The Adiaphoron

Marriage and Motherhood

2012-01-08T00:04:00.003-05:00

In some ways, I feel very different than I did this time last year. Last year, I was a girl, a student, a daughter primarily. Now I am a woman, a worker, a wife, and a mother. My person is the same, but I have stepped out of old roles and into new ones.

I haven't really talked about this transition, except with my husband and my mother, because while these new roles give me great joy they also made me feel awkward and shy, especially around around the young people I interact with. I don't feel that I've really entered the adult ranks, and yet I have most definitely left the general mass of youthdom behind.

As a wife, I've gained a great deal of love and respect for my husband that I could not have fathomed as a single person, even on the threshold of our wedding day. As a new bride, I did not know what to expect from my husband, well as I thought I knew him, and I discovered him to be a far better man than I had ever imagined he could be. His gentleness, compassion, spiritual leadership, intellectual vigor, and the strong emotional and physical support he continues to offer me are gifts I don't know how I ever managed without.

Being married is a huge positive in terms of my mental health. After we were married my stress level decreased by a subjective 80%. I have a strong feeling of security and identity that I (didn't realize that I) lacked before. Though marriage brings new responsibilities and stressors, the benefits compensate by far.

In the early months of our union, my husband and I often discussed how marriage did or did not match our expectations of what it would be like. One thing that pleasantly surprised us both is that much of the bliss of our relationship comes from mundane domestic life. In a way, marriage is not so much excitement as emotional and physical security and relaxation. It's a trust that we live in.

Now, we've got a baby to care for and look forward to. For me, this realization is another line that separates me from the child I used to be and the children with whom I used to keep company. Though we kept the secret for a while and enjoyed it between the two of us, eventually my husband and I had to make it public. With that public knowledge, I again feel shy and out of place. It as if I don't know what I am in the social circles I find myself in. At work, little has changed, and with my husband I know exactly how he regards me, but in the public eye, I am ill at ease. It's that subconscious, "Everyone is looking at me," feeling.

The physical changes in my body are no easier to share. How long does it take before people are tired of hearing me say I feel sick? How many naps are acceptable in a single day? How far can I make my wardrobe hide the gradual growth of my child?

From the time we first showed a positive test, both my husband and I have been very concerned about properly caring for this child. (Why else would I take that horrible prenatal vitamin every night). Until we had our first ultrasound at 10 weeks, it was always a question for us as to whether our child was still alive, had implanted, had developed a heartbeat, or would simply disappear in silence to our grief. When we saw our baby's heartbeat, saw him (or her) moving on the ultrasound, I couldn't help crying. I know my husband was relieved as well. We both talk to the baby, whether he can hear us yet or no, and pray for him daily.

On a spiritual level, I know that children in the womb can hear the word of God and have faith and I pray that God would grant faith to our child, and yet I will be so much more reassured when the child is baptized. Till then, I read the Bible, pray, attend church, and speculate to myself on whether the Eucharistic elements cross the placenta. (I think they do.)

This child also brings with him (or her) a new level of anxieties requiring a new level of trust in God. The baby makes me realize that with his advent I am not able to be as independent as I could be before. I need my husband more than ever, both for financial and physical support and for emotional support. If something were to happen to him, it would be difficult for me alone to raise this child in the way we plan to. I am not able anymore to control my body and it's reactions (especially to smells). I am more obviously dependent on God to make it through a work day and pray often during the shift that the nausea will not get worse or my emotions flip out in stressful patient situations. Just ignoring fatigue and finding time to eat the frequent small meals I've found helpful is a delicate balance at work.

And, as I mentioned above, I continue to be concerned about the baby's safety. I know too much, and while my womb is the safest available home for my child, it seems incredibly hostile considering everything that could go wrong. I have recurrent nightmares about miscarriage and other adverse events.

The realization that I am a mother is taking a while to really settle in, though. Apart from the ultrasound, the baby doesn't seem very real to me. I can't feel any movement yet, and my physical changes so far aren't really connected in my mind to a living human being within me. Nevertheless, I continue to hope, pray, and wait for the awkwardness of this transition to pass and for myself to find a place in the ranks of wives and mothers.

More Domesticity: Chess

2011-12-20T20:56:00.000-05:00

This is last week. I'm sitting across from my husband, both of us cross-legged on the sofa with a chess board between us. We're down to a pitifully small number of relatively impotent players. Both Queens are gone.

The hubby moans, "I want my queen back". Wife starts to chuckle as she moves her pieces in closer.

"Offer me anything I ask for." Hubby starts to chuckle too

"Anything you want."

"I want my queen back!"

Quoting Princess Bride in a chess game. Worst mockery of chess ever.

Also, we are probably close to the worst players ever.

How Camelot Should Have Ended: Little Musgrave

2011-12-20T20:40:00.000-05:00

When I first came across this ballad while listening to Planxty's album, "The Woman I Loved So Well", I was not a little taken aback. Rather say, horrified. I do not like tales of adultery, though I'm by no means unused to running across them in traditional folk music. This sin, like any other, is part of the fabric of history. Nevertheless, there were lines from the song I could not put out of my mind, specifically the footpage's declaration, "although I am m'lady's page, I am Lord Bernard's man."

I ran into the tale again while skimming my collection of Francis Child Ballads and was again intrigued. There is something different about this ballad than most folk ballads that deal with infidelity. I had a sense of what it was but could not put a finger on it.

About a month ago, my husband and I went to see a production of the musical "Camelot." I had never seen it before and was quite struck by Arthur's vacillation in the case of Guinevere and Lancelot's adultery. In the musical's portrayal, Arthur not only acknowledges his knowledge of the affair without interfering in any way, but actually wishes to warn the 'lovers' of surprise by another party. When the pair are exposed and Guinevere is condemned by the court, Arthur cannot seem to find any way of reconciling his respect for the judicial system and his love for his wife except by encouraging his rival to engage Arthur's own knights in a bloody battle to rescue her. In the end, Arthur forgives his wife, but seems to adopt almost an "you couldn't help being in love" attitude toward the pair.

I myself couldn't help feeling a little disgusted with the Arthur of Camelot. As a husband, he failed his wife. Before the affair even began, Arthur allowed his wife to flout his authority when he believed she was acting foolishly. He saw the attraction between Guinevere and Lancelot begin, but did nothing to separate them or address inappropriate behavior. If he had believed that adultery was mortal sin, surely he had a responsibility to prevent his wife and the knight he admired from imperiling their souls. Instead, he essentially sheltered them from any consequences. Then, when their affair was exposed, he again relinquished his responsibility to act. Being king, Arthur had the authority to pardon his wife or commute the sentence of death to something like enforced convent entry, since he did not have the will to see her die. But he couldn't seem to figure out how to use that authority. Rather he failed not only his wife, but his people in encouraging the attacker and failing to support his knights.

To me this whole mess seems to spring from the Camelot Arthur's skewed sense of justice and mercy. To him, the merciful and "civilized" thing to do is not to punish (separate) Guinevere and Lancelot for something they couldn't help (falling in love). To him, justice is played out when he allows the sentence of the courts to stand, but encourages a foreigner to violate his boundaries and by much slaughter prevent that sentence from occurring. Merlin's education obviously did not include a course in logic.

But back to Musgrave.

When I saw "Camelot" I realized that Lord Bernard is what Arthur should have been. The "Ballad of Little Musgrave" is how "Camelot" should have ended.

( Click on the links above to hear the song or see the Child Ballad variations)

Not a verse into the ballad,we know there's gonna be trouble when "Musgrave to the church did go to see fine ladies there." Our suspicions are confirmed when Lord Bernard's wife invites Musgrave to a special bower of her own in Bucklesfordberry, unbeknownst to Lord Bernard.

So far, these two would be lovers have all the favorable circumstances, but Lady Bernard's footpage happens to overhear. In some versions of the ballad, he is offered gold to keep the secret, in some not, but in any case, the foot page considers his allegiance to Lord Bernard primary, and spurns reward and danger to carry the news to his master.

Lord Bernard is shocked and promises the footpage great rewards (versions vary as to what the reward is) if his tale is true, but certain hanging if he has lied and maligned his wife. Lord Bernard rides for Bucklesfordberry, forbidding his men to wind horns, for fear Musgrave will take flight.

But just as the adulterous couple were betrayed by the footpage's higher (and proper) allegiance to Lord Bernard, Lord Bernard is betrayed by the friendship (and improper allegiance)] of one of his men with Little Musgrave. This man "blew his horn both loud and shrill: 'away, Musgrave, away'."

Unfortunately for the pair, Lady Bernard convinces her lover that the horn is a shepherd lad and Musgrave wakes up to find my lord at the foot of the bed.

Lord Bernard confronts Musgrave with the evidence of his current position and orders him to "rise up," dress, and fight him, offering Musgrave his best sword. Musgrave wounds Lord Bernard, but is promptly killed. Lord Bernard then confronts his lady who bitterly denies any obligation to her husband and essentially defies him. Hearing this, Lord Bernard deals death to her also.

At the heart of this ballad is the question of fidelity and of honor. In these matters, Lord Bernard is set against Lady Bernard, but so also is the little footpage set against Lord Bernard's unnamed knight. The foot page recognizes his duty to my lady, but acknowledges that first and foremost his duty is to my lord. The unnamed knight ignores his duty to Bernard for the sake of his friendship with the guilty Musgrave.

Lady Bernard cares naught for her obligations as a wife, nor for the honor of her husband, nor for the honor of her lover. She makes this very clear. Lord Bernard is conscious of his responsibility to his wife, and of his responsibility as the local justice. He threatens to punish the page severely if he has falsely accused Lady Bernard, thereby indicating that her honor is dear to him. When he finds Lady Bernard's adultery, he gives her a chance at repentance. When she shows no remorse, he deals the judgment he is authorized to give. Even in her death he acknowledges her station by having her placed uppermost in the grave and mourning her death. He does similarly with Little Musgrave, refraining from striking him down where he lay, bidding him to dress and determine the matter with a sword.

Lord Bernard has a few things to teach King Arthur about duty and fidelity. He knows that the honor of a knight is tied up in carrying justice forward, and not in allowing unfaithfulness to run unchecked. He does this in such a way as allows the lovers each a chance in turn. Unlike Arthur, Bernard does not sacrifice the difficult course of action for the sake of love of his lady and finest knight. In the end, Lord Bernard acknowledges the lovers as the best night and fairest lady in the realm, but that does not stop him from dealing justice.

The Water is Wide

2011-10-30T00:35:00.002-04:00

I'll start out satisfying my recent blogging impulse with a brief post about the song my husband and I used as a sort of theme for the secular part of our wedding. "The Water is Wide" is derivative of an old, old song, the original of which itself has been lost. In the Child Ballads there are several related but dissimilar songs. "The Water is Wide" is also related to "Oh Waly, Waly."

The modern version I've chosen to learn is as follows:

1. The water is deep, I can't swim o'er,
And neither have I wings to fly.
Build me a boat that will carry two,
And both shall row, my love and I.

2. There is a ship, and she sails the sea.
The sea's sae deep—as deep can be—
But not so deep as the love I'm in...
And I know not how I'll sink or swim.

3. I leaned my back against an oak,
Thinking it was the strongest tree,
But first it bended and then it broke,
And that's the way love treated me.

4. I reached my hand into the thorn,
Thinking the fairest flow'r to find.
I pricked my finger to the bone
And left the fairest flow'r behind.

5. Oh love is handsome and love is kind,
Gay as a jewel when first it's new.
But love grows old and waxes cold
And fades away like the morning dew.

(Sometimes, two additional verses are included, as follows. These I often omit, as we did at our wedding.)

6. Must I go bound while you go free?
Must I love a man who doesn't love me?
Must I be born with so little art
As to love a man who'll break my heart?

7. When cockle shells turn silver bells,
Then will my love come back to me.
When roses bloom in winter's gloom
Then will my love return to me.)

The best commentary I have on this song is found in what I wrote to my husband when we were choosing songs for our wedding reception:

Here's what I've been writing to help me think about this song, as I would like to give some sort of verbal and/or written explanation:

The Water is Wide
At first glance, this song may not impress the listener as being particularly happy or relevant to a wedding. It has a mournful, sober approach. But on deeper inspection, these lyrics deal quite realistically with the reality of marriage and speak to our hopes for our married life.

The Water is Wide relates two principles – the insufficiency and transience of the passion of love and the necessity of the boat which will carry the couple as they labor together.

Love alone is a poor support for us. Like the oak, which the singer thought “was the strongest tree,” it bends and breaks when one relies on it and like the rose for all its beauty, it pricks one’s finger when one grasps for it.

The feelings of love we have for each other are both overwhelmingly deep, but also shallow and transient against the test of time and hardship. Sentiments and passions are “gay as a jewel, when first it’s new.” But unguarded and unnourished “love grows auld and waxes cold and fades away like morning dew.”

Against all the perils of love and cynical disappointment in marriage is set the boat. Whether or not the early development of the song intended the metaphor, a boat has historically been viewed as a metaphor of the Church. Though the waters of love or hardship be wide or deep and despite our lack of swimming skills or wings to pass over or through the ship of Christ’s Church, in which we receive forgiveness of sins, life, and peace, in Jesus’ Name, will carry us over, even in the times when we “know not if [we] will sink or swim.”

I'm Gonna Start Blogging Again!

2011-10-30T00:30:00.002-04:00

Hey Guys,

It's been awhile. But now that I'm married, not in school, and "settled down" (irony) I think I'll start blogging again. Particularly, I'd like to take a closer look at folk songs and tales here on the blog. My goal is to write a short commentary/analysis here once every week or two. Hopefully, this endeavor will assist me in my bardic aspirations. I'd also like to update the "Bedside Manners" every week or so with something new I'm learning. I'm well aware that I do not have time to write long, well-revised posts, so I'm going to have to accept less polished writing from myself. That said, here we go! :D

Shared Associations -- An Example from Married Life.

2011-08-12T23:14:00.002-04:00

Friday, about 2:30pm. Hubby,in bed, still sleeping off the night shift. Wife,wanting to be close but not wake the hubby, enters with book and stretches out on the other side of the bed. Begins to read. Grows more and more amused. Chuckles sporadically.

Husband begins to stir. Wife chuckles again. Husband rolls over.
"What are you laughing at, Wife?"
"This book."
"What book is that?"
"'The Three Musketeers'"
"Who is that by?"
"Alexandre Dumas. It's full of, um, lots of sword-fighting and killing. I'm only into, like, the third chapter and I think five people have died already."
"Ohhhh." Husband chuckles and begins to sing. "'The first one he came to, he ran him through amain. And the second one he came to, he served him just the same...'"
Wife chuckles. "Exactly like that, though the others don't flee."

Thus the association is fast made between "The Three Musketeers" and the "Jolly Soldier".

A Post, Finally

2011-02-21T22:02:00.005-05:00

So what it's ten pm on the night before clinical? I'm gonna write a blog post, since I haven't done that in like a bizillion years.

I actually made a New Year's Resolution this year; after my usual fashion of waiting until two weeks post-New Year's. I thought I'd blogged it, but apparently not.

This year I resolve to learn assertiveness. I've spent too long being passive or passive aggressive and bottling everything all up until I burst out in anger or absorb a bunch of disappointment and hurt over things that I never told anyone I wanted for fear of rejection in the first place. My depressed thoughts have got DYSFUNCTIONAL and MALADAPTIVE written all over them.

I plan to learn to say, "No," when I can't do something, instead of sort of mumbling about it and ending up over-committed.

I plan to learn to tell my loved ones when I would like them to do something, instead of hinting, vaguely hoping that they'll notice, and feeling disappointed and guilty when they don't.

I plan to learn to take responsibility for my own actions, behavior, and feelings, without taking responsibility for others' actions, behavior, and feelings which are beyond my vocation or control.

I plan to learn to appropriately confront people with whom I have a conflict instead of talking about the conflict with everyone but them.

I plan to learn to address problems to the appropriate authority, with proposed solutions, instead of bemoaning the problem, my helplessness and frustration.

I plan to learn to eliminate false, self-injuring, 'automatic thoughts' which tear down my self-image and destroy the joy God has given me in who He has made me to be. I additionally plan to learn to put the best construction on the words and actions of my family, friends, colleagues and supervisors at work and school, rather than allowing myself to become more and more insecure by assuming negative connotations.

I plan to learn to stop making self-deprecation my automatic fall-back when others give me attention, reduce discomfort by other methods, and learn to appropriately respond to compliments.

I plan to learn to prevent myself from becoming tense and anxious whenever I anticipate my parents, teachers, and other authorities observing and evaluating behavior on my part that they have not specifically sanctioned. (E.g. There's no reason I should get a pounding headache, almost burst into tears, and feel extremely guilty and trapped when an authority says they wish to talk to me about something, when a parent hears me singing a new folk song, or a fellow student corrects a minor mistake in a clinical technique.)

And so the list goes on. Some of these non-assertive, pathological thoughts and behaviors have grown with me since childhood. Some have emerged insidiously since the onset of adolescence or the beginning of nursing school. I do not want these dysfunctional processes to control or define me.

I want to be a self-disciplined, self-controlled, self-aware Christian woman who can use her body, mind, and behavior consciously and deliberately in service to her neighbor within her vocation. To this end I make my resolution, petitioning the aide of Almighty God, who does not abandon me even when I feel irrationally alone and excessively guilty, but who strengthens and upholds me and will preserve even my fragile mind to life everlasting, along with my body and soul.

Of "The Man Who Was Thursday"

2010-11-27T21:02:00.003-05:00

"I am the Sabbath," said the other without moving. "I am the peace of God."

The Secretary started up, and stood crushing his costly robe in his hand.
"I know what you mean," he cried, "and it is exactly that that I cannot forgive you. I know you are contentment, optimism, what do they call the thing, an ultimate reconciliation. Well, I am not reconciled. If you were the man in the dark room, why were you also Sunday, an offence to the sunlight? If you were from the first our father and our friend, why were you also our greatest enemy? We wept, we fled in terror; the iron entered into our souls -- and you are the peace of God! Oh, I can forgive God His anger, though it destroyed nations; but I cannot forgive Him His peace."
Sunday answered not a word, but very slowly he turned his face of stone upon Syme as if asking a question.
"No, said Syme, "I do not feel fierce like that. I am grateful to you, not only for wine and hospitality here, but for many a fine scamper and free fight. But I should like to know. My soul and heart are as happy and quiet here as this old garden, but my reason is still crying out. I should like to know."
Sunday looked at Ratcliffe, whose clear voice said --
"It seems so silly that you should have been on both sides and fought yourself."
Bull said -- I understand nothing, but am happy. In fact, I am going to sleep."
"I am not happy," said the Professor with his head in his hands, "because I do not understand. You let me stray a little too near to hell."
And then Gogol said, with the absolute simplicity of a child --
"I wish I knew why I was hurt so much."

Thanksgiving at Work!

2010-11-26T11:59:00.002-05:00

It has been a very pleasant Thanksgiving Day, though I spent it at work. It was one of the best work days I've had.

To my delight, we had two nurse aides working. I'm not a slacker, but I distinctly feel that 13 patients (the most I've had alone) is too many for one aide to care for well. I am dissatisfied when I am unable (at a minimum) to thoroughly wash all of my patients and fulfill their requests. In 12 hours, one cannot thoroughly bathe 13 total care patients, pass trays, take vital signs and weights, and all the other various duties of the aide position. Personally, I think 6-7 patients per aide to be the ideal ratio for providing effective and efficient care. Hence my delight in having two aides yesterday.

In addition to the fact that I was caring for a number of patients within my ideal range, the nurses I was working with were some of my favorite nurses - nurses who are compassionate, industrious, and willing to help in whatever way necessary. My fellow aide was also of this type. I knew it would be a good day.

As if that weren't enough, there was food. Oh, yes. My co-workers had planned for a brunch and lots of pot-lucky food. So I broke my personal code and had a piece of chocolate at 8 am, only one hour into the day. The cafeteria provided a Thanksgiving brunch for workers, but I barely touched what they gave. We had better on the unit. While I covered the floor, my fellow aide cooked up blueberry pancakes, bacon, sausage, hash browns, and omelet. Some of the other nurses provided fruit trays and dip, caramel corn, fruit breads, danish, and so much more. It was almost too good to eat.

And as if that weren't enough, more than half of my patients were unusually pleasant people. I'm pretty used to the thanklessness of the job. I mean, when you're in pain and people are poking you and prodding you all over, and you can't do anything for yourself, it's understandable for you not to really be very polite or express any gratefulness to the pokers and prodders. But more than half of these patients said thank you, spoke pleasantly, and worked with me. It was so very nice! On days like these, I feel like I'm going to see a new friend every time I enter a patient's room.

When it came to baths, one of my patients was independent care, so after changing her bed, I had only to leave her with towels, washcloths, and soap. The others, were total care (except one who was partial care), but were so extremely obliging that bathing was cooperative task and not a battle. I was done with morning bathing before twelve o' clock trays and my two afternoon baths left me with plenty of time for lunch and various tasks. Vital signs and weights were finished an hour before I usually finish them giving me an opportunity to put in a Foley (urinary) catheter (I'm always ready to jump at a chance to perform sterile procedures) under the supervision of a nurse. To my relief, the task was easier than it often is and the patient tolerated it well. My duties were completed before the new shift came on, and I was able to leave just as the clock struck 7:20pm.

When I arrived home (only slightly hungry) leftovers were waiting for me and better than that, David and Karen were there playing cards. We played Rummy for a bit, then went to the barn to watch "Faith Like Potatoes". David and I were both exhausted by the time devotions were finished but then we got talking and before we knew it, 12:00 had rolled around.

Thus ended a wonderful Thanksgiving. I'll thank God for many more like it.

Picture Panel Explained

2010-10-02T21:03:00.002-04:00

For a while I've wanted to comment briefly on the panel I've placed at the top of my blog. Like many other things, that's been pushed to the very back burner while I'm pursuing education and whatnot. Tonight, I find an opportunity. Perhaps I could make better use of my time working on a research paper, but I'll lay that scruple aside for now and let myself enjoy writing for pleasure once again.

When I first made my blog, I wanted the title and description to say something about me and my intent for this blog. I wanted the title to reflect that the thoughts I here write, while often important to me, are not a matter of dogma nor would I refuse to be pursuaded contrary to them. Some posts are for fun and are therefore useful but not essential. Some posts are principles, observations, ruminations, and ramblings - non of these would I hold to adamantly. My writing is part of my thought, but not my essential identity. Hence I deemed it fit to title the blog, "The Adiaphoron".

When I began my blog, I did so in hopes that by writing for fun and by writing things I could not immediately express in conversation, I might be able to get to know myself better. I might be able to read back and get an idea of what I, the inward person looked like when turned inside out. Writing has always helped me get a handle on myself, and for a year or so The Adiaphoron served that purpose very nicely. Now things are altered - but that's another post. All this is to say that the quote from "The Scarlet Pimpernel" simply signifies that I sought to peep closer at that complex problem which is my own female heart through my writing.

