that when everything presses down and in on me, and I must retreat to one place, that place is this: He is. That would be enough, but He is as Scripture says He is. That is more than enough for Scripture says He is the sum of all perfection, all delight.

Home is not even the city. Home is His heart, for which my soul longs. And that I can have here, now, on earth. Lovers call one another "Love" and "My heart" and "Darling" and so on; I have been much struck by their tendency to describe the beloved either as one's own other self or as love itself. God is not my other self, for He is utterly other than I am. But He is love itself, truly, and His being utterly other does not prevent Him from touching my soul more nearly than any human being ever could.

Welcome, heart's desire---darling love! Make Your home here, poor as it is, and I will make You this home's home.

Check the Stats

IM status messages have become a form of shared humor for Danya and I. The fact that we sit three feet away from each other all day every day apparently isn't enough: now we also trade insults and jokes by displaying them on our buddy lists.

How do you alert the other party that there is a new jib waiting on the status line? "Hey Dave (or Christy), check the stats."

Messages range from obscure to very obscure. There are in-jokes familiar only to those who have delighted in Bone (phrases like "Hello, small mammal" and "Stupid, stupid rat creatures!"). There are statements from five minutes ago, things like "I merely pointed out that I share my food with you" or "I do not accept that phoenix! It's fat and it looks like a robin!"

It's fun and funny---to us. I sometimes wonder what the rest of cyberspace thinks about it, but I don't worry too much. After all, in theory everybody on my buddy list knows me/us. This means they should know what they're getting into, and if they don't, they can always do what I do when too many changing status messages begin to annoy me: turn off the IM or block the offender.

Meanwhile, we are pleased. Oh, and P.S. for those of you who have long wondered why I call my brother Danya---it's a Russian thing. He studied Russian for a couple years and "Danya" is the affectionate diminutive of his name. He calls me Krasiva or Krasivaya, which sounds like my name but isn't. It actually means "beautiful."

Yes, girls, you can envy me. I have the coolest brothers in the world. :-D

Thanks for All the Weights, Dad!

You know how it goes. There are the electric blues, where you're melancholy, and the sunny yellows, where you're cheerful, and the blacks, where you just want to die, and the mean reds, where you want to hit something.

Over the years I've developed all sorts of ways of dealing with some of the more unsavory shades of colors. Today, which began as a sunny yellow, took an unexpected and ugly turn towards the mean reds in the late afternoon. I guess I should have expected it: the rainbow has been wobbling for a couple of days because of all the emotional, mental, and spiritual strain associated with work right now. Yesterday, for instance, was a steady working green that sank suddenly into a dangerous degree of exhaustion (is that, what, purple?) just after class and then bounced back up to playful greeny-yellow and finally settled out at a sea-blue (as opposed to electric blue) on the drive home.

So, if you actually followed all that, it wasn't surprising for today's yellow to take a dip into red. What was hard was figuring out what to do about it, because many of the usual options were off-limits for one reason or another. I knew I needed to get out, so I went walking in the rain. Dad, seeing I was upset, asked to come with me.

We went up and down the street for awhile and talked and got soaked, which cooled me down some, and then Dad said, "Hey, we've already showered. How about hitting the gym?"

"Absolutely!" I replied. Dad and Mom and I joined a new gym together recently and we've been enjoying early-morning sessions. This morning we didn't get one, so I was more than ready to work out my frustrations on an elliptical and a bunch of weight machines.

Circuit training is something Dad knows all about because he was a wrestler in high school and college. And the weights section we use has about 12 machines, plus balance balls. It's a perfect recipe for getting rid of the mean reds: you basically press them out through the weights.

When Dad sets up the weights for you, you work for what you get. He's also got a competitive streak as broad and deep as mine. When I tossed off thirty reps on my lower back, Dad said, "Oh, c'mon, you can do more than that. Set it down to 200 lbs."
"Dad! Look how high it is already!"
"You're not working for it, baby."
"The weight of my whole body isn't enough to force this thing down! Look!"
"That's what the handles are for."
He then proceeded to show me, setting the weights as far down as they would go and zipping through his own reps like they were nothing.
"You are a show-off!" I told him, grinning.
He just grinned back.

By the time we'd worked our way through the six or eight upper body machines, I was feeling like a wimp. Dad is ridiculously strong in his biceps, deltoids, and triceps, and he was pressing easily twice or in some cases three times as much as me. The gap closed up a bit, though, on the lower body machines.
"Hah! 90! How far down did you go?"
"120."
"No fair! Girls are supposed to have better leg muscles than guys!"

It's great to work out when you're already wet, because really there isn't much more that can happen to you and it keeps the sweat down. I always find myself swaggering a bit, too, after a really good workout. It just makes you feel clean and strong and on top of the world.

According to Dad, the way you should feel is like you can't walk. ;-)

I wrapped up with a long stretch over a balance ball and then we sat in the jacuzzi for awhile (or rather, Dad did and I paddled my toes in the water), talking about this and that---which for us generally consists of discussions about academia at large and future Tapestry projects in specific, when it isn't metaphysics, imaginary science (don't ask), or politics---and wondering why the bubble jets were turned off.

When we got home we found that Charity had been making a yummy chicken soup and somebody had already gotten out the wines and it was all cozy. I mixed myself a weird drink (nota bene: smirnoff plus fresh grapefruit juice is bangarang!) in a jar and found that somehow the workout had brought the yellow back up dazzling bright.

"No more exercise for you!" Mom said. "You're getting silly!"

So thanks for all the weights, Dad, and for being strong enough to handle the mean reds. I'm so glad you press more than I do---in every area of life. :-)

The Locker-Writer

This was a very old effort from private high school which I wrote for a contest that required me to include the phrases about a hat being tossed into the bushes and the pigs. Still, I retain a certain fondness for it. :-) Enjoy.