Now for the panel. I included pictures because of what they symbolized to me. The first painting on the right,"On a Sailboat", was painted by Caspar David Friedrich, one of my favorite Romantic painters. We talked at length about this piece during one of our art lectures at Augustine. Dr. Tingley pointed out that the couple is sitting on a boat together. They are not sailing the boat per se, but the boat is carrying them. Unlike so many depictions of lovers, these two are not looking at one another, but at a point in the distance toward which they travel, toward which the boat is carrying them. It is a city. A golden city. In a larger picture, one can see that the city is lit up as if either glowing from within or as if the sun is setting behind it. Whether the artist intended it or not, to me (as to Dr. Tingley) this painting is an allegory of the kind of marriage I want to have. A union where both spouses are joined by a common journey to a common eternal destination, carried by the single boat of the holy church.

The next image is Luther's Seal. You friends of mine know that my confession is that of the Holy Scriptures and the Lutheran Confessions. It was through my Lutheran fathers that the weight of the Gospel of forgiveness and peace first impacted my soul and pierced it through, bringing joy and comfort. Christ is foremost and a faithful confession of Him paramount to my life and practice, though I fall short in action. This picture symbolizes my confession of Christ crucified for my sins and free forgiveness by His resurrection. It reminds me that I have sworn to retain this confession unto death.

The next photo is of a group of my baby goats from several years ago. It's hard to explain to people who have only known me for the past few years, but my herd was a lynch-pin of my life for over a decade of my life. I grew it from one goat to twenty or more at one time, managed them in health, cared for them in sickness, grieved them in death, and competed with them in many shows. When one feeds an animal twice daily, milks it as often, and grows up with it, one loves it with a bond seldom formed between creatures. My goats were my children, my "bitties". Though I've not really consistently been a goat-herdess for two and a half years now, my herd was foundational to who I am now, my experience, and my character.

The picture of the the parchment with the heart and cross drawn upon it and the words, "Dieu Le Roi" I chose for somewhat obscure reasons. I found this image on a Wikipedia page treating the La Vendee resistance and massacres (as I have written elsewhere on this blog). La Vendee is the French province that refused to surrender their priests or provide soldiers to the Parisian Committee of Public Safety during the French Revolution. They clung to their nobility as well. When they resisted the Revolutionary Government, the entire population was brutally murdered. The fragment in the picture above states, "God is King" - a dangerously politically incorrect statement for the time and place. I first heard of La Vendee while reading G.A. Henty's boy's series. (Excellent works for the most part; I hope to write on them at some point.) G.A. Henty greatly influenced both my understanding of history and my moral development. (I've several shelves worth of his books and read them all; some twice or more.) It is as much because of his influence as because of my admiration for the Vendeans' piety and courage that I place this picture on my blog.

The next image is one I found when looking for artistic (not movie) depictions of Eowyn (LOTR). As many of you know, I used to (and still do to a lesser extent) strongly identify with Tolkien's character of Theoden's "sister-daughter". From the beginning of my fascination with Tolkien's works, I was awed by the insight with which Tolkien crafted Eowyn. I felt as if at last at I had found a male author who understood the female psyche. But that aside, the picture above depicts Gandalf, Aragorn, and Eomer around Eowyn's bed. Aragorn, in his office as the king-who-heals has literally brought Eowyn back from the dead with the "common" herb athelas which those esteemed wise treated as of little worth. Those who have only seen the movie completely miss the dialogue of Aragorn, Eomer, and Gandalf about Eowyn and the pathology of her condition. Read the book. It's beautiful. Eowyn has raised her eyes and set her heart on being what she is not, in a place not meant for her. She is restless with what she sees as her helpless femininity entrapping, caging her capabilities and spirit. When she finds and finally understands love, she is at rest. No more must she be a shield maiden and long to fight and kill and die, but she will "be a healer and love all things that grow and are not barren."

The next image - I'm sure there's a name for it, but I don't remember. But obviously, it shows Christ holding out His Body and Blood "for us Christians to eat and to drink". These are my life and salvation, my consummation yet here on earth. My life, the culmination of a week of prayer, and guilt, and the shame that threatens my sense of identity and worth. Before this Presence my fear would hang my head and plead for mercy, but Christ gives His gifts for peace and not fear. He has absolved me already, though my heart forgets or does not grasp it. Here, no matter what my fear or confidence, He loves me with a love that overwhelms any doubt and fear. "Here. I give my body to you." No mention of my sin or failures or my half-hearted devotion. The God of the Universe encounters me and instead of condemning He embraces me. "What sin do you have? My blood is for the forgiveness of your sin."

The last painting is also one that I encountered in my Augustine "Art in Western Culture" course, though I don't remember actually talking about it at the time. I think I looked it up later. It's called "Domine Quo Vadis", Latin for "Lord, where are you going?" Tradition has it (according to Wikipedia) that Peter fleeing from probable crucifixion in Rome met Jesus and put Him this question. "I'm going to Rome to be crucified again" came the response which turned Peter around in his tracks and sent him back to martyrdom. Sometimes "Domine, quo vadis" is the cry of my heart as well, "Lord, I don't understand. This isn't the way to do things. This doesn't make any sense. Where are you going?" My Lord didn't say that following Him would make sense or wouldn't hurt. But He goes before me. He's done it all before and I can trust Him, even when it looks to me like I'm only trudging along the procession of the condemned to crucifixion.

Anyway, that's the panel. Oh! I suppose I could mention Joan of Arc on the sidelines down there. She doesn't make it into the panel because I'm not really sure about her. (Material for another blog post someday.) She was one of my childhood heroes and I'm 99% positive that she was a faithful Christian. (She makes a good confession anyway.) What exactly she heard speaking to her, I'm not sure of. (Like I said, more later, hopefully.) But the lass had spunk, and religiously driven spunk too. She did hard things, changed people's lives, and changed the course of history without political background or aspirations. There's something that attracts me about courageous women who are not afraid to do what needs to be done. That's why she's on my blog. More of a symbol of female bravery for me than of the historical Joan.

I'm up too late again. Why do I do this on nights before church? Late or not, it's nice to write again. Maybe God will grant me time to do more blogging in the future. For now, so long, dear reader.

Mental Nausea

2010-09-22T14:41:00.002-04:00

We've all been nauseated before. It usually happens when one's about 9 years old and has just eaten Thanksgiving. You eat turkey like a pig, and then try to fit in apple pie on top of three piece of pumpkin and whipped cream. Finally, you look at the fruited pastry in you spoon and feel repulsion and a little bit of remorse. You think to yourself, "Why?" You realize that consuming half the turkey and one piece of pie would have given you greater pleasure. Now all that food is in your belly and you've got to let it sit there. After a couple hours you'll be able to sit up, run around, sing, and laugh again. But for now, all you feel is overload.

I've got the brain nausea. My head feels like vomiting, but it can't. There's too much going into it. "Don't cram," they tell me, "don't cram." But what else can one do when one has 15 chapters of reading and two papers due a week on average and must progress in group projects, independent clinical assessment study, and group research papers too? So I sit down with my text book and read for hours till the page swims. Then I go "work out" or hike while listening to my prof's lectures I've recorded.

It'll get better. Eventually, I'll digest and the pressure will diminish. But meanwhile when I say stupid things, or look at you blankly, or lash out senselessly, or burst into tears unreasonably, hold me accountable but forgive me. I am cognizant that I've a pretty easy life: I've parents who love me and each other, a home with electricity and running water, a church with pastors of high theological and liturgical caliber, food on the table, opportunity for education, a healthy body, employment, love. But I am weak and in my weakness, I am ashamed of my weakness. I am ashamed that you should see me in the nausea of my mind. When my wits return I wish that I could take back whatever I've said or done in the pitching and tossing of thought and word and deed.

It would be nice to be normal for a change, but it would be even nice to feel normal. I don't know that I remember in what "normal" consists.

School. First Day Back

2010-09-07T17:42:00.003-04:00

I think this semester will be good. I like my prof. I can see that sometimes she'll be intimidating, but she's good. Her lecture style is amazingly clear and easy to take notes with. I recorded one hour of lecture (after we used the first hour for syllabus notes) and played it back while working out. It was still enjoyable and easy to follow even on second listen.

I'll be spending a significant amount of time at the college this semester. I intend to stay at the school long enough to work out and get as much studying done as possible. Also, check email. Recreational internet has been (or is soon to be) banned at home.

I'm also trying to complete my online learning modules and tests for my work. Haha! Education they never told you you'd have to take.

Homeward bound, now.

That "I'm gonna DIE" feeling...

2010-09-05T17:47:00.003-04:00

I just printed off my syllabi and took a look at what I have to read for the first classes.

I was struck by a distinct sinking sensation akin the words, "I'm gonna DIE..."

All my classes are taught by the same professor. This could be really good or really, really bad.

Anyhoo, just sharing the gladness.

Another New Blog

2010-08-25T22:10:00.002-04:00

"Bedside Manners" is rudimentarily up and running. What on earth do I need another blog for? (After all, I only have 3 plus facebook already. :P ) Well, go look and see...
http://mannersforcare.blogspot.com/

If you leave me to myself...

2010-08-17T22:41:00.004-04:00

'Nother Michael Card song. From his album, "The Early Works": this album has some of my favorites as well as least liked Michael Card songs, but oh, well. Here's one that often comes to mind when I'm feeling empty and futile.

Failed again to make the mark,
lost my way once more.
Tried to do it by myself
like so many times before.
Once again I turn to you,
I'm hungry and confused.
Now all my strength's dissolved away,
and I feel like I've been used.

If you leave me to myself, O Lord,
it will always be the same.
It's you who'll have to hold my hand,
and protect me by your name.

I turn and find you there for me,
You've been waiting all along.
In your arms the sweet relief,
and you whisper me a song.
At times like these I ask myself,
"How could I have ever strayed,
and forgotten all you've given me,
and lost sight of what you paid?"

If you leave me to myself, O Lord,
it will always be the same.
It's you who'll have to hold my hand,
and protect me by your name.

Hmm. Songs from "The Early Works" that I really like:

Love Crucified Arose
This Must Be The Lamb
Hound of Heaven
Dragonslayer
By Your Name

Songs from "The Early Works" that I like but have theologically questionable lines:

The Voice of the Child
Light of the World
Stranger on the Shore
No Rusty Swords
Don't You Know
Now That I've Held Him in My Arms

Songs from the "The Early Works" that make me cringe or squirm decidedly:
I Have Decided
Tell the World that Jesus Loves You
Jesus Loves Me

Phone Calls and Such

2010-08-10T21:45:00.002-04:00

Has anyone seen Veith's post on phone conversations? Thought provoking.

I admit to feeling embarrassed calling specific people. Most of the embarrassment, though, seems to stem from a fear of being annoying or unwanted. I am alright with business calls, for the most part. One is expected to call about business, to straighten out one's affairs, and then to hang up. It's straightforward and no one objects. I enjoy getting personal calls, even though I'm often stilted, stammering and awkward on the phone. Personal-social calls tell me that the caller cares a lot. I mean, a TON. (It takes effort to carve out time for a call, and effort to maintain a conversation. It takes courage to reach out across the invisible miles to the unseen other and poke him/her in the shoulder. "Hey! Talk to me a bit. Please.")

Don't get me wrong. I like email. I appreciate email for the very reasons that at times I prefer phone conversations to email. With email one can precisely formulate one's words with deliberation, while phone conversations necessarily disallow deliberation. With email, one has a copy of what was said and can review the message at will to reassure one's self of the content and sender's meaning. With verbal messages, the words are distorted through memory. With email one has the opportunity to say much without interruption - to paint a landscape that takes concentration. A conversation necessarily involves a back and forth, a give and take. With email I personally am less inclined to hold back what I wish to talk about for fear that the other doesn't want to hear it. In a phone conversation or face to face conversation, I feel rude if I talk of myself uninvited, or talk long. The insidious little voice in my ear whispers that it doesn't really matter to anyone but me anyway - the listener is probably smiling and nodding politely with closed ear and thoughts afar. I could babble as well as any, but when I do, it leaves me feeling the emptier and more foolish because there is seldom a response that indicates anything other than the polite listener. Those who ask more, who draw me out, who respond genuinely, give me the best gift any humans have and I love them with a sinner's love (Even the pagans love those who love them). Among these are my father.

To sum up, I like phone calls because they are risky, unchoreographed, and pure grace. One must remember them in faith. I like email because I can control it, prepare it, return to it for (relative) certainty, and participate with low risk of rejection. Phone calls are dangerous because they put you in direct contact with another human being, their ambitions, aspirations, vocations, loves, hates, moods, babbling. Emails buffer you from all these things and put you in contact only with a mind - an almost disembodied mind - that can deal with you coolly as and when it will in a disembodied and removed manner.

As in the days of my infancy, blood and gore are more beautiful than unruffled clothes. The rag doll is more exciting than the stiff china maid. The fragile china makes one tingle with delight, while the disposable paper plate does not.

Oh, my little blog.

2010-08-02T09:16:00.004-04:00

I've dreadfully neglected my little Adiaphoron this past year, both from busyness and from a lack of time for thought. I've felt as though I haven't anything significant to say that touches not on either the highly personal or confidential. My confidence in my own knowledge and mind are declining. (At least, on most days. There's always the occasional spurt of confidence with which I do something idiotic to rue later.) I'm learning to shrug off my social accidents and awkwardness; it's not like I can do anything about spilling the drink down my dress after the fact. Sure, I can be more careful: if anything, I'm learning to be more deliberate about social moves. If I must be conspicuous, I try to choreograph the period of visibility ahead of time. At the same time, I'm tired of trying to be someone. Even trying to be who I am is challenging. (You'd think it a simple thing to be yourself, but, actually, if it is important to you to be consistent and you are a woman, being a consistent self is a constant struggle.)

I've always kept myself soothed and calmed by singing to myself. It's not a lullaby - it's a "workaby". If the song is running on, I can continue to move forward. When it stops, my wheels slow and grind to a halt. At work, I sing my day through, one song-story after another, out loud in the hall, inwardly as I bathe patients and clean up messes. When I stop singing, I'm in trouble. Truly.

When I was very, very small, it was Wee Sing Bible Songs. In early elementary, I sang patriotic songs, old Methodist hymns, kids' Bible songs, and songs from church. Middle school and highschool floated through on tunes of Michael Card and LW hymnody. My first year of college, I got to know LSB and historic Lutheran and Christian songs amid a surging tide of Hope College postmodernity and Augustine College classic Christianity. This past year, I've hit a new lode as I've nosed down the shaft of folk through a tunnel of celtic gems. There's more sadness here, to be certain, and a few wells to avoid falling into.

Speaking of work, that's a pretty new part of my life (though it seems routine to me now) that hasn't gotten much coverage on this blog. Confidentiality is partly to blame. I do like my work. If I weren't serving people whose needs (physical, emotional, and psychological) didn't demand immediate and careful attention, I'd be bored with working. But people can't sit on the shelf like paperwork, nor can one ignore them like dirty dishes. They literally scream at you.

12 hours is a long time. When I walk into the unit, I leave the rest of my life behind. It's just my patients, the nurses, therapists,aides, and doctors and me dealing with the same problems from different perspectives. I'm a valued part of the team as are all of the other members. If one of us left, the whole system of work would go up in smoke. Even though I'm relatively new, I feel like I belong and am useful - and that is nice. It's fulfilling to be needed (if only to empty a bedpan) and comforting to share something (if that something is but the challenge of getting a confused patient to eat supper).

Somedays, I feel as if I'm in a madhouse. Disoriented and demented patients are calling out without surcease and other competent patients hit the call button before you have even walked 5 steps from their door to have you rearrange the pillows yet again. On these days I constantly sing myself calm and constantly plan the next steps I must perform. When I leave, it is as if I have lost part of my life. Whatever happened that day has to stay at the hospital until I come back to it. My family and friends are totally excluded from it. And yet, my work is the most interesting and challenging (physically, psychologically, morally) part of what I do now.

I've taken back over management of the goat herd. We're selling out all but six does and the buck. I'm keeping them dry until school gets out next year, so hopefully I can get by with only daily chores. It's been hard letting some of the girls go. I've shed tears.

There's more I would say, but I cannot and if I could, time would not permit now. Dear reader, farewell and Godspeed where'er ye be.

No Girl Left Behind: some initial thoughts

2010-07-06T22:18:00.003-04:00

Ok guys, so I'm gullible. It's one of my lesser, but more dangerous delinquencies. Earlier today, I was directed to this website and being the aforementioned gullible person, took it mostly seriously, and seriously engaged it in a blogwritten argument. About 10 minutes from completion of this 2 hour blogpost, I found I was sticking pins in a chimera: it melted, leaving a pile of pins. Having spent two hours on it, I figured I'd let you see the pins, before I sweep them up.

I'll admit, when I first read it, it struck me as a tad incredible, but I believe in taking people seriously, when they appear serious. If they turn out to be joking, I've only enlarged the joke. Hence what follows.

What I write here is preliminary: some quick reactionary thoughts after skimming this website. But I think there is more in this topic worth discussing.

Will the reader be pleased to peruse the writing upon this site as the discussion below doth pertain thereto: http://nogirlleftbehind.99k.org/

Many of the statements and lines of reasoning followed on this site make me nod and say, "I know exactly what you are talking about. I can see it. I watch it regularly in friends I love."

More than half of my close personal friends who are greater than 5 years my senior are unmarried - none of them from choice. Male and female. I know the females more intimately and have heard their longing for love, for a family, for children. (Almost every girl experiences these feelings for some period, age aside. I am no stranger to these.) Some of us have talked at length about how this comes about - that a number of Christian women are waiting for husbands who never come, while a number of young Christian men fool about or wait for the "perfect woman" who doesn't exist.

I've wondered to myself - what is the answer? Is there one in this earth? Shall we "leave the matter" to the hands of God? But are not His hands on earth, human hands? The hands of fathers, pastors, family, friends?

So, I am sympathetic, yea, even tentatively in favor of proposed arrangements as I read down the list of "Things You Can Do". But a few notes of the site strike a discord in my soul and unease in my mind.

1st. The treating of marriage as a "right".

No one has a "right" to marriage. If there is any such thing as a "right" (I admit to conflicting thoughts about "rights", not to be discussed here), then surely it is something that is universal to all in a set (eg, a human right is universal to the set of all humans)and the absence of it (the right) is an evil which denies the member of the set a part of her nature. To say that all humans ought to be free from ownership by another human is one thing: to say that all women ought to be married is another. God gives some to be eunuchs for the kingdom of God. (Matthew 19:12) The one who can accept marriage, should, Christ says; yet Paul apparently did not marry and speaks to the Corinthians of the ways in which the celibate may serve the church even more vigorously. To say that all women have a right to marriage is to say that to live singly as a women is to be less of a woman, to which all Christians must cry, "error".

Further, marriage is a gift, not a right. Yes, first it is a gift of God. But it is also a mutual gift between husband and wife. It is beautiful because it is grace, undeserved love, promise. Now, if it is by right (or merit) it is no longer by promise (or grace). Where would the tenderness be if a woman could say to a man, "It is my right that you love me. By right, I require you to die for me everyday in everyway." It is absurd, but when one says, "all young women are naturally entitled to marriage" (I quote from the site linked above) that is what they are saying. It could as well be rendered, "all young women are naturally entitled to have a fellow human being lay down his life for them". But the reality is more like the reverse: It is the precious responsibility of every young man to lay down his life for the neighbor Christ gives him, and the closest neighbor is his wife, whom God gives him because it is not good for him to be alone. No human deserves love of himself or herself, but is made lovable and loved by God as a gift; loved through humans and by humans as a precious gift of God and man. God grants us to be like himself in the giving of this love. To treat marriage as a "right" of a young woman robs the young woman of the astounding joy of unmerited love. And it robs young men of the only truly God-like gift they can give their wife (other than forgiveness).

2. Where did the chain of command fly off to? Hello! When it comes to "what you can do" to help solve the problem of unwedded matrimonially aspiring maids, we see an array of advice bewilderingly out of keeping with biblical precedent. Sure, talk to your friends if you want. Blog if you want. Raise awareness if you have time, energy, and an iron to burn. But please, please, don't get the government involved. The bill mentioned just about makes me ill. Why are we going to the Gentile courts? Have we not competency to judge these matters in the church of God? The only truly sensible piece of advice on this 'action' page is communication with your pastor - but in the misguided form of "harangue".

If anyone should be consulted, any external body employed in correcting a problem of unweddedness, it should be parents and the church. Parents are given the governance of their children till they reach adulthood. Even after majority, a father who carries out his vocation will remain a protecting, guiding head for his unmarried daughter. This includes helping her to find a spouse if marriage is what daughter and father discern is her vocation. If a girl's father has died, a mother or brother may well facilitate this process. Failing this, or if family is uninvolved, or in addition to family, a girl should have recourse to her church in matters of marriage. In a more hierarchical church structure (by which I intend the type of liturgical/sacramental church in which a girl's clergy is [or should be] a close spiritual father to her, this can be a matter of personal guidance, advice, and activism by that father. In a less hierarchical setting (for example, numerous nondenominational churches)there are plenty of mature Christian couples who could take a girl under their wing and seek a husband for her if necessary. Mayhap church leadership would need to assign a fostering parent set to a girl, but there are ways these things could be arranged within any church.

3. Rights become Force.

But the idea of "external pressure" (I quote) to "force marriages" (I quote again) is a more grievous violation of human rights than any so-called "right to marriage". These phrases show clearly how warped the American idea of "rights" has become: If you have a right, we will force you to claim it. You must be married, whether you like it or not. It is like as to saying, "You have a right to freedom of speech. Therefore, if you will not express your political opinions, we will put you in jail."

4. The Government as Enforcer

To place the enforcement of rules coercing matrimony in the hands of the state is a recipe for disaster as well as a travesty. I'm sorry, the Bill is stupid from start to finish. Those of you who know me know that I never use the word "stupid", because it indicates a sort of brainlessness. But I do believe this whole thing demonstrates a remarkable failure of the speculative intellect. I sense that a point by point rebuttal would be a slap in the face to my readers' intelligences.

Indeed, it is at this point that I felt a bit mocked myself, just reading the piece.

************************************************************************

I realize that this website may be satirical, a farce, or a joke. Nevertheless, the satire is so perfect and comical because the topic is serious. So, I don't consider the exercise of writing this post wasted, though I critique a paper man. The paper man is a caricature of a real one, and like all caricatures, the features are exaggerated, but not fabricated. Thus, there are real concerns which I could only think about clearly by meeting their ultimate hyperbolic incarnations. But my reasoning is the better for encountering them, fencing with them, and being humiliated by their vaporization.

Be gentle: I'm gullible.

Selling Goats.

2010-06-22T15:01:00.003-04:00

This is not really relevant to this blog, but if you are interested in purchasing goats (not that any of my blog readers would be), please visit goats-for-sale.blogspot.com

Thanks, people. Hope to have something of substance soon.

Sizzling Summer...Stuff.

2010-05-06T12:21:00.003-04:00

So, after a week of sleeping in till 8am EVERY SINGLE GORGEOUS MORNING and wrapping up my affairs from the past year (money = ouch), I’m preparing to launch a new summer routine next week. This summer will be unlike any summer I’ve had yet. I suppose one could say that about every summer, but some summers are more alike than others. What’s new about this summer? I’m going to be taking classes and working a real honest-to-goodness job for real pay. Both are bran-new experiences for me.