I’ll never forget the morning I met her. It was Monday, the first day of school. As the door of my locker swung back I saw to my utter disbelief that tiny, angular figure scrunched up in it, scribbling in a notebook. I uttered a strangled sound, and the figure looked up.
“Hi...” What does one say to someone in their locker?
“Hi.” it replied calmly, disentangling itself from the locker and emerging into the light of day. She (I could see then it was a she) stood there staring at me, as if trying to read something in my face. She had heavy black hair and gray eyes.
“My name is Jessica, but you can call me Pen.”
I was bewildered. “Pen? What sort of a nickname is Pen?”
“I write.” Pen replied with dignity.
“In my locker?”
“It was my locker last year. It’s the only place where I can get any inspiration. Inspiration is very important to a writer. Without it…” Pen’s head shook mournfully, dislodging a large, pointed hat which slipped down over her ear. Why was she wearing a pointed hat in my locker? I backed away. “Well… it’s… that is… I guess I’ll see you- ”
“Oh, you’ll see me,” Pen interrupted, still staring. “We’re paired to do a short story in English class. By the way, do you know that you have a very interesting facial structure? It reminds me of the Italian Renaissance…”
I fled to the bathroom without another word, and examined my face anxiously for a few minutes. I do not look like the Italian Renaissance, or any Renaissance! Nevertheless, my heels dragged on the way to English class. There sat Pen, notebook at the ready; she looked like a child in a candy store.
“How did you know we would be paired to do a short story together?” I muttered out of the side of my mouth. “We haven’t even had our first class.”
“I asked. I was discussing Shakespearean techniques with the teacher, and she told me ahead.”
I gave her what I’m sure was a pleading, anguished look. Pen merely smiled.
The rest of the class was a nightmare; our teacher wanted a story outline by Wednesday. During study period, I pulled Pen aside for a quiet little strategy session.
“So… any ideas?”
Pen sighed and stared at the ceiling for a few seconds while I waited anxiously. Finally, she returned to earth and gazed at me sadly.
“There’s no inspiration. I’m having a bad hat day.” She tapped the pointed hat.
“A bad… hat day?” I asked weakly, afraid of the answer.
“My thinking hat, yes. It’s malfunctioning. Metaphorically speaking, my pointed hat has been tossed into the bushes and I can’t get it out.”
“Ah.” So that was that. Not only was my locker infested with a writer, and not only did she tell me that my face looked like an Italian Renaissance, but she had a writing hat which was metaphorically lost in the bushes! It was too much.
“Call me if you get an idea.” I said tightly, and wrote my number down for her. She took it and shoved it under the hat, staring into space again. She didn’t call.
That night I tossed and turned for hours. I woke up with a single nonsensical sentence spinning around in my head, like one of those bits of paper that have half a word scribbled on them. Next day, my locker door swung open to reveal… Pen. She waved.
“Get out of my locker!” As soon as the words were out, I felt like a tyrant. After all, what had Pen done to me? It wasn’t her fault that her inspiration lived in my locker.
“I’m sorry,” I told her sincerely. “I didn’t mean to yell. It’s just that…”
“I’ve failed you.” Pen murmured, actual tears in her eyes. “You may as well run me through now. I’m useless.” She sniffled, and I rushed to forestall an emotional outburst. Later, I was to learn that it is best to let Pen have hysterics if she wants them, but then I only knew that I wanted her sane, if possible.
“No, no, you haven’t failed me.” I gabbled hastily. “It’s just that I have this weird sentence running through my head, like the beginning of a story and…”
A gleam appeared in her eyes. “That’s the best kind! What is it?”
I hesitated, doubted, and finally blurted the sentence out. She could only laugh, after all. “’And no one ever knew where the pigs came from, or why.’”
“An inspiration…” Pen’s whole face lighted up. She quivered, obviously moved. Suddenly, I found that I liked to have my locker haunted by a writer with a pointed hat and gray eyes. The rest of it just took time.

Fragments of Delecta

I imagine Delecta as the kind of girl who hasn't a consistent bone in her body and is blown about before every wind of her emotions, like a kite. I suppose you could say that her growth trajectory in Prodesse and Delecta is all about growing a backbone and getting anchored. Of course, her changeableness is deeply offensive to Prodesse. Here is a fragment which demonstrates this:

“How little we realize,” said Prodesse, “That God is high and powerful, and solid, so that He cannot be altered.”
“You should say, ‘how little we realize that man is small and weak, and insubstantial and changeable,’” Delecta replied, tossing a pebble into the stream. She watched the ripples attentively. “How beautiful are circles within circles!”
“Delecta.” His tone measured out a spoonful of impatience. Delecta sighed.
“I repent me. You said?”
“I was speaking of things meaningful, and you interrupt me with circles! How will you ever get on with the truth, little woman, if you are so easily distracted?”
“Do you notice that we have applied the word ‘how’ to three different things: our realization of God, the circles, and myself?”
“What has that to do with the question?”
“Or do you ever stop to think that these circles within circles might represent the question—say, the littlest circle is us, and the outermost circle is God—or, say, the outermost circle, that trembles and vanishes soonest, is us, and the innermost circle, which remains longest and spreads to cover everything, is God. You see, Prodesse, you do not think of these things. But am I any less aware of the question because I think in images and patterns? The word ‘how’ we have applied to three things, each time ringing a change on the same word, which is a kind of variety within unity. It would sound well in an address to a crowd—it would move them. Do you not wish to persuade people of the truth that is so near your heart?”

Of course my epic allegory about truth and beauty wouldn't be any good unless Prodesse and Delecta wind up married. Even I know that. However, really powerful love scenes are abominably difficult to write. Still, I keep trying. Here is a fragment from one version, in which Delecta finds herself really caring about somebody besides herself (Prodesse) for the first time. I can't say that she's particularly clear on it or happy about it:

“I love you,” Delecta said, simply. “I would give life’s blood to know what that means, but—all minds fail somewhere. Mine fails here. I use the word that others use when they have got a blow such as mine. I cannot tell what love is, or what I am to do. I ache. I find no peace anywhere in myself, and I believe that whatever else love may be—that it brings me the greatest possible pain. Still, I love you. My life is confusion, and I want to ask ….” She trailed off for a moment, and then went on, brokenly, “I do not understand—I do not—my heart aches, you see. I have got a wound. Some one has bitten at my heart. I think I must bleed. Am I bleeding? Oh, if you can heal me, do it! Throw stones at me—send me away! Or go away yourself, can't you! Oh, gods! Go away!”

The Beginning of Prodesse's Education

From time to time I pick away at an epic I am writing called Prodesse and Delecta. It is about two halves of things: truth and beauty, content and form, what is and how it is. These fragments were written some time ago and are the fruit of stray connections between the story and my studies in literature---particularly in comparative world literature studies.

The King's mother had been a great lady of the east. Because he was not expected to rule, she had been permitted to keep him with her and her wise men for the greater part of his boyhood. The result was, that when his elder brother died and his turn came to be groomed for succession, he retained an affection for the philosophies of the east. In all other respects he was a western king and wedded a western princess.

In the matter of Prodesse's education, the King followed his own inclination and provided both eastern and western tutors for his son. This his advisers approved to his face; privately, however, they regarded the eastern influence with suspicion, and especially the eastern men.

What neither king nor councilors noticed was that Prodesse himself soon grew confused under his teachers's contradictory instructions---for some advocated silence, and others speech; some differentiation and some unity; some wished to teach the prince chains linked by cause and effect whereas others insisted that all things are as circles. Gradually Prodesse's confusion became cynicism, and anger and a great bitterness, and then despair. When he was but fifteen years old, the prince set fire to his books and fled into the forest with only an old slave who had been with him from childhood. It was believed that his great learning had driven him mad.

The King, who cherished a hope of his son's recovery, forbade any to disturb his solitude. Instead, the boy was left entirely to the green mountainsides and the care of the old slave named Aber.

Aber belonged neither to the east nor to the west, but to the middle lands. It was said that his had once been a holy people, but they were now scattered and brought low. Aber had not forgotten this, but he was not a sullen man. He had the gifts of song, laughter, and storytelling---and wisdom.

Often he would say to Prodesse, when they lay in the shade of their hunting lodge after a chase, "Ahhhh!---To be happy is to be humble, my good lord, for there is nothing like it to make the soul glad."

Prodesse never failed to become angry at these words, like a man who finds a hornet's nest in his garden. "No philosophy!" he would say, "Let us hunt instead."

After a year had passed and his anger was somewhat cooled, the prince fell into deep reverie. It seemed to Prodesse that he stood at an impasse; on the one hand to melt into things and lose himself in them, to imitate life as he saw it instinctive and throbbing around him---to live like an animal. Or, to retain himself as a distinct being, but thereby condemn himself to many years of definition, enumeration, and organization, all without cause or end.

Neither possibility appealed to him. And so, for several years, he gave himself up to drifting thoughts. This did not make him happy, for he felt that it only postponed one of two inevitable paths: unsatisfactory choice or absolute despair. However, he soon gave up the idea of any meaning at all and that numbed him somewhat.

Aber's old eyes saw this, and he frequently broke up the young man's dreaming with questions and comments that pierced him, bringing the prickle and burn of earnest thought.

One midsummer's day, as they rested by a stream some distance from the house, Aber pointed to a towering oak on the farther bank and said, "How like that tree planted by the stream is the upright man! He never lacks for water, my good lord."

Prodesse, who had been tracing the faces of beautiful girls in the clouds, frowned. "How like the babble of the stream are your words, good slave---if they have a meaning, it is meaningless to me."

"My lord has never been thirsty?" Inquired the old man, cunningly.

For reply, the young man lowered his eyes from the clouds and glared. Aber, all innocent as old men alone can be, gave his smile of a thousand wrinkles and said, "Surely a man who hunts knows what it is to lack water, and to long for it."

"You would try the patience of a stone, Aber."

"And," the slave continued, serenely, "surely a man who has lacked water would find meaning in a tree firmly rooted by the stream, where its life is sustained by this ever-flowing source."

"Surely."

"All that remains, therefore," Aber went on, "is to inquire whether the man is upright because he has planted himself beside the stream, or whether the stream flows to him because he is upright."

Prodesse reclined again on the grass and gazed at the sky. "What is your sage opinion, old one?"

"The former, lad, the former."

"Explain this to me, then: why should it be that what is good to keep a man alive is also good to make him upright? What have these to do with each other?"

"This is foolishness, good lord. Where did you observe a blade of grass, a beast of the hills, a ripple of the book, or a cloud in the sky, that while it exists, does not exist uprightly according to the laws of its own kind? The breath of life and the upright have much to do with each other."

"Have it your way," Prodesse returned, getting up. "I am going to dress the game for supper."

He stalked off, stiff-necked, and old Aber looked after him with half a sigh and half a smile. Then he put his face to the stream and took a long drink, and, lying in such a way as to catch the best of the failing afternoon light, slept.

Vacation!!!

I just got the confirmation that I am indeed going with Mom and Dad to Hawaii in February. They are going to do a conference and I am going to have... oh my .... dare I say it?

A VACATION!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Of course I'll also plan to spend time researching 20th century literature choices, and no doubt there will be teachers who want to talk Tapestry R-level literature, and so on and so forth---I can't just do nothing for a week. But still, if you have to deal with Year 4 literature at all, what better setting? And if you get to serve people by talking to them about Tapestry Lit, what better place?

I feel like somebody has handed me the moon. <:0)

What I Know About Secret Letters

I am happy and I want to write about something charming. In a biography today I strayed across the story of a young man writing elaborate love notes to his secret betrothed. Immediately I thought how I should like to review what I know about secret letters---I mean the kind handwritten and often in code---for you, because they are now antique and always seem to be a memory lost in the midst of grown-up affairs.

Secret letters are not, however, a mere memory in the minds of children, strategists, and pranksters. When we were children at our war games, we had all manner of coded notes. It gave me quite a thrill, as a seven-year-old, to scribble the simple alphabet-scrambled letters that we wrote with pencil on scraps of paper and slipped breathlessly to one another in the woods behind the house. These were always signs and countersigns, reports from "the front" of the battle, clues to the enemy's whereabouts, and so on. I associate them always in my memory with sticky scented pine sap and our tree fort.

Later, of course, we drew up more important documents: death warrants for whichever of us had suddenly become a desperate criminal; pirate contracts signed in blood (or berry juice), treasure maps, and so on. But these were not secret letters. Then I began to write stories, also in pencil on lined paper, when I was ten---but these were not secret letters. They were only fragments of fancies kept in a tin box, romances wrapped in the smell of summer grass and the history that creeps into one's blood if one is fortunate enough to spend a few years of childhood in a Civil War farmhouse.

The letters came again though, after a while. Dear reader, you will laugh when I tell you that my first experience of love letters was a long series of pranks. I don't remember who began it---I think my brothers did. They took to putting quite elaborate and soupy love letters in my jewelry box when I was a girl of fourteen or fifteen. These were always from a "secret admirer" who was hinted to be a baron or a duke or a count.