I’m also trying to establish a routine for myself. I’ve found I need structure (this is why I pay people to teach me things that are written in books and keep me accountable in learning material). It’ll be a sort of “Liturgy of Life”, if you will, in which I order my days to include regular prayer and Scripture, exercise, sleep, study, reading, and song. Until now I’ve had only spasms of structure in my routine of trying to hap-hazardly crunch everything I need to do into my days and finding at the end of the day that exhaustion extinguishes other interests.

So, here are some goals for the summer.

Daily Readings every day. Compline every night.
Success in Microbiology. (my scale and grade scale)
Work as much as possible (goal of a minimum of 3 days a week).
Learn one new folk song every week. A cappella. Lyrics and melody memorized.
Workout MTW 1 hour &30 minutes minimum. Walk/Bicycle 30 minutes -1 hour per day HFSS.
Read good books and write papers and blog posts for pleasure. (Vague, I know.)

About my job:
I’m a nurse technician. Basically, that means I’m a nurse assistant with a few more skills and responsibilities. I can bathe patients, change their linens, feed them meals, take vital signs, help them walk, help them toilet, bring them things, turn them, check I.V. lines, empty catheters and drains, do basic assessments. I’m hoping to be able to give tube feedings, change dressings, put in catheters, take out I.V. s, do naso/oral-pharangeal suction, etc as well. I don’t know yet how much of these nursing type responsibilities I’ll have. My hours are “Relief” type. I’m told that that means I can work as much as I want whenever they need me. The shifts are 12 hours long. From 7am to 7pm and vice versa. The facility is a Long Term Acute Care Hospital: patients come here when they’ve outstayed their time in the hospital, but the nursing home isn’t the right place for them either. There’s a big focus on rehabilitation, at least from what I saw when I did my geriatrics rotation there. We want to get the patients to the point where they can go home. It’ll be great.

About my summer schooling:
I’m taking a Microbiology course three days a week and Voice lessons for an hour a week. It’s 6 credits in all, I think, but that still sounds like a good breather from the RN program. I’ll be able to use the internet while I’m at school so I’ll spend some time expanding my song repertoire in the afternoon of school days with the help of youtube.

Speaking of songs, I’m beginning a systematic effort to put together a collection of celtic folkish songs singable by me unaccompanied. So far, here’s a few I have memorized and can do decently. More to come. There’s plenty on the back burner that need some work on lyrics or melody. (One familiar with the Corries will guess my attraction of late.)

Loch Lomond – both versions
A Parcel of Rogues (Burns)
Scots Wha’ Hae (Burns)
The Trees They Grow So High
The Streets of Derry
The Water is Wide
The Rose of Allendale
Grace
Treat Me Daughter Kindly
Wild Mountain Thyme
Westering Home
Come O’er the Stream, Charlie
I Will Go
The Skye Boat Song

I get a Job and Mr. Stinky gets in a Tight Spot

2010-04-23T19:28:00.002-04:00

Here's a newsy post since philosophy has gone out the dormer aperture since school began.

Today I slept in to the positively sinful hour of 9am (during the last hour of which I was mostly lounging, not sleeping), then studied Pharm (acology) for a couple of hours. After lunch, I ran over to the college, delivered pecan rolls from Snap to a professor, turned in an overdue ILL movie which I hadn't had a chance to watch, paid for classes, and unsuccessfully checked "lost and found" for a jean jacket. (Parenthetical note: I am quite distressed by the loss. The jacket was one of my trusty prime pieces of wear, and I had developed an attachment to it.)

Then I drove like a maniac to a job appointment. Yes, it was "processing" day for me. In the space of three hours, I was sent to four different facilities. First I proved my identity, signed papers, and got fingerprinted at the recruitment office. Then I was sent to the hospital for review of my vaccination history and Tuberculosis skin test. Following this, I got slightly lost on my way to a physician's clinic for a nursing home physical, but I finally found the place. As if this weren't enough already, I zipped over to the medical system's outpatient facility to get blood drawn for a Hepatitis B immunity test.

When I got home I took Fenella for a walk/run/get-the-dog-wrapped-around-trees expedition. Then Daddy and Snap and I ate supper (the rest were awa') and cleaned up a bit. While clearing the table, I happened to look out the window at the pasture which is currently littered with log piles. Between two of the logs stood Mr. Stinky (alias "Lightening", our Boer sire), unmoving except for his head, his belly bulged up on top of the logs. I couldn't help laughing. He apparently had either jumped on top of the pile and slipped in between or had walked in at the wide end of the gap and, pinched at the narrow end, couldn't figure out how to back out. Snap and I called Dad and laughingly suggested that he try pushing Mr. Stinky out. Dad thought it would be better to loose Fenella in the pasture to, uh, stimulate Mr. Stinky's self-preserving instincts. At the end of the matter, all it took was Dad rolling the log half a turn to release the compressed bucky.
He didn't learn anything from the experience - 10 minutes later, Snap pointed out the window. Mr. Stinky was sitting atop another log.

Anyhoo...that's been my day. Let's see if I can find the momentum to study more Pharm. Nih.

Life is Beautiful

2010-04-17T21:34:00.002-04:00

I just thought I'd remind you all.

Life is beautiful. It's a lovely gift and each tiny piece and moment was designed and crafted by hand - God's hand. Sometimes I forget.

"Each little flower that opens/ Each little bird that sings/ God made their glowing colors/ He made their tiny wings."

Just think about a breeze. Each uplift and surge and diminishing and sigh and swirl of a single moment's duration is a unique creation and fits together like notes in a song to make a melody. And that breeze plays over a field, a wood, a hill, a valley wherein each blade of each grass and every bud of every flower and every mossy nick in the bark of every tree is designed to harmonize or contrast in a glorious ensemble. What is all this beauty for? Is it not for man, for us, that God made this earth and it's glory? How wonderfully kind and surpassingly rich is the gift of the great Artist and Author not only to give us daily bread but to serve it up in style!

"For not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these."

That's all for tonight. Two weeks left of school! Yeeehaaaw!

Cougar!

2010-04-07T07:47:00.003-04:00

This morning on the way to school Snap and I saw a cougar. At least, we think we did.

We came up over a rise and an animal dashed across the road in front of us on four legs. It stood about 3 feet or so at the shoulder and had pointed ears and a long tail. At first I thought it was a deer - but it wasn't. Then I thought it was a coyote, but it was too big and ran like a cat.

There have been cougar prints sited in this area, but nobody has actually seen the cougar yet, so we feel very fortunate.

Cougar!

Paschal Homily of St. John Chrysostom.

2010-04-05T15:10:00.001-04:00

If anyone is devout and a lover of God, let them enjoy this beautiful and radiant festival.
If anyone is a grateful servant, let them, rejoicing, enter into the joy of his Lord.
If anyone has wearied themselves in fasting, let them now receive recompense.
If anyone has labored from the first hour, let them today receive the just reward.
If anyone has come at the third hour, with thanksgiving let them feast.
If anyone has arrived at the sixth hour, let them have no misgivings; for they shall suffer no loss.
If anyone has delayed until the ninth hour, let them draw near without hesitation.
If anyone has arrived even at the eleventh hour, let them not fear on account of tardiness.
For the Master is gracious and receives the last even as the first; he gives rest to him that comes at the eleventh hour, just as to him who has labored from the first.
He has mercy upon the last and cares for the first; to the one he gives, and to the other he is gracious.
He both honors the work and praises the intention.
Enter all of you, therefore, into the joy of our Lord, and, whether first or last, receive your reward.
O rich and poor, one with another, dance for joy!
O you ascetics and you negligent, celebrate the day!
You that have fasted and you that have disregarded the fast, rejoice today!
The table is rich-laden; feast royally, all of you!
The calf is fatted; let no one go forth hungry!
Let all partake of the feast of faith. Let all receive the riches of goodness.
Let no one lament their poverty, for the universal kingdom has been revealed.
Let no one mourn their transgressions, for pardon has dawned from the grave.
Let no one fear death, for the Saviour's death has set us free.
He that was taken by death has annihilated it!
He descended into Hades and took Hades captive!
He embittered it when it tasted his flesh! And anticipating this Isaiah exclaimed: "Hades was embittered when it encountered thee in the lower regions".
It was embittered, for it was abolished!
It was embittered, for it was mocked!
It was embittered, for it was purged!
It was embittered, for it was despoiled!
It was embittered, for it was bound in chains!
It took a body and came upon God!
It took earth and encountered heaven!
It took what it saw but crumbled before what it had not seen!
O death, where is thy sting? O Hades, where is thy victory?
Christ is risen, and you are overthrown!
Christ is risen, and the demons are fallen!
Christ is risen, and the angels rejoice!
Christ is risen, and life reigns!
Christ is risen, and not one dead remains in a tomb!
For Christ, being raised from the dead, has become the first-fruits of them that slept.
To him be glory and might unto ages of ages. Amen.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paschal_Homily

If I Were Wise

2010-03-28T22:48:00.002-04:00

If I were wise, I wouldn't talk so much. I would speak only to question, to discover, rather than to pronounce sentence on so much that I know not.

Milk Bank and Rambles

2010-03-25T14:46:00.003-04:00

Announcing a new post over at Γραφω. It's an observation paper about the Bronson Breast-milk Bank. If you want to be added to the readers, drop me a comment or email.

I'm excited about finally posting something new over on "I Write". I haven't been lazy in writing, but so much of what I write in Nursing School includes confidential patient information that only I and my instructors can see outside of the doctors and nurses at the hospital. That's a downside of nursing that I think I'll always struggle with: I learn and experience so much that changes me and my thinking during my clinical work, but I am not legally able to discuss these experiences except in the vaguest terms with my dear friends outside of my work and study.

Anyway, I'm looking forward to holding more babies tomorrow in my clinical work, maybe see a delivery. Lent's coming to a climax and Holy Week will be refreshing as always. Seder with family and some friends tomorrow. Excited for that - matzoh, horseradish, and all. One day at a time I'll make it through the semester, by God's grace.

Head Stuck in the Sand, but Still Kickin'

2010-03-04T14:00:00.003-05:00

My dear reader,

It's been so long since I've really written a blog post. Yes, I've written little snippets, but nothing really requiring serious time or thought. But this is not a complaint post.

I feel as if my head is stuck in the sand and I just can't clear my ears, eyes, or mouth. Nursing school will certainly "lairn" the stuffing out of me, but in the meantime, I haven't much of a clear idea about what is going on in the world, in my family, or even in me. I'd like to emerge from the sand sometime in the near future, but I doubt it'll be during this short spring break. Likely it'll be May before I really start to blink my eyes, shake out my ears, spit the gunk out of my mouth and ask myself, "who am I and what has happened to my world since last August?"

Meanwhile, I'm going back to Pharmacology studying and rather ill-fated attempts at not being selfish.

- TQ

Admonition

2010-02-26T22:53:00.001-05:00

You. Read Ecclesiastes today.

Perception and Motivation

2010-02-10T13:02:00.003-05:00

We interrupt this Operating Room Observation Paper to bring you a breaking random thought from the mental apparatus of the author:

Theory - Attention span is directly proportional to felt need to know.

Furthermore, felt need to know is directly affected by perceived opportunity to learn.

I.E. higher stakes increase attention span. Limited opportunity with high stakes for learning increases attention span even more.

Parallel concept = application. A person applies herself more when stakes are perceptibly high and opportunity is perceptibly limited.

Therefore...
To increase attention span or application, one must increase not the stakes, but the perception of them and limit not the opportunity, but the perception of opportunity.

For many human beings, this necessitates an increase and limitation in actuality because the human being in question senses a bluff quite readily. Our perceptions of reality are remarkably accurate when it comes to quantifiable, observable, measurable phenomena. We are all more or less empiricists.

But the closer a thing comes to uncertainty, the more unsure, insecure a person's perception of the thing - the farther perception is removed from actuality - the less must one manipulate the physical to increase perceived stakes and decrease perceived opportunity. What one must manipulate is merely perception.

As distance between direct observation and perception increases, perception depends more on reports, words, nonquantifiables. Consequently, perception may be changed by suggestion, report, and nonquantifiables.

Threaten to withhold (or offer to give) a thing reported to a man by all to be of extreme value, and he may achieve the impossible - even if the object in question would not be in actuality withheld or were in its essence worthless.

On the other hand, if a man perceives a priceless possession to be secure or of little value, he may fail to lift his little finger if it is jeopardized.

And now, back to our regularly scheduled programming....

A Grandpa Saying: Life

2010-01-30T12:20:00.001-05:00

I have no idea where Grandpa got hold of this rhyme, but I've heard it since I was quite small. Since I haven't time for anything more profound, I thought I'd post this exercise in equivocation.

What's Life?
A magazine.
Where do you get it?
Drug Store.
How much?
Ten cents.
Only got a nickle.
That's tough.
What's tough?
Life.

Les Miserables: Who Am I?

2010-01-14T22:00:00.002-05:00

From the Les Miserables musical. Valjean agonizes over whether to reveal his identity to the court in order to acquit the man who is accused of being Valjean.

[VALJEAN]
He thinks that man is me
He knew him at a glance!
That stranger he has found
This man could be my chance!

Why should I save his hide?
Why should I right this wrong
When I have come so far
And struggled for so long?

If I speak, I am condemned.
If I stay silent, I am damned!

I am the master of hundreds of workers.
They all look to me.
How can I abandon them?
How would they live
If I am not free?

If I speak, I am condemned.
If I stay silent, I am damned!

Who am I?
Can I condemn this man to slavery
Pretend I do not feel his agony
This innocent who bears my face
Who goes to judgement in my place
Who am I?
Can I conceal myself for evermore?
Pretend I'm not the man I was before?
And must my name until I die
Be no more than an alibi?
Must I lie?
How can I ever face my fellow men?
How can I ever face myself again?
My soul belongs to God, I know
I made that bargain long ago
He gave me hope when hope was gone
He gave me strength to journey on

[He appears in front of the court]

Who am I? Who am I?
I am Jean Valjean!

[He unbuttons his shirt to reveal the number tattooed to his chest]

And so Javert, you see it's true
That man bears no more guilt than you!
Who am I?
24601!

Drill for the Semester

2010-01-12T20:50:00.004-05:00

I really hoped it wouldn't be this way. But it is. I'm going to have to give some things up.

I didn't want it to be church. But it's an hour travel time either way, 3 times a week. I've just got to come to terms with it: I'd be prudent to cut out midweek services. I'm running myself into the ground, and it hasn't even been a full week since school started.

Here's how the week looks.
Monday, get up at 4am, go to the hospital, work clinical till 2:30 or 3:30, home between 3pm and 4pm. Write up Nursing Process Papers on each patient till time to sleep. (around 10pm) Supper, shower, and devotions in there of course.

Tuesday, get up at 6:15am, pick up carpoolers, drive to school. Pharmacology 8am to 10am. Med-Surg Theory 10:30am to 12:30pm. View assigned audiovisual materials. Try to work out and study at the same time. Voice lesson from 3pm to 4pm. Go home, read my brains out till I go to sleep.

Wednesday, same routine, only without the Voice Lesson.

Thursday, catch up on Pharmacology and Med-Surg Reading. Finish Care Plans and Clinical paperwork. Read assignments for Clinical Sleep.

Friday, up at 4am again. Same drill as Monday.

Saturday, try desperately to read assignments for coming week's Pharmacology, Clinical, Med-Surg Theory, finish clinical paperwork

Sunday, go to church, finish clinical paperwork. Bury my head in my books. Try to sleep.

Pass Go, collect grades, stool specimens, bloodied paperwork by the pen of the preceptor.

Not sure where I'm going to fit in the hour and a half of voice practice in there.

My posts have greatly deteriorated, however, I have no time for anything more literary.
Goodnight. Peace to you, dear reader.

On New Year's Morn

2010-01-01T01:22:00.003-05:00

Snow falls. 2010 will dawn this day. Another year of my life is completed.

As I review the past, recent years fall into discreet emotional categories. 2007 was the year of my spiritual searching and enlightening. 2008 was the year of my testing and breaking; emotionally, philosophically, and spiritually. 2009 was the year of healing and humbling in the same three areas. What shall be 2010? None knowest but him who knoweth all.

New Year's Resolution? I have none that I'll risk the utterance. A few public hopes have I here for the coming year:

I would like to sleep 8 -9 hours every night.
I would like to get all my homework done by the day before it is due.
I would like to get to church at least twice a week.
I would like to work this summer for a decent pay rate.
I would like to spend some quality time with my siblings every week.

Let's see how this works out. I realize that this post is ridiculously impromtu, but that's what I turn out at 0133. Blessings in this year of grace two thousand ten.

- TQ

Contexualizing the Christmas Story

2009-12-25T21:23:00.001-05:00

If you have access to Facebook and wish to add to the discussion I hope to have provoked there, please do.

Merry Christmas and a Blessed Nativity of Our Lord to you all! As I do every year, I’ve spent considerable time humming or singing Christmas carols and hymns. And as I have for many a year passed, I’ve contemplated one particular hymnodic question.

Briefly consider this hymn written in 1643 by the Jesuit priest Jean de Brébeuf (#Canadian patron saint, Canadian martyr) for the Huron natives. Called “Huron Carol” or alternatively “’Twas in the moon of wintertime,” the hymn illustrates a question of contextualization that intrigues me.

*‘Twas in the moon of wintertime
When all the birds had fled
That mighty Gitchee Manitou
Sent angel choirs instead.
Before their light the stars grew dim
And wandering hunters heard the hymn:
“Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born.
In excelsis gloria.”

Within a lodge of broken bark
The tender babe was found
A ragged robe of rabbit skin
Enwrapped his beauty round
But as the hunter braves drew nigh
The angel song rang loud and high:
“Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born.
In excelsis gloria.”

The earliest moon of wintertime
Is not so bright and fair
As was the ring of glory on
The helpless Infant there
And chiefs from far before him knelt
With gifts of fox and beaver pelt.
Jesus your King is born, Jesus in born.
In excelsis gloria.

O children of the forest green
O sons of Manitou
This holy Child of earth and Heav’n
Is born today for you
Come kneel before the radiant Boy
Who brings you beauty, peace and joy.
Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born.
In excelsis gloria.

I would ask, “Is this hymn appropriate for Christian use?” If so, in what settings is it appropriate: liturgy, private use, caroling? Why or why not?

On the one hand, the song is beautiful (at least, the Jesse Edgar Middleton translation I am working from) and confesses the birth of Jesus Christ. However, I am curious about two aspects of lyrics.

First, how appropriate is the use of the name “Gitchee Manitou” for God? Is the use of this Huron name similar to the anglo use of “God” for YHWH, or is there significant reason to avoid using this name to refer to the Divine (ie; syncretism with indigenous paganism)?

[Wikipedia:
"Gitche Manitou (Gitchi Manitou, Gitche Manito, etc.) means "Great Spirit" in several Algonquian languages. The term was also utilized to signify God by Christian missionaries, when translating scriptures and prayers, etc. into the Algonquian languages.
"Manitou is a common Algonquian term for spirit, mystery, or deity."]

Second, how appropriate is the re-description of the characters in the Christmas story to fit the Huron context? For instance; “wandering hunters” for shepherds, “chiefs from far” for magi, "fox and beaver pelt" for gold, frankinscense and myrrh, and “ragged robe of rabbit skin” for swaddling bands. Are there substantial objections, theologically or otherwise, to such modifications? Objections considered, are the alterations of detail acceptable for hymnodic use?

I do realize that these may be questions lacking conclusive answers, but what do you all think?

* http://www.christmas-songs.org/songs/twas_in_the_moon_of_wintertime.html
# http://www.hymnsandcarolsofchristmas.com/Hymns_and_Carols/huron_carol.htm

Out of My Ken

2009-12-11T11:37:00.003-05:00

Dear Reader,

I have a sad state of affairs to report. The girl who is ignorant of fashion, clothing names, and ettiquette will be attending a wedding where the dress code is "day formal." Advised by the bride that this should be in the area of "Christmas Sunday Best" and "less formal than evening", she is still very uncertain.

The authority on fashion whom I most respect has interpreted "day formal" to indicate an "afternoon dress", "tea gown", or "dinner dress". Google is not helping me visualize these very well. What I have gleaned of info merely tells me (I think?) that there ought to be a close-fitting bodice with a flowing skirt (and maybe a train?), that there should be gloves worn (?) and some other variable and frighteningly incomprehensible bits about gloves and things.

I'll admit I'm very intimidated. I've never owned a pair of dress gloves in my life, nor am I at all familiar with what fashionable clothing called by it's proper name actually looks like. I know work-wear like Carharts, overalls, steel-toe boots - ya know, functional clothing.

This is a constant problem for me whenever I step outside the borders of hill-billy land and college-student kingdom. I never know what is appropriate wear nor how to fit my current wardrobe to meet expected standards. I consistently find myself (by my own observation and comparison of my attire to those around me) overdressed or underdressed for the occasion - or simply dressed very differently. I'm not terribly concerned about conformity, but I do like to not draw attention to myself in social settings where there is an established expectation.

Therefore, I want to ask some very dumb, very specific questions:

Do I need to obtain gloves? What sort?

Do I need a hat? What material? What style? What color?

Is a particular sort of shoes required? What sort/color/build?

What does the proper dress look like?

Grateful for any light on the topic,
TQ

The Day You Quit Crying.

2009-12-08T11:09:00.003-05:00

Yesterday morning I participated in a medical emergency. To be honest, I started the process. I didn't like how the patient was acting and breathing. I called the nurse, and within a few minutes all sorts of things were happening. We ended up sending the patient out to ER. While we were working, I was calm - likely because I was doing something to help, be it as little as holding the patient's hand or shoulder. After it was out of our hands and I reported to my instructor however, I found Nicole in a supply room and cried on her shoulder. The respiratory therapist saw me and I stopped.

Later that day he found me to show me labs from the ER. After explaining what had happened with the patient, he said something I'll never forget.

"What you did in the backroom is a good thing. Crying means you'll be a good nurse."
"Why?" I said.
"Because it means you care. The day you quit crying is the day you need to quit the job."

When I had awakened yesterday morning, one line of a song had been running though my head and refused to leave me all day.
But since it falls unto my lot
that I should go and ye should not
I gently rise and softly call
Goodnight and joy be with you all!

Need for Caution: Contrition

2009-11-24T21:40:00.003-05:00

I've become abruptly aware recently that many of the sayings and metaphorical phrases which I grew up hearing and using in a clean and witty sense may be understood in an unclean, perverted sense. I shall have to exercise much caution if I mean to keep my communication as clear as my thought.

To all my friends and readers: Forgive me if I have unintentionally said something offensive, suggestive, or improper. If it occurs again, please correct me and clarify. Apologies in advance.

If you don't know what I'm talking about, that's ok too.

It's Time to Go Home

2009-11-23T17:44:00.002-05:00

When your 1st metacarpal-phalange joint is swollen, red, and too tender to move, you know it's time to stop studying and go home.

And when you call the thumb joint by it's anatomical name, it's time for a full night's sleep.

Slightly lonely and subconsciously fatigued,
TQ

Because I am an Epistemophiliac...

2009-11-20T12:08:00.003-05:00

Reader,

I crave this book. I found it in the library yesterday and it is amazing:

Mrs. Byrne's Dictionary of Unusual, Obscure, and Preposterous Words.

From this book, my friend and I learned yesterday that we are both "epistemophiliacs" and have since used that word rather randomly.

Is rediscovering her love for words and language, philosophy and debate. ARG.