Well, I reciprocated of course, and naturally went one better. The anonymous love notes I left in their bathrobe pockets were drenched with the smelliest perfume I could find. This went on for several weeks, back and forth, quite a storm of sentiment. At last we tired of the game and dropped it.

I was not to know secret letters again until my sophomore year in college, when I undertook to teach a few friends how to write in elven. I would leave them letters in a particular book---a volume of fairy tales, as I recall---in the college library. No one ever checked out that book, so we were safe, and it was such fun! I remember the thrill of anticipation I always felt, walking into the library oh-so-ladylike and demure and academic and grown-up, in a long gray skirt and starched white lace blouse, with books in my arms and my hair in crossed braids... and thinking "No one knows! No one knows! No one knows that I have a secret letter! Here! In the library, with everybody else so modern and studious and unsuspecting!"

There were days when I could burst for the sheer delight of it, and when I had my letter I would go across campus to read it in the white gazebo by the pond, and would sit deciphering the curved elvish characters and amusing myself for an hour together, dreaming out across the pond. One day in my senior year, just for fun, I donned that old outfit of gray and white and put on a pink silk shawl (it was a cool autumn day) and went to the gazebo for our Medieval literature class. A classmate called me "the picture of Romanticism." I only made a face at her (she knew I hated the Romantics) and laughed. Sometimes I left secret letters, addressed to no one and telling great secrets, in the eaves of the little gazebo. Perhaps I meant them for the gazebo itself, or perhaps for the fairies.

Anyway, we outgrew that game in the library after awhile, and for a long time there were no more secret letters---for I was growing up. But then one fine day, when I was quite grown up and had no excuse for it whatsoever (except my own mischief), I played a prank on the two leads in the play I was directing. The play was Cyrano de Bergerac, and involved a simply enormous number of love letters and an equal amount of love-letter-writing. I decided that I wanted the boys to practice. To that end, I called together all the girls who happened to be on hand in my dorm and got eight of them to co-author a set of love notes, which we spattered with perfume and wrapped around chocolates and caused to be deposited in their shoes in their dorm room (girls were never allowed in the boys' dorm rooms, but it was not difficult to find a boy willing to act as our accomplice).

Well! That was a lovely prank. And then the boys had to write notes back, for play practice, and leave them in a volume of Aristophanes in the library. I do genuinely believe it improved their roles a little... but of course that wasn't really the point. The point was fun, and what fun the girls had reading their outrageously silly replies to our equally hilarious letters!

Ah, that play was good all the way round. We were all friends; all glad to be nonsensical and play pranks in a cheerful, innocent, happy way. When my producer's birthday came around, the gang of fourteen boys who were in the play all dressed up and sang French songs beneath her window, and we gave her a double-guard procession and an open car all the way from her dorm to the dining hall, where there was sparkling cider and cheesecake. We had royal good times!

But to return. Years have passed without any secret letters---which is sad, now I think of it, and makes me wish for some---and I had not thought of them at all until yesterday. I was trying to quiet a screaming child. From experience I knew that drawing on a chalkboard sometimes does the trick, so I set the little girl on top of a low bookshelf, picked up a piece of yellow chalk, and began to write whatever came into my head---in elvish of course. I didn't much want the rest of the workers in the room to read it.

Then one of them came up and said, "What is that?" By now the little girl was quiet, so I explained how I had adapted the characters for my own use so as to be able to write without other people reading my thoughts. "Is it just a different alphabet?" He asked. "Yes," I replied, "Unless I want to be really secret, and then I write it in Latin and elvish both." He picked up the chalk and said "This is what I used to use to write letters to my high school girlfriend in class." And then, to my astonishment, he began to write nearly perfect cursive---backwards. Truly! If I had had a mirror, it would have been easy to read. As it was, I had to work hard to decipher the letters.

"I wrote her 180 letters that way," he said, proudly. "Wow," I replied. "That's amazing!" And it was.

We are now come full circle to today and the biography I was reading. Now you know all that I know about secret letters, dear reader. What a pity you are nobody and everybody and can't send me some! Wouldn't it be delightful if you could? After all, I tell you so much more than I do almost anybody else (though of course there's a lot I don't tell even to you), and if you could write back we should have so much to talk about! But of course, being nobody and everybody, you can't. Still, I don't mind. You are my nobody and my everybody, and that is enough for me.

Good night, dear beloved reader. Tell the Fairy Queen for me, that I mean to attend her at her water palace in the fourth star to the right at midnight. There is to be dancing there til dawn.

My House of Lost Play

When I woke up yesterday morning it was with the usual sensation of half-assuaged exhaustion. When I woke up this morning, it was with a feeling of looseness and lightness. I haven't stopped smiling all day. Give me a flexible birch tree to climb and I believe I could fly from the top of it. I'm a bird. Do you hear, sky? I'm a bird, and I'm coming!

What happened in those twenty-four hours to elicit such a change? Ostensibly, nothing: yesterday in my capacity as a teacher I conducted an extracurricular activity for my class---an all-day viewing of the longer Pride and Prejudice movie---and then accompanied the family of one of my students to a party where other students and parents were present.

Nonsense. You can say that's who I was and what I was doing if you want, but it wasn't and I didn't. Yesterday I found my House of Lost Play again, all unexpectedly in Middletown Valley, and played in it. I prayed and fellowshipped in the midst of a family that I love and loved every second of being with them. I did flips on the trampoline. I lay on my back in the sun and counted clouds. I made a fall bouquet. I put leaves in my hair. I saw the heart of a bonfire. I promised a twelve-year-old that I would roll down a hill and kept my promise. I explored the woods in the dark with only a flashlight and a friend. I cuddled a three-year-old and told her stories.

My heart lurched and skipped a beat when I was driven through Middletown Valley for the first time yesterday. The patchwork of farms was like something out of Wordsworth's Lake District or Yellowstone Park. To crown all, it bore the fine burnished patina of autumn. At the festival, while at the rolling-down place (let's call it Suicide Hill), I lost my heart again to a small little boy named Jack. I traded stories and songs with a girl named Julie. I made jokes; I bantered; most of all, I laughed. I laughed all day at everything that was funny and sometimes I laughed for pleasure because I wanted to laugh.

It was pure play. It was a day of gold and red and orange and music and Neoclassical grace and a good romance (the real kind, with sin and growth and passion and forgiveness on both sides) superbly acted, and dear people who love each other and opportunities to do the girls' hair and guitar music and children's shrieks and giggles and the dance of flames in the bonfire pit. There was sky, sky, sky and air, air, air---daysky and dayair; nightsky and nightair; sky and air and fire!