Revelation

2009-11-13T18:08:00.001-05:00

I just had a revelation. I have a whole 6 hours until 12 pm. A whole 6 hours I can use to finish a nutrition project! What ho! The wonder o' it.

Let's get 'er done.

B-day

2009-11-07T23:45:00.003-05:00

Last evening through today have together composed the nicest birthday I think I have ever had. Simple, no fanfare, relaxing, are effective descripters. I did what I wanted to do.

Last night I came home to a nice, homecooked stirfry complete with vegetables, mushrooms, and onions. Instead of cake, we had apple pie at my request. Mom even bought cider. It was a very cozy meal - just the family, nothing elaborate. After dinner I received a few gifts - beautiful writing from my youngest sister, a CD of Handel's Messiah from my Grandparents, and a cell phone from my parents. Best of all, Dad brought out the guitar. He hasn't played since...I don't know when - probably at least a year. We drug out the old "Word of God" community song books and sang the beautiful charismatic semi-liturgical songs I used to love as a wee lass. The Te Deum setting in Daddy's book is still one of my favorite songs.

Instead of going to sleep or forcing homework down my gullet or even socializing online, I took up a book - the first fiction book I've cracked this semester. George MacDonald regaled me with his narrative of "wee Sir Gibbie" till nigh on 1:30am. It was delightfully satisfying and seemed a combination of several styles of writing I've appreciated in the past. The young, dumb, gentle-hearted orphan overcomes the odds with simplicity and forgiveness, wins the maiden, and in poetic justice inherits the house of his forbears, all in (relative) Scottish dialect.

The day of me birth I spent wi' me ain bonnie lad and some other friends. I would not have had the day any other way. It was relaxing, low key, and not "me focused" at all. I may safely say that in all my -- years, I've had ne'er a more pleasant birthday, nor received it sae gratefully as a day of rest.

Sunday Night's Addition: A note on the makeup. I'm going off of it. I've been wearing it off and on for the past week and a half because of acne severity. I hate acne: I hate the blotches on my face. I also abhore a mask, particularly clay, especially clay connected by association with coquettish behaviors. But I put it on because I hated the unnatural physiologic more than the unnatural cosmetic. Tomorrow, however, I'm done. I will not be ashamed of my face. If it causes unpleasantness to others, I will hide it again, but not till then.

Goodnight, dear reader. Tomorrow I begin my clinical work in Geriatrics. I don't have to get up at 4am, but I do need to rise at 5, and hence I shall now turn in. Here ends another post with no particularly deep point.

So, Singing, Self Saw Salamander

2009-10-23T10:50:00.003-04:00

For the sheer sake of blogging something random...

I had my voice lesson this morning.

We moved to the grand piano in the choir room because it was so warm in our practice room.

All of a sudden, Brother G. stopped playing and got up. I looked over and there was a newt crawling on the tile floor! He picked it up gently and we looked at it. It had dust all over it and was starting to dry out. Brother G. took it outside and set it under some rain-soaked leaves.

When we checked on it after the lesson, the salamander was gone.

Ebenezer (look it up)

2009-10-16T12:56:00.003-04:00

Thus far by the grace of God...

Unless the Lord builds the house, they labor in vain who build it.

Clinical Practicum is over. Next week I take Exam III and the Theory Final. God-willing, I'll move on to Geriatrics.

I couldn't have passed this test without help. I barely began studying for it prior to yesterday. Lord knows the other classes, life changes, and distractions heaped on my plate. Yet, I feel that I knew the information I needed to; I predict a passing score. Not an excellent score, but a passing score - and that is all I need. For a sufficiently clear mind, alertness beyond my current sleep status, and a good memory, I thank the Lord.

Now I'm about to do something I haven't done in a week. I'm going to go take a walk by myself for pleasure. For no other reason than that I want to be in the air, sun, trees. I'll leave the Care Plans, the Nutrition reading, the exams behind for an hour. They won't go anywhere.

I've a sudden strange sensation of living a life different from what I thought it was. A life where I'm not in control, but controlled by another for my good. Life shifts in it's fluid course. On Christ the solid rock I stand: all other ground is sinking sand.

Bones

2009-10-10T18:20:00.003-04:00

This Post Not For the Squeamish. Death and Decay discussed.

Who knoweth the spirit of man that goeth upward, and the spirit of the beast that goeth downward to the earth?

Today I gathered bones.
***********************************************
In August, Chatter, my 2nd original goat died. I heard her cry out from the barn, but I thought nothing of it for the sound ceased as abruptly as it rang out. My goats often cry when they hear people's voices and I was busy. On a "rough day" scale of 0-10, it had been about an 8 already(one of those days where in order to keep my mind and body from pathologic thoughts and acts I hurtle myself into the woods to run till I cannot breathe and movement requires more than will). I was barely holding together as it was, dead tired from readying projects for entry to the county youth fair the next day. So, when conscience pricks drove my weary feet toward the barn, my foggy mind only considered it a routine animal check.

Her body still and bloated. Limbs outstretched. She did not answer my call. A glance told all.

When a foggy mind is slapped with something it is unprepared to handle, it goes haywire, shrieks, calls for help, pleads. But only for a moment. Negative feedback kicks in and the mind goes numb, for one must be able to act logically in crisis, even an emotional crisis.

Dad summoned, I returned to the barn. I touched her; stroked her face, her flank. The children came weeping. Perhaps I was a bit short with them. Dad sighed. It was already growing dark outside. Every piece of equipment capable of digging had broken down. We'd never manually dig a large enough hole that night. But something had to be done. It was warm and there would be no time the next day or the next week to shovel dirt.
"Sarah," he said, "It's the only good choice."
"Alright," I said. "I'll help you drag her."
******************************************************
We laid her 14 year old frame on a hillock under a single tree at the lake farm. Heavy but frail she seemed: I could not help but remember the stubborn, strong doe I first met. I touched the reddish black curls for the last time under the stars and glanced into the darkness. Were the coyotes already gathering?

I had not wept.
******************************************************
Today I gathered bones.

The leaves rustled beneath my feet. I carried a white cardboard box - probably used for bulk foods. The chill wind nipped around my ankles and the edges of my sweater. I thought of nursing and giving life. I pondered dirt, things that live, that grow, as weeds tangled my feet. Toward the tree fled my feet, my thoughts far away.

My feet stopped. I sniffed the air and set down my box. Clean, crisp autumn filled my nostrils as I pulled on vinyl gloves. Though I appreciate physical contact with my work, somehow, even symbolically, I didn't want this dirt on my skin or under my nails.

White, brittle pieces of mineral. The scavengers and elements cleaned well. Gently, I gathered every bit - some bones had been carried a few yards away. Some were missing altogether. Into the box, rib by rib, every tooth and chip, every dried scrap of sinew. Even three hooves remained. For some odd reason, this brought a joy to me, remembering how much difficulty Chatter had given me during hoof trims. Three locks of the glorious red coat also lay preserved, finding their way to the box as well. Last of all, I found the skull. Off all the bones, this was the only one I could clearly visually identify as Chatter's. I could see the smooth grove I used to stroke my fingers along while her eyes closed and head relaxed, the prominent ridge I used to itch for her. I laid it atop the pile. Having combed a 50 foot radius around the spot where we laid her, I broke off dry grass plumes and cushioned the rest of the box.

It's not that Chatter is in her bones, but they once were in her. I understood why we left Chatter's body to the birds, dogs, wind, sun and rain. It was sensible. It was necessary. Yet, part of me had always planned to bury her on the farm, next to Darey (my first goat) when he passed. When we left her clay on the hill, I thought of returning for her bones. One voice inside me pointed out that such action would be sheerly childish and sentimental, that there was no need. Yet another part of me quietly rose up, and, as if in defiance, resolved to go for the bones for the sake of practicing the childish and sentimental even while recognizing the sensible. I do many irrational things in my spare time which one could regard as silly - why not this as well?

******************************************************
There is nothing so much like a freshly plowed garden as a newly dug grave.

Two mounds near the pasture. Two more near the woods. The original herd and cat have passed. Even the doe I raised from a kid shows her years. The herd is unfamiliar to me now - I even have to ask the names of the younger ones.

My brother brought me two crosses. I was tempted to be annoyed, theologically. But the same part of me which brought back the bones squelched it. He meant kindly; he felt bad about the deaths, even though I do not. I laid them on the dirt for him, an adiaphoron. Even if Christ did not die to earn forgiveness of sins for animals, He certainly renewed all Creation by death and resurrection. Goats too belong to that created order.

Who knoweth the spirit of man that goeth upward, and the spirit of the beast that goeth downward to the earth?

Their Creator knows.

Thus Quoth The Patriarch: or Star Wars Plot Per Daddy

2009-10-10T18:14:00.002-04:00

Star Wars plot according to Daddy:

"Beautiful girl
rescued by handsome boy
for dumb reasons
while doing exciting things
all over the universe."

Mommy: That sounds like a "universal" plot.

Children groan grinningly.

His Blood Upon the Rose

2009-10-03T22:55:00.003-04:00

Hello, Dear Reader,

I've not blogged for some time now, and all sorts of things are filling up my mind and making me ache to put them to paper, but time does not permit. Perhaps I'll find time for a few soon. Tonight, just one random point of interest.

My lovely sister introduced me to this song several months ago, but it never really caught my interest until recently. Like many other artistic works, it is the story in and behind Grace that most endears it to me. For me, underlying stories make up for many artistic defects. Symbolism in a song attracts me almost more than a story. So, when I tripped over the last verse, I sat back, puzzled, and scratched my head a tad (bit).

Now as the dawn is breaking, my heart is breaking too

On this May morn as I walk out, my thoughts will be of you

And I'll write some words upon the wall so everyone will know

I loved so much that I could see his blood upon the rose.

It seemed clear enough that "His blood upon the rose" was a symbolic reference to something or somebody, but who? My theological impulse of course brought a particular Man's particular Blood to my mind, but I shook my head. Couldn't be. Not in this type of song. But it couldn't be the singer's blood either, for he hadn't been executed yet, and even if he were envisioning the future, he wouldn't refer to himself in the third person, would he?

I asked my dear sister about this (or she asked me, or maybe we both asked each other) and we concluded that the best way to discover any potential reference would be to google the words, "his blood upon the rose." Having done this, she sent me this link. It appears that this poem was written by Joseph Plunkett, the singer in the song;

I see his blood upon the rose
And in the stars the glory of his eyes,
His body gleams amid eternal snows,
His tears fall from the skies.

I see his face in every flower;
The thunder and the singing of the birds
Are but his voice—and carven by his power
Rocks are his written words.

All pathways by his feet are worn,
His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea,
His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn,
His cross is every tree.

It's beautiful. Really, it is. Creation seen in light of, contained in, and redeemed by Christ's Passion. All pathways by his feet are worn...His cross is every tree.

So the reference in the song is to Christ. Amazing. In the midst of tragedy, in his last twenty-four hours with his newly married wife, Plunkett wrote "some words upon the wall" there in the Kilmainham Jail. It is my guess that these are the words. Not words of sorrow over separation from his wife, nor of anger over his impending death, nor a hymn to the fighters for independence, but an expression of the significance of Christ's Godhead and Manhood for creation.

Particularly am I struck by the last line of the poem in the context of Plunkett's approaching execution. His cross is every tree. Though I have no way of knowing how Plunkett was put to death, I'd hazard a guess that hanging was standard procedure. With this in mind, I'd venture that Plunkett saw in his death a participation in the death of Christ - and an entrance into life. Now that's beautiful.

The song Grace retelling Plunkett's last day ends with the words, "I loved so much that I could see his blood upon the rose." Whom did he love? His wife? But that doesn't make sense, except in the sense that he looks into eternity to see a future reunion. Rather than that, it would seem that Plunkett loved a Savior, and his wife in the brilliant light of the the Same.

Anyway. There's a late night extrapolation on the basis of very slight evidence. However, I just couldn't get this out of my mind. Take it or leave it. I can't support my speculation - I just think it's awefully lovely.

Good Night! (Morning)

Something to Think On

2009-09-26T01:47:00.003-04:00

Halloween

*Are practices inherently meaningful?

*Is history irrelevant when it is forgotten or ignored?

*Meat sacrificed to idols?

*What is pretend and pretending?

*Two ditches: http://blog.higherthings.org/wcwirla/article/2125.html

That's enough for now.

My Very First Nursing Patient

2009-09-15T23:01:00.003-04:00

Before I ever step foot in the clinical setting, I have identified my very first patient. She's nearer to me than any other, but, strangely, I've been quite indifferent toward many of her critical needs. Ironically, this indifference has grown as my interest and involvement with nursing has increased. That I now hope to remedy.

If I do not take care of myself, how can I hope to help my patients? How can I pledge myself to give my clients the most complete and holistic care I can, if the best my body and mind can offer them at the time of care is not the best which I could provide were I in good health and practicing a healthy lifestyle?

Hence, I must initiate the Nursing Process in regards to myself. Time being limited, I'll not run through all steps of the Nursing Process in this post (Assessment, Diagnosis, Planning, Implementing, Evaluating) but skip to one of my personal self diagnoses and the interventions I plan to address it. (Following info from Nursing Diagnosis Handbook, Mosby)

Nursing Diagnosis:

Sleep Deprivation - Prolonged periods without sleep.

Defining Characteristics (Those applicable): Acute confusion; agitation; anxiety; apathy; daytime drowsiness; decreased ability to function; fatigue; hand tremors; heightened sensitivity to pain; inability to concentrate; irritability; lethargy; listlessness; malaise; restlessness; slowed reactions; transient paranoia

Outcomes:
Patient will awaken refreshed and be less fatigued during the day.
Fall asleep without difficulty.
Verbalize plan that provides adequate time for sleep.
Identify actions that can be taken to improve quality of sleep.

I'm planning that TQ will spend at least a half hour in physical activity each day, sufficiently hydrate herself, and shower and engage in devotions before bed in order to promote quality of sleep and quick commencement of sleep. Also, TQ will provide sufficient time for sleep by reducing the unnecessary waking activity of recreational online communications to a minimum of 30 minutes per day (including during study) on all school days/nights. TQ will complete homework, physical activity, and daily devotions before other unnecessary or recreational activities (excluding special situations which call for care of others and which clearly take priority over hours of sleep). TQ will initiate a 9:45 bedtime curfew to be strictly adhered to unless the next day's homework is still to be completed.

Interventions to be evaluated after a week, reassessment to be performed, and needed interventions implemented.

Now for some sleep!

Just Wanted to Say

2009-09-10T16:51:00.003-04:00

People,

You are blogging faster than I can follow you. I haven't read the Blackbirds for over a month and I see I'm missing out on some good stuff. I haven't caught up on Pasto's stuff either! And as for Liturgical stuff, Cultural stuff, and Bioethical stuff, well! That's taken a serious hike. And please don't be offended if I'm not commenting on personal blogses. *implores on knees* I'm trying to skim them 'bout once/week or so, but, whew! they get away from me.

But I took a minute after lecture today to check out some resources for me as a Nursing student and woman.

National Association of Prolife Nurses : These guys are BOLD and take it beyond abortion. Read their Policies under the Resources link. I'm considering joining.
Michigan Nurses for Life : also great.
Feminists for Life: I'll definitely be thinking about this one. I like it when women challenge the meaning and connotations that "feminism" has taken on in this culture. Being a woman does not mean being as much like a man as I can be. :P

So, yeah. News:

I'm doing fine. Not dead yet (see a previous post for image status. Wow, Eowyn's really lookin' good in that picture considerin' the circumstances. :P ).

Nursing classes are going great! I'm really enjoying the lectures and the lab skills because they both engage the mind in critical thinking and focus on real human beings and their individual needs in every aspect of life. Nursing is holistic care of the patient as a human being, and that is what I've always wanted to do without knowing how to state it in such terms. My professors are wonderful, especially the lead professor for this semester. She's no-nonsense, but has a wonderful sense of humor and a passion and concern for patients and students. She's not going to baby us: if we want this training, we have to throw ourselves into learning. But she's a caring and effective teacher even while she demands a full return.

The reading for the classes is IMMENSE. And I'm not kidding. We had double digit numbers of chapters assigned for the first day! I thought I read a lot for Augustine! Ha! (Well, I admit that I didn't do all the reading for Augustine College that I was supposed to - Music, for instance and the Art supplement occasionally. :P) But I've found (and been given) some strategies for picking out the information I need and moving on through, so once I get into a rhythm, I think I'll be fine.

As the week goes along, I'm my confidence is picking up a bit, which is very important. I was a bit worried by my own lack of self-confidence, initially, because I knew it would pose problems for motivation, info retention, test-taking, relating to professors, anxiety, sleep, etc.

My hybrid (online) course, Nutrition, meets on Saturday. Blah. I loathe online classes and Saturday meetings don't tickle me either, but, heh, I guess it spreads classes out a bit. Math for Meds challenges me - not with complicated concepts, but with my own slowness. I'm not a speedy mental calculator and I haven't had a math class in 2 years. Ouch! It's getting better as I work through the practice problem sets. Ooooh! and I am taking voice lessons with a Dominican monk! I can't really explain why that tickles me pink, but, if you know me at all, you might have a general idea. ;)

Alshoooooo, I'm reading the Apostolic Fathers for an idependent patristic study dealie-thing with Pasto' and am suitably thrill-ed. I finished I Clement and II Clement (albeit misnomered) while camping.

So, yeah.

gtts, any one? What about a grain? Silly apothecary system of measurment. Mutters. As I delight to share jewels of wisdom, "gtts" is short hand for "drop." Go figure. A grain is an (archaic) apothecary measurement and is equivalent to 60 milligrams. We have to be familiar with it because apparently old docs don't learn new tricks. :P (Yes, I know, mixed metaphor. Gotta stop doing that. It's just so much fun!)

Can you tell I'm a little tired and hungry and happy after a few stressful days?
Ending ramble now: press any key to continue.

As if I wasn't scared enough before....

2009-09-07T11:23:00.001-04:00

...my Math for Meds professor just sent us students this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YL-xR8eGoqY

Aaaaaaaauuuuuuuuuuuggggggggghhhhhhhhh!

Not Dead Yet

2009-08-19T23:46:00.005-04:00

Just lettin' you guys know that....

-Those who have not swords can still die upon them.

Ho boy! If life would simply slow down long enough to sleep! Cut off one foe, and another rises to take his place. Yeah, we find trusty and true comrades in the fight, but one can't help wishing for the banter after the battle, for time to make sense of all the hairs-breadth escapes and to appreciate the sacrifices made, time to laugh wearily at former fears and rest until the body and mind can hold no more.
Alas, school anon approacheth: truce, anyone?

(Speaking of frivolousness...No, this was not supposed to make sense or communicate anything deep.)

Choices, choices, choices.

2009-07-28T14:26:00.004-04:00

'k guys. I'm trying to decide which poems to declaim for the Fair. They have to be related either by topic or author. Last year I did Scottish poets. This year I'm loosely using the topic of "Poetic Reflections on Character" (made by me).

I know I want to declaim:
How did you Die?
If
Nobility

Those are the first three poems below and require about 5 minutes. I could fill two minutes more, but I can't decide which poem to add of the ones I've typed out below. My least favorite of the options below is Be Strong and I figure that Not in Vain is probably pretty 'run of the mill'. But I can't decide between Polonius' Advice to Laertes and Waiting. I like Waiting a little more, but I don't know whether good ole Polonius fits with the topic better. I need some advice.

So please speak up and declare to me your wisdom!

How Did You Die?
Edmund Vance Cooke

Did you tackle that trouble that came your way
With a resolute heart and cheerful?
Or hide your face from the light of day
With a craven soul and fearful?
Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce,
Or a trouble is what you make it,
And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,
But only how did you take it?

You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that!
Come up with a smiling face.
It's nothing against you to fall down flat,
But to lie there--that's disgrace.
The harder you're thrown, why the higher you bounce
Be proud of your blackened eye!
It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts;
It's how did you fight--and why?

And though you be done to the death, what then?
If you battled the best you could,
If you played your part in the world of men,
Why, the Critic will call it good.
Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,
And whether he's slow or spry,
It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,
But only how did you die?

If
Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

Nobility
Alice Cary
True worth is in being, not seeming,--
In doing, each day that goes by,
Some little good – not in dreaming
Of great things to do by and by.
For whatever men say in their blindness,
And spite of the fancies of youth,
There’s nothing so kingly as kindness,
And nothing so royal as truth.

We get back our mete as we measure –
We cannot do wrong and feel right,
Nor can we give pain and gain pleasure,
For justice avenges each slight.
The air for the wing of the sparrow,
The bush for the robin and wren,
But always the path that is narrow
And straight, for the children of men.

‘Tis not in the pages of story
The heart of its ills to beguile,
Though he who makes courtship to glory
Gives all that he hath for her smile.
For when from her heights he has won her,
Alas! it is only to prove
That nothing’s so sacred as honor,
And nothing so loyal as love!

We cannot make bargains for blisses,
Nor catch them like fishes in nets;
And sometimes the thing our life misses
Helps more than the thing which it gets.
For good lieth not in pursuing,
Nor gaining of great nor of small,
But just in the doing, and doing
As we would be done by, is all.

Through envy, through malice, through hating,
Against the world, early and late,
No jot of our courage abating –
Our part is to work and to wait.
And slight is the sting of his trouble
Whose winnings are less than his worth;
For he who is honest is noble,
Whatever his fortunes or birth.

Not in Vain
Emily Dickenson

If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain:
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.

Be Strong
Maltbie Davenport Babcock

Be strong!
We are not here to play, to dream, to drift;
We have hard work to do, and loads to lift;
Shun not the struggle – face it; ‘tis God’s gift.

Be strong!
Say not, “The days are evil. Who’s to blame?”
And fold the hands and acquiesce – oh shame!
Stand up, speak out, and bravely, in God’s name.

Be strong!
It matters not how deep intrenched the wrong,
How hard the battle goes, the day how long;
Faint not – fight on! Tomorrow comes the song.

Waiting
John Burroughs

Serene, I fold my hands and wait,
Nor care for wind nor tide nor sea;
I rave no more ‘gainst time or fate,
For lo! my own shall come to me.

I stay my hast, I make delays –
For what avails this eager pace?
I stand amid the eternal ways
And what is mine shall know my face.

Asleep, awake, by night or day,
The friends I seek are seeking me,
No wind can drive my bark astray
Nor change the tide of destiny.

What matter if I stand alone?
I wait with joy the coming years;
My heart shall reap where it has sown,
And garner up its fruit of tears.

The waters know their own, and draw
The brook that springs in yonder height;
So flows the good with equal law
Unto the soul of pure delight.

The stars come nightly to the sky;
The tidal wave unto the sea;
Nor time, nor space, nor deep nor high,
Can keep my own away from me.

Polonius’ Advice to Laertes
(from Hamlet)
William Shakespeare

There, -- my blessing with you!
And these few precepts in thy memory
See thou character. –Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportion’d thought his act.
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.
The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel;
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatched, unfledged comrade. Beware
Of entrance to a quarrel; but being in,
Bear’t that the opposed may beware of thee.
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice:
Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment.
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,
But no expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy:
For the apparel oft proclaims the man.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be,
For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
This above all: to thine own self be true,
Ad it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.