And next time, God willing, I won't be so frail---I'll be able to do more flips, to run and chase and hit the ball with everybody else. I feel like Colin from the Secret Garden, like a person who's been bedridden for years but is going to get well and live for ever and ever.

Dear God, who am I that I should be blessed as much as this? Domine, Domine, te gratias ago. Te gratias ago totissime. Shari and Todd, Ellie and Shane, Julie and Jack and little Chloe, I'll carry the memory of that day with me through many hard days ahead. Thank you! Thank you so much. It meant everything to me to be allowed to play.

The Office ---- Season 8: "Lauren's Quote Debut: 'I Heart George Mueller'"'

Oh yeah, and the internet's been down for a week. :-P

“This is the part, Amy, where you say ‘I love my job.’” – Mom
“I’m crying right now.” – Amy
“From sadness or from joy?” – Mom
“From laughter.” – Amy

“Has anyone seen a picture of George Mueller?” – Amy on a famous pastor
“Oh, I love George Mueller! He’s so cute!” – Lauren
“He’s just a teddy bear.” – David

Lauren’s status message: “i heart George Mueller”

“Okay, she’s all yours; you can have her.” – Lauren to Christy, upon closing out of Week 18
“She? Her?” – Christy
“Yes, and Week 17 is a he.” – Lauren
“Wow.” – Christy

Dana's son David accidentally IM'd Ray an ISBN instead of IM'ing it to
Dana. Ray googled the ISBN and said: Lemme guess. That's the ISBN for the Kamien CD's, right?
David: lol. you on Amazon?
Ray: No. It's just that I've memorized every ISBN in the world. I need a superhero name now. I'll leave that to you.
David: lol
Ray: "lol" isn't a very good superhero name. You need to be more creative. You give homeschoolers a bad name.

“I totally windexed that one to death.” – David on killing a cricket with Windex

“But what is a Conestoga wagon?” – Christy to David
“Well you see, there was this lady named Connie Stoga…” – David
“Good grief. Why do I ask you when I have the internet?” – Christy to David
“Oh please. When was the last time you trusted the internet?” – David
“Um… every day.” – Amy

“I have a repository of joy right here… and not everybody can say that their ipod is a repository of joy” – David

“Behold yon statusse message.” – David on IM to Christy
“SLAAAAAAAAMMMMBAAAAHHHH deeeeah MAAAAAAAIIIIDD! Green boughs weeheeHEEL COOOOOVAH THEE!” - David’s status message, a textual rendering of Mary’s version of Slumber Dear Maid from the Pride and Prejudice movie.
“What brought that on?” – Christy
“Honestly, I don’t know.” – David

“’Trials, we are told, are sent to trust our fortitude.’” – David, quoting Mary from Pride and Prejudice
“You know what—you were sent to test our fortitude” – Christy to David
“That’s right. That’s what I’m here for.” – David

“Yes. I am a jeweler of pixels.” – David

“Yeah… so… I’m going to go recover my manhood now.” – David, after stepping out of character by giving our newly-engaged Brittainy advice about what is being done with bridesmaids’ dresses these days.

“I’m not about dignity. I’m about results.” – Mom
“That explains so much!” – Christy

“Who, me? Laughing?” – David

“Yes. Whatever else happens, I do want to live forever.” – Christy to David

“There can be internet when you believe!” – David

Smile Moment No. 1 Million

So I'm driving home from Giant tonight and I see something on the road in front of me that I've never seen before.

There's this very long-bodied half-naked dude (I'm guessing late teens or early twenties, but more on the late teens side) wearing shorts and some kind of a weird string backpack, with long blond hair, just moseying along in the middle of the road on a skateboard.

He was so jaunty and devil-may-care, I had to smile. Especially since my turn was coming up and I did NOT have to slow down for him. ;-)

Ah, the oddities of life.

Baby Shakespeare

So I signed up for Nursery 2 this year (the one-year-olds in Children's Ministry at church) because Nora belongs to that class. Technically. I'm beginning to have my doubts. During the first week of my tenure I was pulled to go serve in an overstuffed Toddlers classroom (and somebody accidentally yanked the fire alarm---boy was that exciting!), so I only got to spend about 10 minutes with her. This week I wasn't pulled, but when Jess appeared in the doorway with the Lodestar of Our Lives in her arms, it was only to inform me that she fears Nora is getting sick, so my hopes were crushed again.

However, I'm kind of glad they were, because not having Nora there made me focus on getting to know some of the other babies. We had the best class in the world---five adults and seven very well-behaved babies, none of whom cried exorbitantly and all of whom can crawl, make noises, and look adorable. Happiness. :-)

I had fun discussing motherhood with a young mom who was serving, and various education tracks with an older mom who was serving, and ways of solving the energy crisis with a mechanical engineer (husband of the young mom) who was serving, and it was all very pleasant. Then one of the little boys began to kick up a fuss about something, and I went to calm him down, and whoops!---lost my heart.

Again.

I am always falling in love with something. This is a case in point. The baby's name is Jacob and he's medium adorable and has big blue eyes. What absolutely captured me, however, was that he likes to play "Beep" and will grin at a person who is quoting Shakespeare to him.

"Beep" is a noble game of ancient lineage. I beeped his nose in every imaginable tone, beginning with Road Runner beeps and moving on from there. He grinned and beeped back. We had quite an orgy of beeping. Then he tried to climb me (we were seated in a rocking chair) and I let that go on for a little while because babies that age like to do that sort of thing. Then I pulled him off my head and sat him in my lap again and did "Trot Trot to Boston" (nota bene: though his grasp of "Beep" is excellent, he seemed totally nonplussed as to the "we all fall in" aspect of "Trot Trot").

I don't know who started it (let's say he did), but the next thing I knew I was talking nonsense to him the way one does to babies, and all my nonsense came out as random quotes from literature, mostly from Shakespeare. I explained to him very seriously that man is a giddy thing, and we talked about "had we but world enough and time enough" (which is not Shakespeare, but is a poet) and so forth.