Adolescence of the Adiaphoron

2009-07-26T23:08:00.003-04:00

My dearest reader,

You've stuck with me for a year and a half now. I've rambled, ranted, philosophized, picturized, and poeticized. After writing 245 posts, a fraction of which I've actually posted, over two years of intense personal change between the ages of 16 and 18, it is time for my blog to come of age.

Up until now, I've written pretty much whatever I wanted in whatever form at whatever time with no obviously intended purpose. Sometimes I've been pretty childish about it, and I'm not proud of it all. On the other hand, I've stayed within a fairly narrow range of topics which I guessed would be acceptable to those who might read the blog and refrained from those which might provoke disagreement or antagonism. It's time for both of these to be revisited.

I'm about to create guidelines for myself and my reader pertaining to the writing and reading of this blog. Once these are in place, I plan to launch a series of blog posts dealing honestly with thoughts on Feminity, connections between thought, act, and spirit, and other topics I've previously been hesitant to comment on. At the same time as I allow myself greater freedom topically, I'm going to reign in a bit of the disorganized ranting, steam-blowing, and emoting - at least channel it through more orderly expression.

The Adiaphoron is growing up, just like I am. It's a slow evolution, but necessary. I need discipline and so does my writing. Greater freedom calls for greater restraint and guidelines to employ that freedom properly.

Let's see how this experiment works!

Sincerely,
TruthQuestioner

Lithuania: Part I

2009-07-18T22:29:00.002-04:00

Laubas, people!

At the beginning of our European adventure, I halfheartedly attempted to journal about the happenings each day, but our host packed things so tight that I had absolutely no time to record everything properly, nor energy after the day finally ended.

So, with Elle’s help (who, by the way, journalled very faithfully) I assembled a brief sketch of our doings here in the beautiful land of Lietuva. I’ll add random commentary also, but there’s no way I’ll be able to set down things as they were or do justice to them.

Monday, June 29th – Day of Endless Airplane Surprises

We were supposed to fly out from O’Hare, Chicago Airport to Warsaw, Poland about 5:30pm. But we packed early and were waiting around taking care of last minute things when the telephone rang. Our flight had been delayed 7 hours at least – not what we wanted to hear. However, there was another route which might just get us to Warsaw in time for our connecting flight to Vilnius. We would have to be at O’Hare in 3 hours. Could we do it? Mom’s never been one to delay. We called Grandma and Grandpa (as it was far too late to take the South

Once in O’Hare, we checked in, etc, only to find that our flight to Frankfurt, Germany was over-booked by 100 some passengers. Some-how, we managed to be among the persons assigned seats (Snap got upgraded to Business Class – lucky duck!): Thank God! Then the plane was delayed. And delayed some more. After an hour or so we boarded. Once on the plane, we settled in for a looooooong ride. 9 hours. I read some Lithuanian history, slept, edited some writing, read some Touchstone Magazine, talked with the Guatemalan lady on the other side of mom (practiced my Spanish), ate the food they gave me, and in general was immensely uncomfortable because they build seats for people taller than 5’ 1.”

Tuesday, June 30th – Continuation of Airplaneness and Commencement of Jet-lag

Once we landed in Frankfurt, we immediately sped across the airport to find our connecting flight to Warsaw. We had a slight problem, you see. When our tickets were printed, somehow, we didn’t receive my ticket from Warsaw to Vilnius. In Chicago we were told that they’d print it for us in Frankfurt. In Frankfurt they said to wait until Warsaw. I was a little worried. :P
Anyway, we noticed that this one family that had also taken our Chicago flight to Frankfurt boarded our connecting flight to Warsaw. Snap and I joked that perhaps we’d follow them, or they’d follow us, all the way to Vilnius. We shouldn’t have laughed – it happened. :D

When we landed in Frankfurt, Mom was in a bit of a panic. Our flight came in late, and there was only about half an hour till we were to board the Vilnius flight. We couldn’t read the signs very well, nor speak Polish (though English was spoken too [ish –as Snap says]) and we still needed a ticket for me! Needless to say, we had a rather frantic 30 minutes weaving our way through the airport and arrived barely in time to board the bus for the plane. (We probably would have missed it if Mom hadn’t sent Snap on ahead to let them know we were coming.)

On the plane, I read some more Lithuanian history and found out that the Millennium Celebration of Lithuania as a historically mentioned entity is connected with the Lithuanian’s martyring St Bruno. You’d probably know him as St. Boniface.

(Ironically, the Oak is symbolic for Lithuania. Snap: I thought St. Boniface cut down the Oak. TQ: And the Lithuanians cut down St. Boniface... [Yeah, I know. It’s pretty lame.])

Lithuania (Christianized by that time) also finally defeated the Teutonic Knights, ending their era of power, at the battle of Zalgiris or Grunewald under Grand Duke Vytautas. I also found out something very, very, very interesting. Apparently, at the time of Luther, the Grand Master of the weakened Teutonic Order corresponded with that reformer; the outcome being that both he and the greater portion of the Order became Lutheran and the former head of the Teutonic Knights swore allegiance to the Grand Duke of Lithuania as – guess what! – the Duke of Prussia! (That explains alot!)

Anyway, we landed in Vilnius, claimed our baggage, and were greeted by our hosts. (No customs, no passport checks.) They dropped us off at the flat which their friends had kindly agreed to let us borrow and left us to sleep for a few hours (after the mistress of the flat fed us well!). At 7pm, they picked us up and took us to see a bit of the city of Vilnius.

First we visited a cemetery in which rested a monument surrounding the graves of 14 persons killed by the Soviet tanks in an attack on a TV tower guarded by the Lithuanian nationals. Then we walked through Cathedral Square (past the Palace of the Grand Dukes of Lithuania and the Cathedral) and took pictures of the statue of King Gediminas – the first king of Lithuania. We climbed a hill above the Square, overlooking Vilnius, whereon were planted three immense white crosses. As our host told it, the original crosses were pulled down by the Soviets, but buried by the people before they could be destroyed so that after re-independence they could serve as a model for the present monumental crosses. (We saw those original pieces also). Finally, we left one of our newlywed friends with her husband of a few days (they were so beautiful together) and went with the other to meet his family and have dinner.

The family is lovely. The boy is one of those young men who just capture a place in my heart on first acquaintance. He’s witty, charmingly unembarrassed, yet sensitive and comical. Of them all, he spoke English the most fluently. The girl is wonderful as well, sweet, and very helpful. It was so nice to have another female to hang around with and to help translate despite age differences.

Wednesday, July 1st – Museum and Concerts, Concerts.

In the morning, our host took us to an open air museum of historic Lithuanian life. Traditional farmsteads from each sector of Lithuania form replicas of small settlements in the countryside. Interpreters in traditional dress explain architecture and traditions. (unfortunately, not in Anglishke) We had a lunch of traditional Lithuanian food at a small cafe in one of these villages, and our host suggested we try a certain drink: Gira. He explained that it was made with bread dough left to sit for three or four days in water with sugar. (Snap and I grin at each other.) It was served us in a bottle; this was not the real gira, said he. Someday we should try homemade gira. (Snap drinks and whispers to me, “Do you think it is...?” I nod. “I kind of like it,” says she. I grin.)
We made it back to Vilnius just in time to catch the first festivities of the Millennium Celebration of Lietuva. First we watched a ceremony by the riverside which we couldn’t see much of because of the crowd. Monks from the Franciscan Monastery were chanting (I think they were real monks??) and girls in traditional costume were putting wreaths of flowers on the water. (No, Nick, we didn’t participate. :D) Then we ran to a Franciscan church (much defaced by the Soviets and still in the process of restoration) for what our host called “a concert” (I think that this term meant pretty much anything musical performed by one or two groups indoors. I’m still not sure) in which songs were sung by choirs – apparently songs about St. Francis (?). Then we ran to the Vilnius University church to hear a concert by the Lithuanian Boy’s Choir and another choir after them. Then we found our way back to Cathedral Square for a televised National Signing of Millennium of Lithuania Document thingy. Since it was all in Lithuanian, I’m not actually that sure what was going on, but different Lithuanian important figures spoke and choirs sang songs, and bands played, and people were honored, and video clips on the history of Lithuania were shown, and I saw REAL LIVE MONKS! (they were barefoot too...) We didn’t get “home” until very late.

During our entire first week in Vilnius, Snap and I discovered that (very unfortunately) whenever we sat down for more than 15 minutes, we would find ourselves struggling against an overpowering urge to sleep. It was rather unpleasant because we were in constant fear that our host would think we were bored and be hurt.

Thursday, July 2nd – Day of Churches, Song and Dance

We spent the first part of the day with our newlywed hostess visiting churches in the Old Town of Vilnius. They were all beautiful. It saddened one to see the destruction wrought by the Soviets still awaiting repair. Many churches had once been covered with beautiful frescoes where now only bits of colored plaster still suggest the artwork. Most of the churches we saw were Roman Catholic, but we saw a few Russian Orthodox as well. I found the Orthodox churches artistically a bit surprising. They differed from all the other Orthodox churches I’ve been in (in my vaaaasst experience of a grand 2!) and the Eastern art I’ve seen. Large western looking paintings graced the walls in some, even forming part of the iconostasis. Many of the icons were westernized and lacked the unique form and perspective of the eastern icons. Often I saw a mix of western paintings and eastern icons in the same space, right next to each other. In one Orthodox cathedral, I saw relicts of several saints (from the area) preserved and housed in an elaborately roofed box. I eyed some of the icons for sale a bit wistfully too. At one of the churches, a lady took us to a table, and through our translator told us to take one or two of the pieces on it. Most were paper copies of icons, but in addition to one of those, I was given a necklace pendant of Christ with the Theotokos and Snap received a miniature icon of St. Valentine. Awesome! (Now I have both an RC “dogtag” and an Orthodox one. I plan to wear the Orthodox one as there’s nothing theologically wrong with it that I can see. (And my Protestant friends might ask questions. [Naughty me]) The RC one (from a Baptist School’s Garage Sale :P ) petitions the Blessed Virgin to pray for us, which I am uncomfortable with. )

After lunch, we climbed a hill (in pouring rain) to Gediminas Tower, a tower preserved from the wall of the castle that once overlooked the center of Vilnius. For the slightly romantic girl who loves knights, armor and chivalry, the little bit of brick and stone was immensely exciting. I loved every bit of it, especially the view over Vilnius from which I could imagine how I would defensively and offensively arrange an army around such a fortress. Afterwards, we were handed over to our other host who took us to the National Philharmonic to hear philharmonic choirs from all over Lithuania and Lithuanian choirs from other countries. I’ve never heard anything like it. (The hall was packed, but our host somehow worked us in after half and hour or so of waiting on the steps. It was so worth the wait.)

But the day wasn’t over yet! We missed the final half hour of the Philharmonic Orchestra concert to run to the Song and Dance Festival (part of the Millennium Celebration) in an outdoor amphitheatre snuggled in a deep valley in a Vilnius park. People lined the hills to watch. We heard folk songs and watched folk dances (in traditional costume) till late into the night. (actually early morning) At the end of the Festival, the musicians played traditional polkas from each of the four provinces of Lithuania and our host dragged me and Mamita down for a dance. It was awesome!

Friday, July 3rd – Swimming and the Children’s Festival

In the morning our hosts drove us to a small inland lake to swim. It was quite cold, yet desire to be good guests proved a strong incentive. Once accustomed to the water, the swim was pleasant and refreshing. Falling through the floor of the changing booth was not. (I wasn’t hurt, just a bit scratched.) Afterwards, we went to the Children’s Choir Festival in which over 16,000 children from all over Lithuania sang for hours and hours and hours. It was also amazing. (Our host’s children sang and played in one of the orchestras.) After this even was over, we went to eat and then walked along Gedimino parkway, near the Parliament building. Our host’s wife related to us how she and her husband had stood at that very corner not so many years ago with many other Lithuanians, forming a living barrier around Parliament to protect it from Soviet tanks. (This occurred the same night as the assault on the TV tower.) She also showed us an exhibit with remnants of the blocks and barricades surrounding the building.

Saturday, July 4th – Genocide Museum, Mass, and Opera at a Castle!

Mom managed to use the internet to contact Daddy, courtesy of our flat hostess, before our host picked us up. The order of the morning was to be the Museum of the Lithuanian Genocide (Nazi and Soviet), situated in the former KGB headquarters in Vilnius. Cold stone speaks louder than anything our host could have told us. Upstairs we saw offices, displays on the Lithuanian Partisan resistance, the deportees to Sibera, the KGB infiltration and police rule. But downstairs we encountered the cells; cells for solitary confinement, water treatment, some padded to prevent suicide by tortured prisoners, the execution chambers. I had heard the tales, but had never seen. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. Our host didn’t say much, but he didn’t have to.

After that, we went to the Cathedral Square. Because of the Millennium Celebration, a media trailer had been set up at one corner of the square. Mom had been eager to use the internet to contact Dad, and Elle and I likewise wished for a clue of what was passing at home. Our host said that the loudspeakers had announced that everyone was invited to use the resources within the trailer (including computers with internet access). Nervously, with much glancing around us, Elle and I followed her into the booth. I managed to glance at my inbox and answer two emails, when all of a sudden I heard the televised microphone announcer behind me. I heard some sort of question, and turned just in time to see the announcer stick the microphone in front of Snap’s face. She turned bright red and whispered, “I don’t speak Lithuanian.” I heard the announcer chuckle and say something about “American” as he turned away. Mom totally missed the whole exchange, and we couldn’t convince her that we wanted to get out of sight NOW! Accordingly, Snap and I beat it out of there, leaving mom to spend another few minutes emailing.

Once Mom had finished with her internet communications, our host and we walked through the booths in the park next to the Cathedral square. It was full of various performing groups in traditional Lithuanian costume (singers, demonstrators, smiths, cooks, dancers, etc), vendors, and children and spectators of all sizes. Elle took pictures. At 5:00pm, we went to Mass with our host and his family (it was a special Mass that they had to be present for) and then drove to Trackai. Trackai is home to the best preserved medieval castle in Lithuania – a castle on an island. And as if that weren’t enough, we were going to see an opera – an famous Lithuanian opera staged in the castle. Several friends of our host’s son came along (they were hilarious and interesting. One looked like Prince Caspian while another spoke fluent English and looked like a Rohirrim from the LOTR movies.) We ate a light supper together at a cafe which included something akin to Pasties and a whole tall mug of gira! (I look at Snap and whisper, “It comes in pints!” She nods.” However, Snap did not like the homemade gira because of the pellet looking things floating in it.) I drank ALL of mine, pellets and all.

Unfortunately, it was raining when the opera began and we could barely see anything through the mass of umbrellas (the audience sat in the courtyard and the opera was staged upon the walls and on a platform in a corner. Even though it was in Lithuanian and I could understand none of the words (excepting a few names), I could follow the general storyline and I enjoyed the performance immensely. Our hostess also found a plot synopsis in English for us to read which greatly illumined the musical goings on. The Teutonic knights plot to take the castle, one princess marries her love, while her “sister” is deceived and seduced by the Teutonic envoy into betraying her people, is verbally chastened by her Lithuanian prince, and is murdered by the Teutonic envoy before reaching the castle. The Lithuanian warriors lose the battle and die in a burning castle rather than surrender. It was all very dramatic, including real fire! *eyes widen* Ooh, aah!

We took pictures in the dark in front of the castle.

Two items

2009-07-17T23:36:00.002-04:00

Two small items.

First,
I copied down the following from an excellent and much loved (and worn) shirt of a friend in Vilnius. It was accompanied by illustrations:

Optimist - The glass is half full
Pessimist - The glass is half empty
Realist - The glass is.
Idealist - The glass should be full
Feminist - His glass seems more full than my glass.
Environmentalist - Save the water!
Anarchist - Let's break the glass!
Capitalist - Let's sell the glass!
Chemist - The glass is... (proceeds to list the chemical formula of glass which I failed to copy down)

Also, on the way home from the SB airport, Grandpa bought us Burger King. I was appalled (though quite humoured) at the message on the paper cups:

HAVE IT YOUR WAY
Maybe you want a lot of ice. Maybe you want no ice. Maybe you want your top securely fastened, or maybe you want to go topless. Hmmm? Maybe you want to mix COKE and SPRITE. Maybe you want to let your cup runneth over (we wish you wouldn't). Whatever you do, make sure to have things your way.

Note to self: Why a Biblical allusion?

Note to Self

2009-06-27T13:46:00.002-04:00

Note to self:

Write down what you do and what you win in 4H unless you want a huge headache when applying for 4H Scholarships! You can't just look at a ribbon and guess what year it was given and for what activity...

And do it for your children, because they'll probably be just like you...

Observations

2009-06-26T23:33:00.003-04:00

1. When I am swamped I tend to blog more often and more mundanely. I seem to find more time, when I have no time, and then tend to say nothing in a manner intensely amusing to myself. Ironically.

2. This is a good post. Thankfully I read it before I read the next one, or I wouldn't have been quite as impressed with it.

3. This is an excellent post. It put together so many puzzle pieces for me. Wow. I'll probably be pondering for a while.

(I find it interesting that no matter what I read lately, I'm always finding myself traveling in a circle around the Eucharist, Sexuality (Marriage and Procreation), and Natural Law. Huh. I wonder why this is?)

Of course, my recommendation does not render these pieces "good." Check my perception before embracing it, as I usually bestow my verbal approbation rather quickly and impulsively (hmmmmm. *ponders*) I could have failed in my speculative intellect... (eh, Dr. Tingley?)

Beddy bye!

What, ho! Who ever in the world scrubs fecal matter off goats and reads ethics pieces a few hours later, all the while so exhausted she thinks she's going to drop down asleep? I confuse myself sometimes. Now to sleep for four hours... (Goat Show in the morning)

Lithuanian Churches

2009-06-25T23:23:00.002-04:00

Seeeew.

Foist ov awl,

't 'pears dat da Evangelical Lithuanian Lutheran Church has been 'round fo' a loooooong time - since the Reformaysh. 't also 'pears dat da Evangelical Lithuanian is in full fellowship with da LCMS (my synod, in case anybody was wondering.... :P )

But 'part from that, I can't really say much else, since I don't speak/read Lithuanian. hmmm.

News
Ecumenical Contacts
Confession of Faith

No time, no time!

2009-06-23T22:08:00.002-04:00

One breath at a time. My chest feels so tight with anxiety and frustration that it's emotionally hard to breathe.

I want to scream, but that won't help anything. Just keep praying and doing, Sarah.

Lithuania trip is coming so fast, I have so much to get done. Ultimately, though (tries to realize this) I'm not going to die if these things don't get done, though I will disappoint people and maybe ruin my reputation.

Blah. Well, from God is my honor - therefore I'm just going to do what I can and try not to sweat the rest.

Cross as Noose, Noose as Symbol

2009-06-20T21:34:00.005-04:00

Finally I'm getting this post finished! I can't believe how long this is taking me and how busy I have been!

As for the bishop, the sight of the guillotine was a shock to him, from which he recovered only slowly. Indeed, the scaffold, when it is there, set up and ready, has a profoundly hallucinatory effect. We may be indifferent to the death penalty and not declare ourselves, either way so long as we have not seen a guillotine with our own eyes. But when we do, the shock is violent, and we are compelled to choose sides, for or against. Some, like Le Maistre, admire it; others, like Beccaria, execrate it. The guillotine is the law made concrete; it is called the Avenger. It is not neutral and does not permit you to remain neutral. Who ever sees it quakes, mysteriously shaken to the core. All social problems set up their question mark around that blade. The scaffold is vision. The scaffold is not a mere frame, the scaffold is not an inert mechanism made of wood, iron, and ropes. It seems like a creature with some dark origine we cannot fathom, it is as though the framework sees and hears, the mechanism understands, as though the wood and iron and ropes have their own will. In the hideous nightmare it projects across the soul, the awful apparition of the scaffold fuses with its terrible work. The scaffold becomes the accomplice of the executioner; it devours, eats flesh, and drinks blood. The scaffold is a sort of monster created by judge and carpeter, a specter that seems to live with an unspeakable vitality, drawn from all the death it has wrought.

Thus the impression was horible and profound; on the day after the execution, and for many subsequent days, the bishop seemed overwhelmed...One evening his sister overheard and jotted down the following: " I didn't believe it could be so monstrous. It's wrong to be so absorbed in divine law as not to perceive human law. Death belongs to God alone. By what right to men touch that unknown thing?"

Good Evening, Dear Reader.

The preceding excerpt flowed from the pen of Victor Hugo in his epic work Les Miserables, Fantine, Book One, IV (Works to Match Words). Reading to my brother several days ago (now a week and a half ago), this passage re-awakened a personal sadness over impoverishment of symbols and their meaning in the full sense of the word "symbolic."

Imagine wearing a guillotine or a scaffold around your neck. Imagine hanging a picture of a corpse swinging from the gallows on your wall. Imagine tracing a noose around your neck with your fingers. Imagine praying before a rack or torturer's wheel. Are you feeling nauseated yet?

Yet, as Christians, we do many of these things (their equivalent, at least) quite regularly.

For what is the Cross but an instrument of torture and death? And it was as much a symbol as the guillotine of Hugo's day to the Roman world. What was said of the guillotine and scaffold above that could not be said of a cross?Before God died upon it, the cross was a horror, the embodiment of shame and excrutiating, prolonged death. And for the Jewish and Pagan world encountered by Christianity in it's early years, the cross was still such a symbol. Hence "the reproach of the cross" and the "foolishness of the cross" and the "shame of the cross."

Now, culturally, it's merely decorative. We arrange flowers on it. We put it on our walls, on our shirts, in our churches, around our necks in silver and gold, stick it to our cars, even tattoo it on our bodies without even stopping to think about what we're doing.

But the Cross "is the law made concrete." It is not pretty. It is gory and revolting. One can talk all one wants about crucifixion and remain unaffected - just as I could mention "drawing and quartering" until I saw Gibson's Brave Heart. Now even the words sicken me. (For those who have read Saint Joan by Bernard Shaw [a perfectly frivolous work except for some delightfully profound lines] one might think of "the Chaplain"'s reaction to Joan's burning.) Would we be as silly, unthinking, and irreverent today in our use of the Cross if it were still the norm in criminal punishment?

Though we have never witnessed crucifixion ourselves, we nevertheless confess the Cross as the means by which Christ won salvation for the whole world by incalculable suffering. What does it say about our God and His sacrifice to lightly treat the symbol of His agony in our flesh?

I think of the days prior to my awakening to orthodox catholicity when I was party to mockery of Roman Catholics using the Sign of the Cross. (Yes, Confession time) Sure, I can plead ignorance - the "Romophobia" (term borrowed from an Anglican friend at Hope) of the circles in which I revolved in my early life. But that doesn't diminish the significance of the act. In fact, it almost underscores a new sort of shame which attaches itself to the cross these days.

1. There is a sort of shame among the Protestant contingent when it comes to any relation between the body and spirituality. For many of them, there's a disconnect between spirit and body, the two are treated separately, and the idea that something done to the body could have any spiritual significance is often spurned as false and superstitious. * Thus the water of Baptism and the bread and wine of the Eucharist cannot have any effect upon the soul, besides being "bodily" signs to remind the Christian of "spiritual" things.