Whenever he began to cry (he was a little fussy, I think from being tired or hungry or both, because it certainly wasn't his diaper), I made up or reinstated songs to calm him. In fact, I couldn't seem to stop singing to him. I tried putting him down once or twice, but he very definitely wanted to be held, and to climb me as if I were Mt. Everest, and to be beeped and talked to and sung to. Well, all that I could do. :-)

At last he reached the end of his patience, near the end of the sermon, and became really fussy. Then I turned to Old Faithful, the sink. It might surprise you, dear reader, to discover what a soothing influence running water has on children. He stopped crying immediately and when his mother arrived we were happily splashing. So that was all right Best Beloved Don't You See?

It was exquisitely restful, which is a good thing particularly today because I was up until 2 AM through no fault of work (I foolishly had a cup of coffee and went to see a RedSox game that went until 1:45 AM). Fortunately, I am now well trained to survive on minimal sleep, so staying awake through church was no problem. Then of course somebody had the bright idea of climbing Sugarloaf this afternoon, and I'm pretty sure we picked the steepest trail there is (practically vertical, but no steps: just rocks and slippery dust). Nevertheless, we triumphed, and came out on top and ran into all sorts of people we know and came down again and it was nice.

And that's all! Tune in next week to hear more happy posts from Masterbaby Theater and Special Sunday Report.

Wait a Second...

About a week ago, I got an email from a dear lady who has become a personal friend---a mom way off in NJ whom I've never met, but who helps me out with feedback on the Lit products that I work on and points out my errors before they hit the national fan. I had been working with her on one such error and she wrote back to give the "all clear." She also said this "I can not even imagine what your days must be like with all you have to do." Well that's a pretty normal comment for people to make, even people who know nothing about my actual schedule. However, she then playfully added,

"Does your husband ever want to crash your computer to get some attention?"

Um.

?

Did I ever give her the impression that I was....

.... you know....

Married?

Yikes.

Suddenly I found myself wondering if there was a husband in my closet that nobody told me about... whether I was married in my sleep... whether, in short, this:

I reviewed my correspondence mentally, and decided that no, there isn't and I wasn't. This is just the sort of assumption that sometimes occurs, especially between friends in the homeschool education community (where, let's face it, just about everybody is married), and especially if those friends have never met in person. I wrote back and 'splained, and playfully reminded her that,

"Single friends are sometimes more fun for married people than married friends. It gives you the opportunity to matchmake."

And I promise you, as a single with two sisters-in-law and a number of married friends, that is the truth. (Married friends, you know who you are. I hope you're blushing right now.) They get a lot more fun out of matchmaking me than I ever will out of being matchmade, but that's okay. I'm here to serve. 0:-) Just let's not go overboard, okay? Avoiding this would be good:

'Cause the fact is, finding "the love of your life" (see subtitle of picture above) is just about the scariest place you can be, short of not being right with God. And I'm not "registering to begin" (see picture above) on it. Not that I ever expect to be ready---I hear it's the sort of thing that happens to you on a "ready or not" kind of basis---but you can see why I'm not jumping onto the roller coaster. ;-) Besides, that lady in the picture looks like she's got a crick in the neck. Is this proof positive that if I do marry it should be a short husband...?

Yes, I'm kidding. They look happy and wonderful and not like a crick in the neck. :-)

Anyway, maybe it's just the soupy love-and-marriage stuff I've been swimming in for the last few days (including the fact that Brittainy just got engaged), but I thought that was hilarious. Also, it fits with my "happy blogs" theme. :-) And finally, whatever else it may be, it was certainly a new one and it had great shock value!

Wow...

Danya showed me this today. It's a chair and footstool, in case you can't tell. If it were just a little less contemporary and stark, I'd be in love. Even if you could traditionalize it though, I think I'd agree with him: "We'll just Victorianify it up for the next Dinotopia book."



Still, isn't it a pretty cool idea?

Sweetness, Light, and Lucky

A few days ago I completed one of my semi-annual tours through the backlogs of this blog, and the result is that I'm feeling penitent for a certain lack of "happy posts" in the last eighteen months. Obviously there are reasons for that, but reasons aren't excuses. This blog is overdue for some sweetness and light. :-)

In token of which, I want to share with you a new favorite song of mine. I don't usually flip for love songs, but I had to do something to become reconciled to the romance in Great Expectations, so I gave myself a lethal dose of David's song "Lucky," by Jason Mraz.

I do mean lethal: sixteen or eighteen repetitions in one sitting. But actually it stood up pretty well to that kind of abuse; I still like it. My favorite part of the song, I think, is its completely enslaving folk rhythms. They are right up there with Sixpence None the Richer's "Kiss Me," which I've mentioned elsewhere in the archives of this blog. I'm also quite fond of the chorus in "Lucky":

Lucky I'm in love with my best friend
Lucky to have been where I have been
Lucky to be coming home again

Anyway, all is forgiven, young lovers, and truce to Eros (for now). And those of you who are in love---courting, engaged, married---check out those songs. They are good ones. ;-)

True Confessions

Every so often, Brittainy and I get on to the subject of sports and activities. To her amusement (and my retrospective surprise), we have discovered that at one time or another in my childhood I participated or was given lessons in a wide range of activities: practically everything except skiing and polo. Here's a partial list:

Girl Scouts
Cleaning (no really, Mom had me go out with professional cleaners a couple of times)
Cooking (in our family this is a three-year crash course which also involves food shopping)
Sewing (yes, I can and have made my own clothes: a few of them)
Flying (honest; they let me steer the plane for a few minutes. SCARY!)
Golf
Tennis
Interior Decorating (including painting and making curtains)
Flower Arrangement
Knitting
Crocheting
Spinning and Weaving (don't ask)
Yoga
Pilates
Air Hockey
Ping Pong
Archery
BB Guns
Paintball
Soccer
Canoing
Kayaking
Sailing
Whitewater Rafting
Marksmanship (they let me fire a handgun, which was heavy, at the CIA. I was very proud of hitting my man-shaped target right in the heart.)
Horseback Riding
Flute
Theater (lots of theater and acting over the years)
Hairdressing (don't ask about that either)
Voice/Choir
Piano
Ballroom Dancing
Swimming
Fencing
Volleyball

It's been a long and varied history, and I'm sure I've left a few things out. Spelunking, backpacking, and wall climbing, for instance. But the first love of my young life doesn't appear on this list either. You're going to laugh, gentle reader, but my first love was ballet.