2. As said above, the cross, culturally, has become almost "merely" decorative. There is a deliberate, if ignorant of the purport of the action, impetus to separate the cross from its function. (Perhaps there is a link to Modernism and Post-Modernism here that needs to be explored.) People (generic populace) do not automatically think, "grotesque death" when they see a cross. They think, "religious," "christian," "jewelry," or any number of other categories (which they also often incorrectly define). This is especially aided by the Protestant de-body-ing of crosses. Remove the corpus and you've got two perpendicular lines intersecting. With the corpus, the average yokel might think, "Catholic," "Jesus," "church," or even "corpse," before he gets going on the aforementioned list.
People simply don't see a cross as a cross anymore. The sign is no longer symbolic of its function .
This "de-body-ing" the cross does away with the shame of death. But somehow, effacing the shame of the corpse of true Man from the cross, does not mesh with an understanding of the true God who truly became incarnate of the Blessed Virgin bodily, truly suffered bodily, truly died bodily, and was truly raised bodily.

So, on two counts, the mockery of the Sign of the Cross went awry. First, it operated on a false confession that what is done in the body does not matter. A sign doesn't do anything, therefore it is superstitious. Never mind whether it can confess the faith - that's done "with the mouth." Second, it failed to even remotely recognize the intrinsic meaning of the symbol as relating to either death or Christ. Both in the secular and sacred senses, none of the little "sitters in the seat of mockers" made any further connection with the bodily tracing of the fingers than "superstitious Catholics." We felt no shame, because we recognized neither shame nor glory in the simple geometric shape of the cross.

What is left of the glory if the shame never was?

I mean, if there was no intrinsic shame in the cross, why is it such a wonderful thing that Christ has made this tree glorious?

At any rate, there's a lot to chaw on. I'm more and more convinced that words and actions mean and do things - they aren't meaningless, even when they are misunderstood and misused. The spirit is not separate from the body. Rather the spirit lives in the body - not in an alcove, but permeating and filling the material in such a way that both together constitute one being, "the reasonable soul and human flesh subsisting." Even so, (if not quite so precisely) signs and symbols are not mere combinations of color and line, words not mere combination of sound. But each contain within themselves a fullness of history and usage. (This is why I'd often rather have a used book than a new one. Used books bring love with them in dirt and scuffs, in yellowed repair tape, and reglued pages.) This culture has cheapened our words and symbols by both a reductionistic approach and an approach that denies a real reality. To weed a garden is not the mere mechanical motions by which a hand grasps a plant stem by means of muscular contractions and extracts it from the earth, but rather an action comprehending and participating in the weeding of all gardens by all women, the nurturing of family, the tending of soil, yes, even suggesting an icon of the work of the Ministry and unseen Spirit. In the same way, a cross is not two intersecting lines alone, but comprehends every crucifixion and death, justice and injustice, pain, ridicule and shame, culminating in the one great crucifixion which implicates life, justification, vindication, glory, and resurrection in the one word or symbol of a simple cross.

As Hugo says of the Guillotine, the Cross is a living thing, three dimensional in its function, physically and metaphysically. And more than that. In each dimension, the Cross is a paradox as justice meets injustice, sin enounters holiness, glory transforms shame, life conquers by death, perishable is raised imperishable, as the immortal God-who-is-Man dies in order that He might not live without us and that we might live as He lives, sharing the same body.

And Arg! It's 11:57pm. It so annoying to have a brainwave the night before church. I so hope I'll still be alert tomorrow for the sermon. Someone, just slap me. :P

*Luther (in The Freedom of the Christian does say, " And so it will profit nothing that the body should be adorned with sacred vestments, or dwell in holy places, or be occupied in sacred offices, or pray, fast, and abstain from certain meats, or do whatever works can be done through the body and in the body... On the other hand, it will not at all injure the soul that the body should be clothed in profane raiment, should dwel in profane places, should eat and drink in the ordinary fashion, should not pray aloud, and should leave undone all the the things above mentioned, which may be done by hypocrites."
But to say that this passage corroborates the prevalent Protestant position refered to above, is to ignore the sentence which sits between these two preceding and clarifies them: "Some thing widely different will be necessary for the justification and life of the soul, sincethe things I have spoken of can be done by an impious person, and only hypocrites are produced by devotion to these things."

Luther does not say that the soul and body are disconnected or that nothing done to the body can affect the soul and vice versa. He was not so foolish. Indeed, we are saved body and soul by Baptism - a sacrament of water accompanied by the Word and Spirit of God applied to the body to convert the whole person, marking them as redeemed by Christ Crucified for the life everlasting. (See Luther's Catechisms on Baptism) No, the simple point Luther aims to make is that justification is not meritoriously gained by a man's actions. Man is justified by faith - not a belief he works up for himself, but the gift of God which simply receives the forgiveness freely given into its hands by Christ. It is not a striving or reaching for, but a bodily open mouth into which another delivers sustenance. The soul is not removed from the body, but lives in the body and through the body.
Would we assert that what is done in the body is unrelated to the soul we might expect Luther to respond, "Not so, impious men, I reply; not so. Tht would indeed really be the case, if we were thoroughly and completely inner and spiritual persons; but that will not happen until the last day, when the dead shall be raised. As long as we live in the flesh, we are but beginning and making advances in that which shall be completed in a future life," etc. Not that in heaven we shall be bodiless, for what then would be the purpose of confessing that we believe in "the resurrection of the body"? As Hugh of St. Victor says (refer to Treasury of Daily Prayer, Writing for Friday, Easter 7), "But if I shall rise in an ephemeral body, then I shall not be the one who rises. For how is it true resurrection if the flesh cannot be true? Therefore, clear reasoning suggests that if the flesh will not be true, without doubt the resurrection will not be true. So also, our Redeemer showed His hands and side to the disciples who doubted His resurrection He offered them His bones and flesh to handle, saying: 'Handle and see: for a spirit hath not flesh and bones, as you see me to have.'"
All that to say that this Protestant idea is by no means an orthodox one nor can it be properly ascribed to Luther.

I Would Not Be Afraid.

2009-06-12T23:29:00.003-04:00

I do not want to be afraid any longer.

Pain, I will endure - it is my lot here on earth.
Longing, I will contain - it sustains my hope.
Love, I will give and not withhold - it nourishes the spirit

But Fear,
Fear corrupts Love, kills and squelches it.
Fear twists Longing, by strangling hope of fulfillment without abating the yearning.
Fear manipulates Pain, diverting it from it's proper end, and sealing lips that should pray.

Where shall I run from fear?

When I was small, I would run to my mother's arms, snuggle beside her in bed to escape nightmares. But she would always send me back to my own bed after the initial calm. Now I am too old to snuggle up in her lap. The fears I have now, my mother cannot calm.

But I am still a child of God. And I still have my Mother the Church. What then shall I do? Shall I run to her? I would - inasmuch as I am still a child. For only as a trusting child can I receive her comfort. And here is the sadness of it all. When I think myself begun to be wise, I begin to doubt my Mother. When I begin to doubt her, her gentle ministrations fall on skeptical ears. Ears which would believe her, but into which the wisdom of the world has whispered doubts concerning the wisdom of God. Kyrie Eleison!
So the child in me would cling to her skirts, would cry out to the Virgin's Son for His forgiveness - and does so. But when He bestows His blessed mercy and forgiveness, why does the upstart fool in me scorn His grace by doubting His absolution?

Our God's mercy is infinite, but how if I should fail to see Him? How shall my eyes be turned from seeing my own sin to beholding the righteousness of Christ? How shall I cease to call "unclean" what God has declared "clean"? And how shall I trust His Word that it is so?

God has not given us a spirit of fear. God the Holy Spirit drive out this fear which does not fear, love, and trust in God above all things, and fill the vessel of earth.

Book Lists

2009-06-07T20:09:00.004-04:00

Hey Dear Reader!

I'm getting ready to write a ton. Not just to write, but because I have an opportunity this evening (I think) to actually put to page some ruminations which I've been waiting a chance to blog. So, if new posts get a bit thick here, don't worry. They'll calm down soon. And, as always, remember that this blog isn't for you to keep up on my life: it's for me to have a place to spew and share the spewtle (It's a word now...).

So, I'm going to lead into this series of posts with some lists.

What I hope to read this summer:

Summa Theologica - Thomas Aquinas (at least parts of it. Yeah, I haven't been very faithful as of yet.)
Augsburg Confession and Apology Thereof
Iliad and Oddesy - Homer
War and Peace - Tolstoy (Courtesy of Mr. Rhein)
Phantastes - George Macdonald
Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Selections from Midieval Philosophers - ed. Richard McKeon (a garage sale book)

And others, as they turn up...

And now that the Lord of the Rings trilogy is out of the way, as well as The Man Who Was Thursday, I've had to pick the next books for my family/sibling reading aloud adventures. My goal is semi-classic/family friendly (read in "thinks will be Mom approved in language and taste")/ thought-provoking lit. that's comprehendable (in maturity also) by all sibs. Here's a tentative list.

The Scarlet Pimpernel - Baroness Orczy
Sir Gawain and the Green Knight - unknown (if the boys don't get bored with the poetry.)
A Man for All Seasons - Bolt

I don't know what to read them after that, but by the time we get there, they might be old enough to launch into some C. S. Lewis Space Trilogy or take on some more hefty fare.

I'm going to try to read Les Miserables with Lukie. He wanted to read it for family reading, but Mom wanted to hear a plot she hadn't heard before. I'd like to read the whole thing myself, but if I can do it with Luke, that'll be even better.

So I'm off to write some more....

And I Am Seized Once More by the Blogging Urge

2009-06-05T23:13:00.004-04:00

Dear Reader,

This is one of those nights wherein I ought to sleep instead of holding tryst with my computer keyboard in the dark hours of the night but in which I find that my mind is o'er brimming with words, though I am exhausted by my day. Hence, I take upon myself to write a short post. Hah! A hopefully short post which I may expand upon later.

I'm going to try to explain why I like the painting The Justice of Emperor Otto III by Dirc Bouts C 1460.

This particular diptych moved me greatly and I've developed a deep admiration for and attachment to it. In fact, I selected it as one of the paintings on which I wrote for my Augustine College Art final exam. Yet, when I mention my appreciation for this painting to family and acquaintances, I'm met at first with curiosity and then with, after I mention the subject of the painting, a sort of aversion and incredulity. You see, the two panels are titled, The Wrongful Execution of a Count and Ordeal by Fire.

What do I see in a work of art with such titles? First, take a look.

Prior to Augustine College, I probably would have barely glanced at these images or simply passed over them in disgust at the subject matter. But, thanks to Dr. Tingley, I was not able to treat this diptych so.

Such pictures, one would suspect, must certainly tell a story. As Dr. Tingley explained to the class, this diptych was painted for the wall of a hall of justice in the Lowlands. Strangely, the first panel depicts a miscarriage of justice - apparently historical.

Otto III, shown with his wife, gazing from the wall, has just sentenced a count, depicted in white below, to death. Otto's wife accused the nobleman of attentions to her after the count refused her overtures. The count walks to his death attended by executioners, priest, and his own wife who listens to him with downcast face. He swears his faithfulness to her and charges her to vindicate him. As the apathetic courtiers watch, the count is beheaded and the countess receives his head from the executioner.

In the second panel, the scene changes as the countess pleads her husband's innocence. To decide the point, she undergoes an ordeal by fire, meant to test in her own body the word of her husband against the Emperor's queen. If she is hurt by the red hot iron bar, her husband has played her false and deserved his death. If she is unharmed, he will be vindicated. The hot iron mars her not, the Emperor is aghast and his court astonished. In the background, the false wife of the Emperor burns at the stake for her slander and unfaithfulness.

At this point, please don't be repulsed by the tragic tale. True, it is tragic. It is sobering. But it is also beautiful in two points. One of these, Dr. Tingley brought out in his lecture: Human Justice ultimately accountable to Divine Justice.

Human Justice may be miscarried. Human Justice may be executed in anger and from false witness. Human Justice is fallible and may be twisted. Human Justice may condemn the innocent instead of aquitting him.

But Divine Justice will not and does not falter. Human Justice is accountable to Divine Justice. It is to Divine Justice and not Otto's Justice that the Countess appeals to as she confidently enters her ordeal. (Not that I'm advocating ordeals to determine guilt or innocence. Though, come to think of it, imagine how many criminals would continue to plead innocent if guilt were determined by ordeal!) Those who administer Human Justice ought to tremble before the Divine Justice to which they will be called to account. For those who such ministers condemn, fully believing them guilty though they were actually innocent, will be vindicated by the One who entrusted the sword to them.

Imagine being the judge who had to hear cases sitting before this diptych! What serious weight would it add to your judgements by its silent reminder of both the frailty of your justice and the Divine Court of appeal.

But there's another beauty to this painting-narrative which Dr. Tingley didn't touch on. This diptych could also be dubbed "A Tale of Two Wives" - one a faithless adulterer, the other a trusting, obedient wife. Both husbands trusted their wives. One betrayed and used his trust while the other upheld him even in his death.

Frankly, I'm quite amazed at the Count's wife. Her acts testify to a marriage of implicit trust between the partners. Honestly, how many women would first of all, believe a husband's assurance of fidelity when he had been condemned to death for unfaithfulness? And after that, how many women would trust such a husband to the extreme of testing his word in their own flesh?

Yet, this woman doesn't merely "trust" her husband in thought alone, or "hope" that he was faithful. She hears his promise as he's led out to die for breaking it and believes him. Not only does she believe him, but she quietly receives his final charge to prove his innocence. Her loyalty remains even after her husband's execution, nor does the shame deter her from keeping his trust. She appeals Otto's judgement and, moreover, does not satisfy herself with mere pleading. She offers her very body to test the Count's innocence. She trusts him not with her words alone, but with actively, she still trusts her very flesh to her husband just as she did in his life. The Countess enters the ordeal with a double confidence: a confidence in her husbands truthfulness, and a confidence in God as the just confirmer of the truth and vindicator of the innocent. Without such confidence, she would have reason indeed to tremble for her body. Yet neither of her confidences betray her - the faithful wife, obedient to her husband's last charge, passes the trial scatheless.

It is this unquestioning, undoubting trust and confidence in God and husband which marks the Countess' marriage in this pictoral narrative and so endears the diptych to me.

My brain isn't working well tonight, but I hope that was intelligible. Am not going to review before posting.

Comic Relief!

2009-05-31T23:15:00.004-04:00

Dear Reader,

As I am in need of and currently enjoying little comic relief at this time, I thought I share some.

First, you simply must head over to Snap's place and read the history test! It's priceless.

Secondly, that Pine Cone Boy has given me permission to post quotes he took from Augustine. I stealed them from his blogses. Editorial Note: if there is a "me" in the following it signifies Zack. I must have forgotten to change it. Also, Bladerunner is Dr. Bloedow. And Metelsk is Dr. Metelski. And the funniest quotes are at the bottom so you really do have to read the entire thing!

Kyle: When I say there are seven students in my class, people ask, “You mean seventy, right?” “No, seven.”
David: “It’s kinda like seventy…”
Kyle: “…only divided by ten.”

Joel: Please tell me we have internet.
Zack: Nope.
Joel: Gah! My life is over!
Kyle: That was short.

Zack: I bet I know more Swedish than you do.
Kyle: (pointing at IKEA package) Then tell me what “Malm” means!

Zack: Fudge’d!

Joel: We have to make up a name for the frat we started five seconds ago. What rhymes with “frat”?

(On Joel’s strangely constructed closet)
Kyle: I can just imagine you sitting up there, reciting poety and thinking up rhymes for “frat”.
Joel: It’s like Narnia back here… ‘Oh, hey Aslan. Can you think of a rhyme for “frat”‘?

Me: Malm’d!

(This was a hypothetical dialogue Dr. Tingley was describing)
Torturer: Tell us who your accomplice is!
Victim: I like sardines.

Samantha: (on a fuzzy picture Tingley wanted us to indentify) It looks like a bat with a cleft lip.
Tingley: (on the same picture) Only one student has ever guessed it without any hints or prompting. He was one of the worst students that year, but he guessed it.

Tingley: People used to read Plato after supper, whereas now they read John Grisham or… Harry Potter. (looking at Zack's weird expression) I’ve probably offended some people already.
Zack: No, I just wish everyone would stop staring at me!

Kyle: Is there somewhere I can park around here without getting one of these? (holds up parking ticket)

Zack: The Basement People are on an excursion. Get all your hammering done now!

Harold: (on whether or not the Basement People would steal our stuff) I don’t think you’ll have any problems with them. (pause) I’m a little worried about your laptops.

Kyle: Also, when it’s raining, that tree tries to kill you.

Zack: (on Joel’s techno) Is that the song or are you rewinding?

([Zack]'d sat down next to Kyle with a creepy smile on [his] face)
Kyle: I thought you were trying to get me to drive you somewhere.
Zack: No. I just like being insane and enjoying every minute of it.

(later)Kyle: (on Joel) He’s insane and enjoying every minute of it!
Zack: Hey, at least I’m not smellily insane.
Joel: What?
Kyle: I think he doesn’t like your dreadlocks.
Joel: You’re a shameless antagonist!

Zack: (pointing at David’s cereal) Can I have some of that?
David: No… listen, my cereal is like your ice cream.(pause)
Zack: I’ll trade you.(Joel and David laugh)
Joel: I guess it’s not… that was really funny. (laughs some more)
Zack: OK, I guess I’ll have to write that one down…

Kyle: Huh? (opens a book cover which folded out without anything on it) I don’t get it. Why?

Dr. Patrick: Atheism explains nothing and leaves you with all the problems. At least Christians can blame God, and he doesn’t seem to mind.

Dr. Patrick: Do the hardest thing you’re capable of.
Joel: What?
Dr. Patrick: Do the hardest thing you’re capable of.
Joel: Oh. I thought you said, “Do the hardest thing and your head will blow up.”

Janice: Do you want anything to eat?
Clement: No, I’m fine.
Dr. Patrick: You don’t look it.

(Sarah was telling how she RA’d for another college once, and contrasting the guys’ disgusting residence with the girls’ lovely one)
Sarah: The girls’ house smelled really nice, with cookies and brownies…
Dr. Patrick: And not an intelligent word to be heard.

Bladerunner: In this course, you will never, never be allowed to say, “There is two”.

Kyle: (on his church) Most of the congregation is Chinese. And then you have a few token Caucasians such as myself.

Joel: Choir was mandatory, so I took that for a few years. Can’t read music. Then in high school I took band, and I was the trumpet. Still can’t read music.

Rev. Hayman: There have been a few people over the years who have gotten away with calling me “Dougie”.
Joel: Can I be one of those people?

Kyle: The rain is deceivingly wet.

Dr. Tingley: (reading Hegel) “To pit this single assertion, that ‘in the Absolute all is one,’ against the organized whole of determinate and complete knowledge, or of knowledge which at least aims at and demands complete development — to give out its Absolute as the night in which, as we say, all cows are black — that is the very naïveté of emptiness of knowledge.” (pause) Hwat?!?

(We were trying to translate the Latin idiom “Si vales, valeo” into a corresponding English expression. Various attempts included, “If you’re well, I’m well,” “If you’re fine, I’m fine,” “How are you,” and others)
Bladerunner: (clarifying) HI!!!

Dr. Tingley: Sorry I’m late today.
Joel: We’ll forgive you. Well, I will, anyway.

Dr. Tingley: If the fart, I mean, the heart… I’m really sorry these lectures are recorded.

(Emily was telling us how she abbreviated words like “tradition” and “delicious” to “tradish” and “delish”)
Zack: Gah, I HATE it when people do that!
David: Oh, it doesn’t mat to me.

Metelsk: Everyone has a book at home?
(we nod) Good. It has nice pictures.

Kyle: (on his Literature notes) I put down here on the timeline, “William the Conqueror does his thing. CONQUER’D!” And then later, here’s Christopher Marlowe. STABB’D!

Metelsk: (explaining Anaximander’s theories) That was his thinking. Well, good try.

Karen: Deer are so stupid! *sigh* We should just shoot all of them.

(I mentioned I was planning to bring an axe to the Ranch)
Janice: An axe? A hatchet maybe, or a tomahawk…
Karen: I love throwing tomahawks. (mimes doing so)
Sarah: See, this is what makes me afraid of Americans. Americans and Zack.
Zack: I like weapons.

Zack: (finishing drying pot lid) Here’s your LID.
Joel: Put it on the pot, please.
Zack: Never. I’ll die first.
Joel: That can be arranged.

Bladerunner: (coming out of a long tangent about Roman history) No, we didn’t do the verb… why am I talking about this? We’re supposed to be doing Latin…

Bladerunner: A noun in the nominative plural.
Karen: …Virorum?
Bladerunner: Oh no, no, no, don’t do that to me, Karen.

Bladerunner: First verb.
Joel: Amicos…
Bladerunner: Now Joel. Now Joel, don’t ruin my day.

Bladerunner: The verb?
Kyle: Iram… no, what am I doing…
Bladerunner: I don’t know what you’re doing. It puzzles me.

Bladerunner: “Caecilianus has a lovely dinner-guest.” (pause) A pig.

Bladerunner: Direct object.
David: Leonidas.
Bladerunner: Now David, don’t make my life miserable.

Bladerunner: The verb?
David: Salvi?
Bladerunner: What are you trying to tell me.

Sarah: The next chapter is exactly the same as the last one, except with masculine endings.
David: But that’s not exactly the same, then!

Joel: They look young and stupid. Why aren’t they in school?

Karen: (watching a beatboxing video) Can you imagine how much spit is in that microphone?

Prof. Warren: I won’t read all this; I don’t want to kill your brain cells.
Zack: You already have.
Prof. Warren: Yes, well, hopefully we’ve created a few along the way…

Kyle: I’ve decided to form a club called, “Paradise Lost: WTF?”

Joel: (on the Cyclopes) They’re irreparably nucleic.
Prof. Tucker: Now there’s a phrase.

Zack: I’m pretty sure I’m the metalhead of this residence.
Joel: Yeah. (pause) Actually, I’m not sure you are…
Zack: You’re right, I’m just a poser.
Kyle: Wow, that was a quick confession.

Rev. Hayman: (making some kind of Biblical illustration) If you hear a loud roar outside… (a bus rolls by loudly outside) …well, that’s not quite what I was thinking of…

Tingley: Something in my brain is upside-down.

Joel: Why won’t it just get cold?
Zack: Zeus is angry at us. We must make hecatombs.
Joel: We’ll pour out libations and slaughter a cow. Except I don’t have any cows. (looks out window) I hope that guy will do.

Tingley: We’ll be able to end early today. Mercifully. For once. (we didn’t, btw)

Tingley: (on a bust of a philosopher) What’s different here?
Samantha: He looks insane.

Tingley: (on a sculpture of Aphrodite and Pan) She’s got a slipper here, and she’s going to whack him. “Oh, you naughty thing!”

Emily: They’re probably in numerical order. Two coming after one, etc.

Clement: So how’s everyone tonight?
Zack: Peachy. I’m just peachy!
Sarah: I think we need to stop giving Zack sugar. And caffeine.

Note attached to plant: I’m drowning. Don’t water me, please!

David: (telling a joke) What do white children turn into when they go to heaven?
Joel: Black people?
David: No, angels.
Joel: Same thing.

Emily: (dramatically speaking of the alleged Beowulf movie) As Grendel’s arm was ripped from his body, so the plot of Beowulf was ripped from the poem!

Joel: (on Beowulf) He killed seven people before he was born.
Emily: Yeah. “I ate my twin!”

Karen: That’s not the question I was expecting…
Tingley: Deal with it.

The following bracketed quotes are from a film Dr. Tingley showed us:

[Narrator: Each man puts forth his own definition of love until finally, Socrates annihilates them all.

Teacher: Beautiful speech. Beautiful. But of course... it has to be demolished.]

Me: I have a possible solution to the subjective dilemma you find yourself in.

Karen: That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!
Joel: You don’t hear much, do you?

Kyle: I learned all this reading Tom Clancey novels.
Prof. Tucker: Yeah, they teach pretty much everything in those except character development.

Zack: Look, did you have some kind of weird drink at that party?(pause)
Joel: (in really weird voice) The weirdest.

Tingley: That’s a good question, and we should answer it — just not now.

Sarah: I’m a horrible person.
Kyle: But it’s such a nice horrible.

Bladerunner: And who do you think Ovid is speaking to?
Kyle: Umm… who’s Ovid?

Prof. Warren: Well, we’re finishing up Gregorian chant today, believe it or not.
Zack: I don’t believe it.

(the following exchange took place on MSN)
Zack: Where are you?
Joel: I’m listening to MM in hermitude.
Zack: Hermitude? I think you mean the Hermitage, my friend.
Joel: No, hermitude. It’s like solitude, but with a beard.

Rev. Hayman: What’s the word you use for a people like this? Common lineage, common language, common goals…
Joel: …communists?

Prof. Tucker: (on Buechner) His theology is not orthodox, but… y’know. Who cares.

Tingley: Plato called Aristotle “The Reader”. Which is a good thing to be called. (pause) Better than “The Gamer”.

Tingley: Please excuse the proximity in that sentence of God and a dung beetle.

Prof. Tucker: …the reign of King Elizabeth.
Zack: Umm… isn’t that Queen Elizabeth?
Prof. Tucker: No, King Elizabeth sounds right to me.

Prof. Tucker: “Interactional synchrony.” Sounds like a Police album.

Prof. Tucker: “Most drafts can be cut by 50 per cent without losing any information or losing the author’s voice.”
David: Wow. That’s a lot of per cent. That’s almost, like, half.

Sarah: Does Wolsey get his head chopped off?
Prof. Tucker: No, I think he just dies.
Kyle: I’d like to point out right now that those two things aren’t mutually exclusive.

Kyle: I think you really need to revise your definition of “feet”.

(Joel’s laptop starts making a weird beeping noise)
Tingley: Where is that noise coming from?
Joel: My laptop. And it’s never made that noise before. I didn’t think it was capable of making that noise.(pause)
Tingley We — we don’t have to flee the building?

Bladerunner: The Rape of Lucretia, that’s a nice story…

Dr. Patrick: (to Zack) Yes, your veins are fairly prominent!

Joel: Sir, if you had a knife, would you beat someone with it?
Rev. Hayman: I’d be inclined to use a hammer.

Dr. Patrick: So since you got the Templeton Prize, how has your life changed?
Dr. Heller: It has been RUINED.

Dr. Heller: Cosmology is more narrow. Cosmology is concerned with one thing only: the universe.

Joel: (on his scarf) It’s like a day-long hug from a very fluffy man.
Janice: Or an attempt to strangle you from a very weak man.

Tingley: When you hear people talk about art, what do you think of?
Zack: I think of film, actually.
Tingley: Well, you would, wouldn’t you.

Rev. Hayman: What does “amen” mean?
Zack: (remembering that we’d looked this up, but I couldn’t remember what it meant) …aw, crap.
Rev. Hayman: It does not mean “aw, crap”.

Tingley: Now, some people don’t like the word “argument”.
Zack: I like the word argument.
Tingley: We know you like it, Zack. That might be the first thing we learned about you.

Prof. Tucker: (on the Rime of the Ancient Mariner) First reactions?
Dave: I liked it.
Prof. Tucker: OK. Why?
Dave: Uhhh… it was cool…

Tingley: …the forum here was populated only by pigs, deer, and vegetables…

Bladerunner: What case is “tibi,” Kyle?
Kyle: Umm… dative?

Bladerunner: Dative. Dative, David. (pause) David dative. Dative David. (chuckles)

Karen: (on how she’d been using Emily’s method of abbreviaysh) I was doing the Scriptures reading and I thought, “justificaysh”.
Zack: Heh, and sanctificaysh.
Dave: Whoa, guys. That’s not funny. It has to do with your salvaysh!
Joel: (coming over) Hey guys, I really enjoyed that talk on the Transfiguraysh.

Kyle: I like carnage, OK? Nothing wrong with that.

Kyle: What did I tell you about dreamworlds of magic? No more dreamworlds of magic!

Tingley: Does everyone agree with that? Or do we have… dissenters?

Tingley: In a syllogism, two negatives don’t make a positive, they make a big nothing.

Tingley: Is it valid?
Joel: No. Yes.
Tingley: I got a “no” and a “yes”… FROM THE SAME PERSON!

Tingley: (speaking of Zack) I just wish we could dial the irony knob down, though…
Dr. Patrick: No no, rack it up!

Dave: I dunno… is there such a thing as too much Bach?
Prof. Warren: (immediately) No.

Joel: (on the garbage) It sounds like some fruity tree gone wrong.

Emly: I need something abrasive. Can I borrow your personality?

Nova: I feel like one big frozen nose.

Tingley: (looks at Joel’s tea) Looks like Joel’s poured himself a nice scotch.

Joel: Accept my hospitality or I’ll KILL YOU!!!

Nova: Somehow proximity to the food makes me feel safer.
Emly: You clearly haven’t seen me cook.

(watching Andrei Rublev)
Cyril: It’s like Ottawa: always winter.
Nova: But never Christmas!

Zack: Some people don’t think squirrels will be in heaven.
Emly: (in silly voice) Well, the people who think that are probably not going there anyway.

Rev. Hayman: Were you saying something, Samantha?
Samantha: Oh, I was just gonna say what Dave said.
Rev. Hayman. Oh. You might want to change that… I was about to rip him to shreds.

(Tingley rings “bell” for quiet in the class)
Joel: Every time you do that it makes me think of a wedding.
Tingley: What do I have to do to shut you up.

Cyril: (to Jesse) Ah, you Eastern Orthodox weren’t REALLY worshipping God this morning because you were praying in a language you could understand!

(Cyril says something about the pope)
Jesse: Who you worship.
Cyril: We VENERATE the pope, we do not WORSHIP him…
Jesse: Yes you do.

Hey Roomie!: Strategies for Living with Your Room-mates, Housemates, (and Other People) Without Outwardly Breaking the Fifth Commandment.

2009-05-29T17:08:00.003-04:00

Stuff I've gleaned from doin' it, readin' 'bout it, thinkin' it throoo and talkin' it ovah.

· If this arrangement is going to work out, you’ve got to go into it PLANNING on MAKING IT WORK! If you don’t want it to work, then, believe me, it won’t. A healthy relationship takes effort and sacrifice– a ton of it.

Most of your relationships up till now you entered into by choice. You were attracted to something about the other person or shared a certain something (activity, quality, characteristic) in common. This is different. The only thing you are certain to share with your roomie is your room. That means you’re going to have to cultivate a relationship from the ground up, even if you’d rather not. Don’t think you can ignore this person – there’s nothing like a stranger in your private refuge. In order to be able to take any relaxation at all in your quarters, you’ve got to learn to relax with and trust your room-mate. The converse is also true. Make your roomie miserable and her miserableness will make you miserable.
Don’t start out pessimistic about the arrangement. If you do, your prophecy may very well become self-fulfilling. Go into the situation dissatisfied and things will deteriorate from there.

· Talk to your roomie! Communication is critical here. Don’t just think and look pitiful and expect her to get it. She won’t and she’ll freak out. Tell her what’s on your mind and what’s bugging you (even if you have to abbreviate it or explain it simplistically). That way, she’ll get to know how to interpret you and she’ll understand why you are acting the way you do. Explain your reasoning behind your feelings and acting so that she can understand why something bugs you. She might not think the way you do and might not understand why you are upset otherwise.

· Listen to her! This is even more important than talking. And I’m not referring to staring at the wall and grunting while she’s speaking. I mean ACTIVE LISTENING. Look at her when she’s talking to you. If you can, stop what you are doing and give her your complete attention. Don’t interrupt her. When she’s finished speaking, let her know you heard what she said by summarizing it back to her. Ask her if this is what she is saying. Ask questions to clarify and let her know you are concerned about her.

· Make your roomie your first research project. I don’t mean rooting out all the little tidbits of her life. I mean, RECOGNIZE THAT YOU KNOW ABSOLUTELY NOTHING ABOUT THIS GIRL! Honestly. The stuff you assume about her probably isn’t accurate. Don’t assume you understand how she feels, what she’s going through, what she wants, how she will act, or EVEN WHAT HER WORDS MEAN! Her whole life and background has probably been completely different from yours.
So FIND OUT ABOUT HER. Ask her about what is important to her. Be interested in what she’s interested in for the sake of understanding her. Don’t be dismissive or ridicule what she values, but try to understand why she values it. Find out what gives her pleasure and what makes her uncomfortable and afraid. And PET HER A LITTLE BIT! She’s scared, ok? Help her feel comfortable in the way that makes her comfortable if it is at all right and within your power. Usually, it takes only a very little effort to comment about her nice sports shoes or encourage her to sign up for the Intramural team she really wants to be on, or help her carry her bags up the stairs, or walk with her to the cafeteria. You’ll be amazed how far a little interest in your roomie will go.

· Talk about living arrangements from the get-go. You’ve got to have some mutual understanding about how you are going to live, what is off limits, and what you must get each other’s permission for. DEFINE THE PERAMETERS AND LEAVE NOTHING UNSAID! Don’t be afraid to discuss even the most basic and ridiculous little things. Don’t assume that, of course we’ll both do this or that. Develop a basic understanding about the fundamentals of your life together and agree upon rules that will define your relationship and guard your trust of one another. Hope College had a very nice list of things roommates had to discuss and agree upon within the first week of school. We actually had to sign it and turn it into the R.A. to be used to settle any disagreements later in the year. If you are not given such a form, seriously consider writing up one between your room-mate and you. Discuss such things as:

Ø Curfew

Ø Who is allowed in the room and when (includes parents and sibs)

Ø Locking doors (when and who gets a key? You might also want to lock up some of your own valuables.)

Ø What stuff of yours is off limits (e.g. your clothes, cell phone), what stuff can be shared (e.g. tissue box, alarm clock, fans), and what stuff you’ll lend to her when she asks (e.g. stationary, blank paper, pencil).

Ø Bathroom, Cosmetic, toiletry arrangements. (If you have one mirror, sink, toilet or shower between the two of you, who gets it when and for how long?)

Ø Dressing. What is your room-mate comfortable with? (Some of us girls are squeamish about dressing in front of others. Some are very, very not and a few can be almost in your face about it. My room-mate and I were both more on the super-modest end of the spectrum. When my room-mate was in the room, I often took my clothes to a shower stall in the [communal] bathroom to change. She often did likewise. If one of us was still in bed, we accommodated each other by turning toward the wall. If one needed to quickly change for something, one asked first before whipping into and out of clothing. It was much like privacy arrangements were when me and my sisters shared a room)

Ø Friend arrangements. What are friends allowed when it comes to your room? Can they ever be invited to sleep over? Can they walk in at any time? Is all socializing to be outside of the room? If your roomie’s friends come into the room while you are gone, will your roomie keep an eye on your stuff and vice versa? How will friends let you know that they’ve been by to see you? Do you have a message board for the door or will your roomie leave you a note?

Ø Sleeping, Studying and Late Night Hours. How much sleep do you and your roomie want to get a night? What conditions do you both need to sleep – dark, semi dark, nightlight, shades drawn, computer screen ok? What are your sleep patterns: are you a morning person or a night person? Do you sleep-walk or talk and how seriously are you to be taken if you randomly start talking at night? (I scared my room-mate the very first night by talking about a heart-attack in my sleep :D )

At some point, one of you is going to have to put in some late night hours or study or work. What are you going to do in this situation? Where will the night owl work? (Renee and I had a really nice system worked out. Whenever the first one of us wanted to go to bed, the other agreed to either put up her work and turn in also, or take the work out to the hall, study lounge, or library. We left a small flashlight in a designated place so that the late one wouldn’t have to turn on the lights when she finally went to bed. We both had our share of being the late one. In the morning, we usually got up together, but if one wanted to sleep longer, the other used the flashlight again [or just the morning light] to gather what she needed. If we went to bed at the same time, we asked each other what time each girl planned to get up so that we could plan accordingly and not be surprised in the morning.)

Ø Music, Cell Phones, TV, video games, singing, playing instruments. Talk about what’s acceptable when. Do you prefer your roommate to take long telephone calls outside of the room? Do you mind her playing music or watching television? Only at certain times? What other noisy/potentially distracting things bother each of you or would you both prefer to limit? Are there certain categories of media either of you has moral or religious objections to?

Ø Religious observance and Politics. Do either of you expect to use your room for any sort of religious activity and how does the other feel about that? (includes devotions and religious symbols/imagery.)How much of the other’s religion or political stance will the other one stomach? How much is too much? Agree to be sensitive and respectful if not totally in accord.

Ø Decorations, pictures, graphics. Do you have any strong feelings about how the room is decorated? (Do you really just loathe that Artic Cicada Boa Constrictor hanging from the ceiling above your roomie at night? Don’t make critical remarks about it that leave her wondering or feeling insulted – just gently tell her that it bothers you, why it does, and suggest an alternative arrangement for the honorable impossible snake. ) What genre of pictures is acceptable to both of you? (Make sure porn is not an option, even though this may seem obvious.)

Ø Conflict Resolution. At some point you guys are going to rub each other the wrong way. You’re human, adolescent, female, strangers, and in a tight space. C’mon, it’ll happen. And it’ll certainly be both of your fault when it does. Discuss how you both want to resolve controversy and conflict. If your room-mate needs to talk it out with someone besides you, who is alright? Obviously you don’t want your laundry spread around the dorm. Will you both trust the Resident Advisor or Resident Director to mediate? What about a mutual friend? Agree to talk to each other about problems before griping to others. Agree to take complaints, requests, and suggestions graciously. Agree to work together to solve problems. Talk about a cool-down time, if you really blow the top, so that you can have a little space from each other.

Ø Accountability, Care, and Keeping Tabs. How much do you want to keep track of each other? A campus can be a big place and there may not be many there who will stop to ask questions if you don’t show up to class. Do you want to know/tell your room-mate roughly where she/you will be that day so that you can cover each other’s safety? If one of you wants to go to a party or other place, is the other willing to come along for security? How much notice do you need of major changes in her routine/special events and vice versa? If one of you gets sick, what should the other one do? How much care can you or are you willing to give? Whom should you call? What do you do for each other in an emergency – i.e. who should be notified of what?

Ø Alcohol, Drugs, and Tobacco. First of all, what are the campus regulations for these things? Settle whether you and your room-mate are going to abide by the regs. Seriously! Within legality, what are your views, concerns, health needs, etc. concerning these things? What can you both not tolerate? What will one of you do if the other is acting illegally with these substances or has them in the room?

Ø Males. Are they allowed in the room? When and under what circumstances? What are they allowed to do in the room? What are they allowed to say in the room?

Side Note: Jammies probably shouldn’t be skimpy. There’ll probably be guys passing through the hall quite often if you’re in one of those dorm arrangements where guys are in one wing and girls in another separated by a stair. Running to a communal bathroom could get awkward. Bring a robe definitely if you’re not one of those who wear presentable PJs.

Ø Cleaning and Laundry. Who will clean your room and how often? Where will you put the laundry and trash? How often will each of you do your laundry? What level of tidiness is preferable? What level is barely tolerable?

Ø What will you do if one of you doesn’t abide by what you have agreed upon concerning the above?

· Be explicit. NO CONTEXT-RICH COMMUNICATION! Yes, we all love to leave things unsaid and simply understood between us. We like fun language with implicit meaning. RESIST THE URGE TO LEAVE THINGS MERELY “UNDERSTOOD” AND "UNSTATED!” It’ll just frustrate you both if you think you’ve said one thing, and your room-mate smiles and nods, thinking she’s understood you when she hasn’t or just doesn’t want to embarrass herself by asking what you mean. If your roomie uses context-rich language, SWALLOW YOUR PRIDE AND ASK HER WHAT SHE MEANS EVEN IF YOU THINK YOU UNDERSTAND HER OR IF IT MAKE S YOU LOOK LIKE AN IDIOT. It’ll save you grief later.

Say exactly what you mean in the clearest way possible (in so far as you can say exactly what you mean). At the same time, be tactful! Explain everything in the kindest way with the best possible interpretation of every scenario. If you are hurt by something your room-mate says or does, ask her about it. She probably doesn’t even realize she hurt you and likely didn’t mean you to take it in that way at all. If you hurt her, don’t be ashamed to apologize and ask her forgiveness. If she apologizes to you, don’t just mumble or look away or say, “That’s OK.” Such responses don’t bring closure to a bruised situation. Explicitly express forgiveness and bury the dead horse so neither you, she, or her friends can kick it again! (There’s my little context rich insertion into an otherwise explicit paragraph.)

· Identify communication barriers. Some people just don’t have the vocabulary you do. Words might be hard to find or might mean different things to her than they do to you. Hear with your heart and don’t pull her verbal message to shreds, even if it’s tempting. That won’t help anything. Recognize that the meaning she is trying to get across to you is probably not the exact literal meaning of her words, especially if she is worked up. Give her space and attention. Hear and try to understand before you talk. Summarize your understanding of her thoughts and let her clarify herself before you start to respond to her message.

RESIST THE URGE TO DEFEND / JUSTIFY YOURSELF! That’s the last thing you need when someone’s been intentionally or unintentionally hurt if you want to resolve the situation. Even if your intentions were good, somebody got hurt and you were part of the act that did it. Admit you blew it. It won’t hurt you to apologize. You won’t lose anything but your pride, and you’ve got more where that came from. :D (Too bad we can’t lose it all.) Not saying you can’t explain your good motivations – doing so will help your roomie understand why you did what you did – but make that PART of the apology, not preamble or modifier to it.

· Decide beforehand how you will deal with your little aggravations with your room-mate’s harmless quirks. Try your best not to show unnecessary irritation, especially with little qualities that are part of your room-mates personality. If they get too annoying, nicely ask her to cut down on them. She probably hasn’t a clue that they bug you.

· Please, acknowledge and be genial to your roomie’s friends. The last thing she needs is for you to ignore or belittle her friends – especially since she’s probably a little insecure in herself and in her new found friendships. You’re the only “family substitute” she’s got and she wants you to like and be nice to the people she’s trying to be friendly with. She wants them to like you. Don’t add to her stress, because you’ll be living with it. :D

· Remember that your roomie is NOT “out to get you.” She’s probably just as nervous and stressed as you are about living with another person. If you have to have a room-mate in the first place, it’s likely because there wasn’t enough room for everybody who wanted one to have a private room. That means that if she has to move out, she’ll probably end up rooming with the other person nobody wants to live with. She’s got a vested interest in making the room situation work.

My Mother always told me, “Never attribute to malice what can be accounted for by stupidity.” It’s good advice. The stupidity may even be your own and not hers.
Try to see problems and situations from her perspective. To do this, you have to ask about her perspective. When finding solutions to situations, make sure the solution will fix the problem from her perspective as well as your own.

· At the same time, don’t let her walk all over you either. Be firm when you need to be firm and KEEP YOUR WORD! If you said you would do something – do it, even if it’s something she’s not going to like. If you get into a situation where you are afraid of damage to yourself or your stuff from your room-mate, DON’T STAY IN THE SITUATION. Get help. Talk to your friends. Talk to your R.A and R.D. Talk to your parents.

· Remember that you both are females and have a lot of chemicals kicking around in your system. Eventually, both of you will probably start cycling in sync with each other. That means that if you are having a bad day, it’s likely that your roomie is too. Learn to recognize when you are being influenced by your physiology and not reality. Take a break and ride it out. Just try not to stress out about anything for a day or so. Things will likely look a lot brighter then and you’ll have a clearer perception of what’s going on. Your room-mate will too. Learn to recognize when your roomie is under stress as well. Learn to recognize when she just needs some space. Don’t take anything she says during these times personally. It’ll save you a lot of trouble.
I’d venture to bet that all my serious tension with my room-mate happened when one of us was either under extraordinary pressure, under hormonal influence, or didn’t look at things from the other person’s perspective. Most of the times, two or more of these things were combined.

· Your room-mate is either your most valuable ally or your most dangerous enemy in day to day life. Mundane living and nightly rest makes or breaks your academic life. This means that even if your roomie isn’t important to you as a person (because you’re a self-centered semi-truck ready to run everybody else off the road, or something like that) you still have a vested interest in her success, comfort, relaxation, and welfare. She’s not disposable. Invest time and concern in getting to know her, going out of your way to help and listen to her, and work at understanding her world. Her way of seeing the world might not make sense to you – but don’t ridicule it if it doesn’t. Yours probably looks just as silly to her. Finally, don’t give up if she has a bad day, or hide yourself away if you blow it. Keep praying for her, forgive, be forgiven, and make her concerns your own.

Yes, and I know I've forgotten something, but if you've gotten to the end of this post, you probably don't want to hear me repeat myself again!

A New Blog

2009-05-28T01:08:00.003-04:00

Good Morning.

I should have gone to bed. Too late now. I wanted to get this done and once I get a project into my head, if I don't do it right then and there, I'll never get around to it. Hence I am awake with a splitting headache at 1:08am. Blah. (Unfortunately, the internet went out without telling me and I lost the majority of this post. Double Blah. Rewrite. Triple Blah.)

But, I put together a new blog. No, I'm not getting tired of this one. I love this little adiaphoron where I can scribble away at adiaphora and that which concerns it. But I needed a place for serious, heavy academic work not suited to my free and informal little blog.

You see, I put so much work into some of my academic papers that it seems unjust for them to be only read once and that by my professors. In hopes that someone will get some use out of them, I began a blog christened ΓΡΑΦΩ - I WRITE. Unlike The Adiaphoron, which I have purposely left open to all viewers, ΓΡΑΦΩ is viewable by invitation only both to protect the integrity of my academic work and to limit my audience.

Not everything I write will go up there. So far, only one paper from Hope College and five of my Augustine College papers struck me as suitable. But in this way, I can share what may be shared in hopes that it may be useful apart from the academic sphere alone.

So, if you've any bit of interest, just comment or drop me an email and I'll send you an invitation. It's not very exciting, so please, don't feel compelled or anything like that. It's just schoolwork.

Liturgy is Like Maccaroni and Cheese?

2009-05-20T17:31:00.003-04:00

Every family makes Maccaroni and Cheese a little bit differently. And each member of the family fixes the family recipe a bit differently.

Some cook it out-of-the-box and some cook it "out of the box." Some make it from scratch. Some use oddly shaped noodles. Some put in veggies and some put in meat. Some put in extra cheese. A few put in hot sauce. Some sprinkle on parsley or offer it as an optional side. Some eat it as is.