Yes, ballet. Tutus and slippers and all the rest of it. Between the ages of seven and nine I was permitted to attend a very fine ballet school in Boston, and got to see the Boston Ballet perform the Nutcracker, and was a snowflake and a little Russian girl and all that sort of thing.


I blame my enduring love of dance and music on this early exposure. The reason I mention it now is because one of my all-time favorite ballets, which was made into what is easily my favorite Disney movie, is being re-released. I refer, of course, to Sleeping Beauty.


What I love best about the movie---besides the fact that they miraculously got the cultural feel and the worldview more or less right---is that they used Tchaikovsky's original score from the ballet. And it's coming out again, and is an enduring classic, which just makes me happy. :-)

There are a few things I'd like to do before I die. One is to travel to England and Scotland, the Holy Land and Greece. Another is to ride in a horse-drawn carriage (silly, I know; you'd think I would have done that by now). And the third is to see a ballet performance of Sleeping Beauty.

This Is Why

My friends Shari and Debra ask me every Friday "What are you doing this weekend?" "Work!" I always reply with a grin (admittedly sometimes a wry one). Then they lovingly berate me for not getting more R&R. I appreciate this as a sign of their friendship, though of course I don't usually even attempt to explain what disasters would occur if I took their advice.

Last Friday Debra said to me, "You're twenty-four! You need to... you know.... Be young!"

I had to laugh. "Young? People keep asking me whether I'm Marjorie's younger sister. Really!"

"Well, you look young, but listen to you! You sound old!"

"I am old," I replied, very softly. Then quickly and brightly, "But just wait until I'm done with this Redesign project!"

I don't tell many people what my life is like. I don't really want them to know, because they are kind and they'll be concerned. They worry that I'm letting my heyday pass me by, or that I'm going to get really sick, or that I'm far too busy to spend time doing the things I love (exercise, gardening, long walks outside, pleasure reading, cooking, sewing, theatricals, music), or even normal activities like taking care of myself, going out with friends on a Friday evening (or any evening), finding a guy and settling down, or whatever twenty-somethings are supposed to do.

"I hate it when you say you're married to your job." - Mom
"I'd hate it worse if I were trying to divide my attention between my job and a guy. That wouldn't be fair to anybody." - Me

"Well, aside from changing your job, I don't know what to tell you." - My doctor
"Well, changing my job isn't an option, so I'll keep wearing the wrist guards." - Me

"You need to get a different job so you can have your wisdom teeth out!" - My dentist
"Doc, I promise. Just give me another eighteen months." - Me

"I'm worried about you." - Casey/Jessica/Mom/Brittainy/Shari/Debra/Girls in My Caregroup
"I know." - Me

Somehow, not many people (not counting those who already know the answer) ever ask me why I do it. And that's a shame, because "Why?" is not only a very important question, but it's also the one that I could actually answer. And what an answer I'd give! So, for all of you who worry about me, I'll give it here---now. This is why.

How old was I? Not old enough: a Senior, not yet twenty-two. It was an evening in late November. I was supposed to go see Les Miserables in DC that night, and I sat on my bed waiting for the shower to be free so that I could wash and dress. I was at school; I remember how my dorm windows that semester looked out over the pond. I remember it was almost dark already and the lamps were beginning to glow all over campus.

Against my ear, a cell phone. Mama on the other end. Mom's voice excited, enthusiastic. "Honey, we've just had a big meeting. We're going to do a Redesign project, honey. And we think you're the right person to manage it. You can do your literature revisions too. We want you to consider coming home next semester and working for us."

It was utterly unexpected. No one else was in the room. I remember staring at the wall opposite my bed. I remember thinking of all the people at school whom I would have to leave behind---one or two in particular---the Senior Spring that I would miss---the parties, the gaiety, that last glorious April of childhood. I saw it all so clearly in my mind's eye, as if it had already happened. Being a winter baby, I had always been a little older, a little behind. But now I was being asked to become an adult six months early, and I knew that this April would never, never come again.

It was quiet, but perfectly clear. The Spirit moved in me, and the voice that we Christians know said "Yes." I was so young---I had so little idea of what I would be committing myself to do. But I said "Yes." Like the day six years before when I said "Yes" to the Gospel, it was immediate. Like that day, too, I have never even seriously considered changing my answer.

"But your Senior Spring?" Mom said, concerned already for what I would be giving up. "It doesn't matter," I said. "It doesn't matter. My answer is yes."

When we hung up, I was shaking a little. Four weeks later, I arrived at home for a Winter Break that was not to terminate, as all other Winter Breaks had, in my return to school. Oh, in the months that followed I would return to campus for brief spaces and even live there again for weeks at a time, but I had made an irrevocable transition and nothing would ever be the same. Not for me, and not for the friends from whom I was gradually separated. Not for my fairies, my warm-voiced spirits that lived in the lamps.... not for any of us.

If I had known what I was signing away in this stroke, would I still have done it? I think so. It has cost me dearly, so dearly in mind and heart and friendships and love and time and all else, that if I had had any inkling of the true cost then, I would have shrunk from it in horror. But I would still have had to say yes, for what else can you say to the Spirit?

Besides obedience, however, it is worth asking: "Why do I do it?"

Dear, beloved reader, how can I make you understand? I have no words for this---none adequate for this. What rises before my eyes at three in the morning, when I am bone-weary and stiff and my wrist aches and my mind seems like jello, when my memories crowd in to remind me of all I have foregone, and my enemies whisper "Pity yourself, pity yourself. Look what you gave up and are giving up! Look at how you are spending your youth!" What is it that makes me go on?

Beloved, at first I see the children. I see the quick ones, the slow ones, the talented ones, the ones who feel unsure, the ones who want to love all that is beautiful, and the ones who scarce know what beauty is---those who are already great in their faith and those who, like myself at that age, scarce know what faith is. I see them all and each, and to each I extend my hands, having forgotten completely how they ache: "This is for you. This is so that you will know a little more of beauty, a little more of truth; so that you will see a little more of Christ and enjoy a little more of Him; so that you will be a little better equipped to discern lies; so that you will be a little more satisfied that any experiment in living, no matter how grand, is nothing if it has not God for its basis. It is so that you too, perhaps, will celebrate the Gospel in your stories and poems and plays."

Then just behind the children, I see their mothers. Ah, you queens---you great ladies! Let me to offer you this, humble as it is (and I know as no one else can how really poor a gift it is) for the work that you have accepted from God's hands. My sacrifice is nothing compared to yours, but God grant that it may be a slight support, a hope, an easing of the way, a glimpse of beauty and truth for you too, an encouragement. I honor you, beautiful ones. God bless you!

Children and mothers, I do it for you. And then, when you have been remembered, I have not been forgotten. I am old; bowed down with responsibility and cares beyond my years, true, but also aged by constant contact with the long, strangely lovely, yet also tragic history of the human heart. For I have been given the freedom to wander about these three years in the world's literature, which is the expression of its heart.

How many lives of authors have I touched? How many pangs---joy, grief, struggle, longing---have found an answering ache in my heart? How much artistry has been unveiled to my dazzled and delighted eyes? How many experiments in living have I lived, vicariously, and how much wisdom have they taught me? Above all, how often have I trysted with Christ, always coming upon Him where I least expected to, always finding new cause to call Him best beloved, always, always, always seeing Him at work in the dark places, always discovering Him at the heart of the bright places? How much have I learned to know---to love Him? Oh, much! Much.

From my soul, gentle reader, I will not give up this job unless and until my Lord calls me from it. It is a calling and a ministry. It is a life-work. It is the gift I leave behind, wrought with no great skill (I know this well!), but with all the love that I possess. Dear reader, imagine---what if the children and the mothers see a particle more of Christ's loveliness though my own enthrallment with Him? What if? What if they, by being shown a way, a perspective, that has helped me to adore Him as I do (though not as He deserves!) and adore Him more themselves as a result? What if? And what of my own soul, which is so heated by these fiery trials that it waxes white-hot with love for Him... not always, but often? Is this not worth my youth---any person's youth?

I beg you to believe me. It is.

Let me only stay out of the hospital for one more year, and then you can do what you like with my body. Let my mind only hold together for eighteen more months, and then let it shatter or stand as God wills. Let my heart be cut and cut again by what I read, and by the loneliness of my life, for my heart grows. Let me be plagued with questions, with problems, with deadlines, with sleeplessness. Let me forego the pleasures of my age and situation. Let me (hardest of all) be cut off from the sunlight and the change of seasons day after day.

Let it all be just like that. What though it pains? When did relief from pain become an end in itself? Besides, I carry the sun about with me, down here in the heart of the world, and I will not stop for anything but the Spirit's voice. Let Him say "No" if it is to be no. Let Him say "Stop" if it is to be stop. Or, let Him say "Well done" if it is to be allowed to me to do well---for I know, I know, that if it is well done it was by allowance, by gift, not by anything in me. I have merely had the privilege of sacrificing so that it might come to pass.

Aftermath

It was a strange night. Something had occurred late yesterday afternoon that troubled me very much, insofar as it touched on an aspect of my interior state of being, the existence of which I have scarce suffered to acknowledge, nor to hear acknowledged, for more than a year now.

It troubled me, as I said. Also, I felt ill---I am sorry to admit that I always do feel a little ill, these days---and weary, and inwardly paining. I went down at 10 PM to work, and I tried to work. No luck. I was restless and unhappy. I thought to lie down on the office couch for a little while... and woke with a start hours later to discover that it was past 4 AM. The noise which I thought had awakened me, which my confused dreams had interpreted as a gunshot, was in fact nothing, or at least not that. (Who was being shot by that gun, in my dream, I cannot remember; but I think it may have been myself.)

I went to bed then, feeling stranger than ever, and more troubled than ever, and fell asleep, and rose, and worked again, all without being able to shake off my interior confusion and complexity. I felt that if anybody so much as tried to speak to me, I should turn on that person and out of my own hurt make myself as fiercely hurtful as I know how to be (which is, sadly, a good deal, and is, sadly, the way a perception of my own vulnerability often takes me).

It was in this state of mental and emotional distress that I at last took up my book and went outside, seeking, like the wild thing I often feel myself to be, for the refuge common to wild things everywhere: sweet-smelling grasses and quiet and sunshine, and the quick bright movements of beetles, and the slow trundling of ants, and the thrum-thrum-thrum of life, and the gold-on-green of sunlight in the trees.

I tried to pray, and did my duty by my book, and lay whole minutes together without moving so that I could explore the feeling of sunshine on my face. I emptied my mind of everything except God and the sound of the breezes, and did much better for it. What a strange creature I am, that I should find beetles and a breeze more comforting at such times than human beings.

Perhaps it is because I know that the created world is much larger than I, and that I cannot hurt it, as I can hurt people when in this vulnerable state and feeling like a wounded and caged falcon. I do know that I never find myself so irrationally distrustful, so sure of being attacked by everybody, or so desperate to get away from the voice and touch of my own kind, as when in that state, as if they were all my mortal enemies. At such times I almost think, perhaps I am not entirely human after all.

Anyway, it was got through somehow, and is better now. As to the original source of my trouble, that is not gone away nor is like to, but on the contrary is expected to grow more difficult in the months ahead. However, this present struggle is past and I can bear to be seen, talked to, and touched again.

I suppose we all wonder at times why God made each of us as He did. I know I do, always most especially after a long bout with this particular mood. It rather leads me on to question, not precisely my sanity (I do believe I am sane), but the fierce passions I find raging in myself, and the equally fierce fears. What has ever been done to me, that I should be so mistrustful? Nothing! Nothing, ever. My life has been remarkably sheltered and I have always been most tenderly loved. Yet here is this thing, this belief, this strong impulse to hold everybody off at a distance, which invariably comes over me strongest when I feel myself most in need of help and love.

Well, it is a mystery to me. But since it has been with me for as long as I can remember, and shows no signs at present of diminishing, I suppose I must just go on living with it inside me and trying to oppose it with as much truth as I know, and as much strength as I am given. I will say this: it is much less terrible than it was before I knew Christ. Before Christ, I wanted to die (not to commit suicide, but just to die) while this mood was on me. Now, after Christ, I merely want to get far away somewhere and feel safe.

And shall I ever feel really safe, among human beings? Shall I ever feel as if I really belong to this race made in the image of God, into which I was born and yet from which I feel so often and so profoundly alienated? Shall I ever be able to accept love without question, or express trust without reservation?

God help me, I don't know.

Life with Dickens

These days I feel not unlike Dickens himself in this unfinished picture by Robert W. Buss (Charles Dickens daydreaming, with phantoms of his many novel characters appearing around him). My days and nights and dreams are as full of Dickens's characters as his own appear to be.