Among the veggie adders, one may encounter the advocates of brocculi, carrots, peas, tomatoes, and stranger animals. Among the meat includers one might meet mixers-in of hot dogs, sausage, ham, or weirder substances. And the advocates of cheese besprinkle the mac with breeds as various as the possibilities of that fungal growth.

Those are more of the purist cooks. Then you get the ones who like to experiment and mix. The ones who throw in all the leftovers from the fridge and hope no one notices the incompatible tastes. Or the ones who change the recipe every week, startling the tastebuds into a sort of annoyance.

But even this is still Maccaroni and Cheese.

There are still the noodles and there is still the cheese. Other little practices more or less compatible with the noodles and cheese may be added, but the basis of the Maccaroni and Cheese remains the same.

It's when the cooks start forget about the noodles and the cheese that the eater of Maccaroni and Cheese should get nervous. When the dish becomes more about how many colors of veggies can be fit into it, or how many leftovers can be used up in the process, or how different it can taste from Mrs. X's maccaroni and cheese, the eater fights an urge to panic and go back to plain noodles and cheese - no embellishments.

I like fried perch - but please don't put it in my Maccaroni and Cheese. Hot dog chunks, in the right proportion and right context, can serve and bring out the flavor of the cheese and texture of the noodles, but not always. Sometimes the hot dogs can distract from the dish itself. Even brocculi in the wrong amount, or cooked incorrectly, can simply deter a child from eating and enjoying his Maccaroni and Cheese. Something about the stringy green against the yellow disgusts him - he just can't bring himself to put a spoonful in his mouth. Brocculi, most often a wonderful addition to any dish of Maccaroni and Cheese, has become a stumbling block keeping the child from eating his dinner, or enjoying it if he does taste it.

Embelishments are supposed to enhance the eating of the Maccaroni and Cheese. Where they don't, oughtn't they be left out or introduced gradually, so that the eater's tongue may come to find them palatable?

On the other hand, noodles and cheese cannot be disposed of and ought to be of the finest quality if they can be had. If one were to make Maccaroni and Cheese without noodles or cheese, it would cease to be the dish it was meant to be. Elbow maccaroni is good, but bowties set off the dish as a work of genuine art-cookery. Processed Cheese-Food is satisfactory and suitable for simple lunches, but genuine Cheddar suggests an entree of special quality and excellence for an occasion of the same.

Am I going crazy? If not, what have I forgotten in this nice little comparison?

Childhood trends discovered midst my day

2009-05-14T16:31:00.003-04:00

Life has been pretty busy lately. One wouldn't think it so, but I find home life much more demanding than college life. At college, one only has to take care of one's self, and maybe go out of the way for a few fellow students and friends. At home, the continually renewed mess, the cooking, the weeding, the chores all belong to everybody - if you're looking at them, that means you! At college, I was able to actually list out the things I wanted to accomplish and actually, on very, very rare occasions, get them done. At home, one perpetually puts off ones duties for other duties (and, yes, diversions like blogging. But doesn't Pascal say diversions are good?).

Today I got up, ate breakfast, was cold, snuggled in a blanket and my Augustine hoodie for about 10 minutes (hiding from the world), spent the rest of the morning weeding carrot bed (yes, singular: it's a looong carrot bed), and ate last night's leftovers for lunch. While I was munching dixie pie, the phone rang. Apparently, Dad had bought wood trim at an auction and wanted me to drive over the truck to pick it up. So I did. Apparently, he had also bought a truck with a broken brake-line for $250. :) That'a Dad.

Upon my return, I set myself against waste. I snuck through the house, pouncing on garbage with used grocery bags, trapping the squirming (well, maybe not squirming, but it's such a lovely descriptive word!) trash within tied up plastic and hurling it into the green plastic roadside abyss on wheels. Then I turned to the third chore Mom had particularly requested today and which inspired this trivial post.

It seems that I was to discover all workbooks, assignments, notebooks, etc, that I had ever completed (or, well, started, if not completed) in my homeschool career from all corners of the house and organize them into an organized chronological sequence in cardboard boxes so that they might eventually be put on the shelves Dad is soon to build.

The task was long, but immensely diverting. I found it a bit painful but very amusing to reread stuff I had written only a few years ago as well as stuff as old as 4th grade. But the best find of all turned out to be a red binder I had never laid eyes on before, curiously labeled "Sarah's Report Cards"

It turned out to be all my report cards, teacher-parent correspondence, and standardized test results from my years at Christian school. Very, very fascinating. I read them all.

And reading my ancient history, I discovered that, over all, I am not so different a person now as I was then. The trademarks of Sarah are still the same: not the things I notice about me, but what other people notice.

Every teacher commented on my big smile. Yeah, and I know exactly which one they mean. It's that great, big, involuntary, ear-splitting grin that makes my face feel like stretched rubber band - the one that Pasto' told me reminded him of the Cheshire Cat. It's the "post-FOR YOU post-Holy Communion" grin, or the one that happens when the little people do or say something sweet, or one of my Pasto's say something brilliant or comical, or when Daddy and Mommy hold hands or kiss, or when my mind wraps itself round an ingenious metaphor, or when I feel forgiven and free. I guess they're all wrapped up together in some mysterious un-named reality.
Back then (in elementary school) it was the "I love my teachers and competition" grin.

Every report card noted that "controls talking" was only "Satisfactory." :P No difference there.

Every report card commented on some limitation in the area of time management. Yes, I remember. I could barely get all my work done. I tried hard. But my homework and class time was cut short by Speech-Therapy sessions. (In retrospect, I wonder if that's what pulled me down in math - I was taken out of Math time and morning recess for Speech Therapy.) In third grade, I began voluntarily opting to forego afternoon recess in order to work on homework.

Oh, man! It's all coming back. Yes, I had attention problems. Probably about half of that voluntarily relinquished recess was spent staring at the wall trying desperately to get rid of that absent, wandering state of mind that couldn't remember what four plus six equaled. "Attentiveness" was another area marked "Satisfactory" on my report cards.

I read through all my speech therapy notes. Amazingly, I even recall having one of the conversations the therapist mentioned. I was terribly embarrassed to lead the Pledge of Allegiance with my slurred voice. I loved leading anything - I loved talking, I loved reading aloud - but though I couldn't keep silent, I couldn't speak correctly either.
I remember the day of triumph when I could finally pronounce all of the sounds satisfactorily. Just in time for the celebrated district "Speech Meet." I had practiced and practiced a poem (I think it was "Mommy Sleeps Late and Daddy Makes Breakfast"). To my surprise, I had won first place in my class and qualified for the speech meet. I worked painstakingly with my therapist to pronounce each word with clear phonetic sound and diction. Astoundingly, when the speech meet drew to a close and awards were announced, two students had achieved a perfect score: I and an adopted-Russian friend of mine who had also struggled with English.

With little surprise, I discovered that I had always been a tad behind in math. I wasn't horrible, just barely, or a little less than, satisfactory. Looking at the percentile bar graphs on my standardized test reports, I saw my math scores slide farther and farther to the left, until they reached "below average" just before Mom pulled me from school. My "problem-solving" scores followed a similiar retrogression as did something else that slips my mind right now. Interestingly, Mathematics has always pulled down my score on standardized tests.

My teachers also mentioned that I was zealous to give to missions (and mentioned what a selfless thing that was :P). I don't quite remember that distinctly, but I remember the spiritual state such giving grew out of. I was zealous because I was uncertain. I gave, not from total selflessness, but from a sort of struggle to be "good enough." The missions offerings went hand in hand with the fevered nightly prayers that God would have mercy and forgive my sins, as well as the bi-monthly "rededication" or "giving my heart to Jesus." I was thoroughly works-righteousness-ized to the point where I had turned singing "Rock of Ages" into a blend between desperate plea and brownie-point labour. Boy, am I glad that's over! (Yes, that was as early as 2nd and 3rd grade for certain, if not Kindergarten and 1st: Children d0 recognise sinfulness.)

The report cards commented that I seemed to through myself into my work with a sort of relish - at least after a certain age. This struck me almost as much as something that I said to Pasto' Stuckwisch about a year ago without realising how true was my statement. He and Anan and I had been discussing friends from early childhood and school. Somehow or other, he (or Anan) mentioned grades and how undriven or unconcerned children could be with them. I couldn't remember ever not being concerned about grades. (Goodness! I was concerned about my grades before I even started school! My nanny and I would practice math by counting stuffed animals so that when I entered Kindergarten I would "do well".) "My grades were my friends," I told Pastor, then the impact of the words struck me. It was, in a strange, almost twisted way, true. I loved my classmates in a conditional sort of way. I gave myself to my work and to my teachers, even if it wasn't apparent on the surface.

Perhaps that's why I can't get away from working, or if I do, I'm plain miserable. From Kindergarten, I loved achieving with all the competitiveness of the firstborn misfit. Sure, a good deal of the sense of being a misfit was probably false, but it was real to my mind; I experienced estrangement even if no estrangement actually took place.

But I learned something else from my report cards. I was reminded that my teachers loved me. It was their love that fueled my desire to learn from them, fueled my own love for them. They were beings like my parents and pastors - beings the very beholding of whom inspired me with an unsurpressable impulse to hug, which I frequently made no attempt to surpress anyway. But I had never realized before that I had given them joy. They gave me so much, but I did not know until this afternoon that perhaps, perhaps my joy in them fueled their love of teaching. If my early education had had no purpose but to give joy to teachers, it would have been worth it.

Anyway, I'm going to end here. I've got no great ending to ramblings, except to say that the lumber man delivered - guess what - in the middle of my organising. :D All that hard dried cellulose - wonder what Dad has up his sleeve for this batch? Tonight the family will enjoy some time together, and, if I know my brothers, we'll end up reading at least three more chapters of "The Man Who Was Thursday" as well.

Good night everyone!

Nursing School, here I come!

2009-05-07T16:17:00.002-04:00

I just had my interview with the Dean of Nursing this afternoon. It went wonderfully! She basically said that I am in (and part of the top cut) and she looks forward to seeing me this fall. I'm pretty elated.

Thanks to everyone who's been praying for me through this process. I think I can breathe again. Now at least I have some idea of where I'll be for the next two years - God willing. God has willed to shake up my plans a good bit the past couple years, so I'm fully aware that the coming years may not be as placid as they appear from this vantage point. But, heh, ready or not, here I come!

Headkerchiefs and Sarates are Back!

2009-05-06T22:55:00.002-04:00

So...Very Inane Post comin' right up.

Headkerchiefs are back! I'd taken up the practice of regularly wearing a bandana or handkerchief on my head the past year and a half, but had been obliged to give it up on the occasion of Mommy accidentally taking all my kerchiefs back to MI with her when she dropped me off at Augustine. I was a bit perturbed, but lived well without them.

Now I have found them again! And will wear them...as often as I can. (One can't really wear them properly when one puts one's hair up)

I first began wearing the kerchiefs and bandanas for fun. Then I noticed that they were cooler and kept the sun and bugs off of me and the hair out of my face. Then I noticed that some of them looked really nice (and would dress up a plainer shirt if worn around the neck). And they became a mini-personal-Sarah-fad. (I go through cycles of hair styles and I figured this was another one of them.) I was aware of the whole Biblical head-covering thing, but I wasn't wearing the dewrags (as a dear friend calls them) for religious reasons at all (though I was mistaken for doing so several times.)

Then, last Higher Things Conference, I struck up several conversations with a nicely accented pastor (in the course of my usual tradition of "pastor stalking" with questions). And in the course of the conversation, he inquired about my head gear. I answered that.... (wow - I just can't get away from Thomistic phrasing, can I? :P ).... I wore the kerchief for fun. He proceeded to commend me for theological implications thereof, which I silently accepted with mirth at the bestowal. Anyway, it stuck with me and I'm onto a renewed sporadic donning of the simple hat for fun, beauty and theology.

I've also re-awakened "Sarates" - or rather, Dr. Tingley (Philosophy and Art Prof at Augustine) re-awakened her. I got the name by Socratic questioning of my carpooling buddies while commuting to community college. I more or less gave up the Socratic questioning over the last summer and through my experience at Hope. Now, "Sarates" is reinitiated and has begun her reign of terror over the universe (well, not quite, and slightly more benevolently). She may ask you a random string of questions without giving any indication of where she is going with this. If so, rest assured she's not trying to convince you of something: she's trying to see how you think and follow your assumptions to their logical end.

Anyway, if she asks you why you tie your shoes, be prepared for more questions to follow. (And please don't tell me it's because your parents trained you to do so, even if it's true. :P You are old enough now to not tie your shoes if you don't want to. You must want to because you're doing it. You have a will that is not totally constrained by any amount of parental conditioning.)

So, now to bed. It's nice to post a rambling, not very disturbing, deep, or significant post again. Tata!

Why I Deleted My Last Post, Why I Was Wrong to Do So, And Why I Am Reposting It.

2009-05-03T23:10:00.003-04:00

Hello Dear Reader!

If you've followed this blog the past week, you might have been puzzled by the appearance and subsequent disappearance of a blog post of a rather melancholy and disorderly nature. As you shall observe below, it has been reposted along with all the kind comments commented upon it before its deletion.

In considering my actions upon this poor piece of writing, I felt (and thought - for Dr. Patrick admirers) that I ought to repost, apologize, and explain myself, if not for your benefit, dear reader, then for my own.

Why I wrote this post:
The initial set of actions (writing, posting, and deleting) were all done under the influence of PMS. I'm sure you're all well aware of this delightful cognitive phenomenon, having either suffered directly its effects or having suffered by virtue of the actions of another sufferer.

I wrote this post because, well, I did feel just as I described: split between two identities, unwilling to give up the new, yet not finding any place for her within the framework of the old. I felt out of place here, like a sore thumb, always wanting to talk about Augustine College to people who weren't really that interested, always quoting (Dr.) Tingley, or Joel, or Zack, or Emily and then suddenly realizing that the jokes just weren't funny without the context. I wanted to go home, but where was home? I had to spill some of this, just had to, but I couldn't do it to anyone in particular among my family. I was already feeling terribly afraid that I had hurt them by talking so much about Augustine even though I hadn't seen them in four months. So I spilled it to blog. At least on blog my parents weren't likely to read my groanings and some potential Augustinian sympathizers might. At any rate, I needed to explain myself to someone.

It was late at night when I began, tears falling on my keys, amid piles of boxes and junk from preparations to move my room. Late night blogging seems to be the norm of late, but I must somehow reverse this trend as it does not make for posts of exceeding joviality. I finished, blew my nose and wiped my eyes, then threw myself in bed.

Why I deleted this post:
The next morning I drove out to the community college and dropped off my application to Nursing School. Then I came back and started cleaning. (psst: Cleaning Warpath seems to also come with PMS for me.) I washed the dishes, cleared the counters, swept the main living spaces, mopped, oiled the wood floor... and then collapsed in an arm chair for a few minutes (ok, maybe more than a few minutes) of checking for pictures of Graduation on Facebook. I was already feeling ashamed of being blunt with my emotions on blog, as I certainly wasn't trying to attract pity or induce anyone to think that I was unhappy to be home or unhappy with my lot in life, but I thought I might as well let what I had written stay written.

Within 10 minutes, as a result of a conversation and email, I was convinced that I had been totally misunderstood, had hurt and perhaps even angered one who was dear to me. I was angry and frustrated - mostly with myself. Petulantly, I unreasonably thought that if I deleted the post, all source of any bad feelings would be destroyed. In that impulse, I clicked "delete" and over an hour of typing vanished. (Per my usual custom not to completely destroy my writing, I first emailed the post to myself.)

Why I was wrong to delete the post:
First, I acted in anger and frustration without deliberation. Even if the post should have been deleted, this was not the manner in which the act ought to have been performed.

Second, I acted with the intent to destroy the source of my problems, as if I of myself could by one act dispell my fear and preserve my loves. Silly as it might sound (C'mon, it's just a little blog post), by looking to myself for my life I made a god of myself for myself. (Luther: An idol is anything one fears, loves, and trusts in)

Third, by deleting the post, I was attempting to deny history. The past exists by virtue of having occured. Because it is not in the present, it cannot be altered. I did post this post, and to pretend not to have done so would simply be to deny my own communication. It would be one thing if the post were harmful in some way or if no person had read it before I deleted it. As the matter stood, however, the post was merely an honest appraisal of myself (granted, the appraisal was performed at an hour when I was not fully myself) and perhaps helpful to someone in understanding me and maybe even their own experience. Also, several of you readers left very gracious, comforting comments for which it were incivility and ingratitude to erase as though you had never extended your kindness to me.

Fourth, if the content of this post were truly of the noxious sort which ought never to have been published in the first place, the wrong was done when I first posted it. Perhaps it exposes a need for longer deliberation before posting a post in the first place. Certainly, the deletion demonstrated an even greater disregard for deliberation and consideration that the initial posting. If the post were hurtful, more would be required of me than a simple deletion to repair the damage.

For all these reasons, and maybe more, I was wrong to delete the previous post.

Why I am reposting this post:
First, because the writing of this post was an important part of the history of this blog and belongs in it.

Second, because this post may perhaps be helpful for anyone (possibly myself some years in the future) seeking to understand me, my life, my mind, and my development.

Third, because of the kind comments posted before I deleted the piece. It seems a travesty to belittle such courtesy to food for the garbage bin.

Fourth, because I am now seeking to come clean with myself, to hold myself accountable for my actions, and to not simply pass over what I have done wrong when I could do something to right it; to build up a character which deliberates and chooses wisely. (Though I know my salvation and forgiveness is not dependant upon these things, the quality of help I would proffer my neighbor is affected by the state of my character.)

To this end, I hope to soon draw up a set of guidelines for my future blogging expeditions with tips for the reader who may choose to accompany me upon such exploration.

My apologies and gratefulness for your patience with my human frailties and humourous mood swings. Thanks to all who initially commented on the last post.

Pathetically Out of Context: Reposted

2009-05-03T23:06:00.002-04:00

It's been a long 3 days. The family is family, but Nova must squish back into Sarah. I'm not Sarah Antigua anymore, try as I might to return. Sarah Nova thinks differently; thinking differently, she must act differently, but how?

So far, Sarah Nova has been trying with all her might to move her body and mouth in accordance with Sarah Antigua's vaguely-retrieved will. But the Thought of the New will not fit the Old, nor does the Old dance to the new tune. A new patch on an old garment, new wine into old wineskins: tears become worse, skins spit from fermentation.

Tonight I couldn't help myself; I looked up the Augustine College website and skimmed the info, dwelling on the professors' mini-bios. I looked up St. F. X. University on whim, just to see if they had a Nursing Program. I shouldn't have: they do. (Shoots self in foot) I should really head to bed, but instead I introspected a tad. All I could think of was the word "pathetic." Sarah, thought I, that part of you neither Antigua nor Nova, you are pathetic.

Then I stopped short (as I have frequently done in the recent past concerning things of this sort). What had I said? What does "Pathetic" really mean? Ought I not be pathetic and if not, in what sense not? I called upon Dictionary.com.

–adjective
1.
causing or evoking pity, sympathetic sadness, sorrow, etc.; pitiful; pitiable: a pathetic letter; a pathetic sight.
2.
affecting or moving the feelings.
3.
pertaining to or caused by the feelings.
4.
miserably or contemptibly inadequate: In return for our investment we get a pathetic three percent interest.

Hmm. In my present state, I surely ought not be 1. I've no reason to evoke pity or sorrow on anyone's part, except perhaps by my ignorance and presumption. I've certainly been blessed in every way possible. What is left in my condition that I should be pitiable, except that I do not appreciate my riches?Number 2. is irreduceably vague. Number 3. is an impossibility.

Number 4. however, strikes me as woefully accurate. Miserably or contemptibly inadequate. Yep. Not that I'm feeling miserable - nothing of the sort, just tired and a trifle confused, wearily trying to search out among my acquaintances a confidante for things my soul would say just now. But I am inadequate: miserably and contemptibly so. I, who once thought myself capable, skilled in communication, able to build and repair comfortable (or at least supportable) interpersonal relationships, adept to adapt, find a portion of myself isolated from the rest of myself. I have split my life between two poles which do not yet understand each other and who have either no time (even if interest) or opportunity to attempt to understand each other. I find myself unable to communicate between myselves.

I find myself unsure. Unsure not of who I am, but of what the shell of me should do, act, comport itself. People see the shell and think they recognize it, that they know it internally. Sarah Nova wears the crust of Sarah Antigua. It is exhausting enough to become aquainted with one person; once aquainted we humans tend to forget that change is imminent and unavoidable. What shall we then do but attempt to recognize that the person who spoke to me yesterday is the same, but different. What we shared we may not still share except in memory. If we don't face this fact, if we attempt to employ the past in the present, we will fail to share the present; for the past cannot bridge a gap unless one lives in the past. If we would live in the present, we may summon the past to memory and learn from it, cherishing it, and building from it in the present, but the present must be carved with its own tools.

In memory, one does not have a person, but what a person was. It is in the present that a person is. Memory is beautiful because it treasures up a present in the past which still operates upon things which are. But memory cannot join two people in the present except by both persons gazing into the past. The past "present" is not present in the present, but informs the present.

And I dig the hole deeper. Someone push me in. :D I'm not sure if I'm making any sense to anyone but me.

I guess I'm trying to say something like this:We change. Instead of denying change in practice (even while we affirm in theoretically), let's try to understand the people that are now, even if that glimpse may be altered in a year.

And this:I'm not sure how I am able to act currently. If I'm a bit awkward or unintentionally rude, please, please be patient with me and chalk it up to reverse culture shock. All the same, do chide me and direct me how I ought to relate to you. I'm not very good at contextual hints anymore since I've been totally thrown out of my context, aclimated to a new one, and have been thrown back into an altered one.

I'm like a quote out of context right now. Please put me back into the right context. Treat me critically. I'll try to figure out your context too.

Valedictory Address for Augustine 2009

2009-04-25T20:50:00.001-04:00

My dear fellow students,
Toward the onset of this semester, Dr. Tingley remarked in a lecture dealing with Augustine’s treatise on Grace and Free Will that it would seem that “man does nothing good without either being naturally predisposed to goodness or being whacked.” Perhaps the same could be said for exercise of the intellect as for the will. Quite credibly, we human beings do not exercise our capacity to think without either being naturally predisposed to rigorous thought or being whacked. Just two days ago we discussed the immense difficulty we students face in attempting to succinctly describe the Augustine College experience to the uninitiated. I would like to suggest that the education, training, and community we have passed through in the past eight months (it seems both a day and a lifetime) could be accurately represented as a massive case of Being Whacked. Consequently, tonight I’d like to consider facets of Being Whacked in general and by Augustine College in particular.

When you imagine a “whacking” you likely think first of discipline. We must all admit that our time at Augustine has disciplined us. For many, if not all of us students, the process of learning to think rigorously and enunciate those thoughts clearly and compellingly involved not a little pain. Professorial reproof hurt your pride, the deluge of information made your heads ache. Growth demanded a stretching; the soreness attending your cognitive growth no less distressing for being internal. The interpersonal relationships you have built with each other and with your professors taxed your patience and required self-sacrifice while forcing you to hone your communication skills. Even though I was not privileged to share the first term with you, you widened your close, necessity- crafted community to welcome me in. For my part, you, my fellow students, along with the professors, friends of the college, and academic texts have knocked me clean off my haughty, if fragile, high horse, over and over again. I came to Augustine with many erroneous preconceptions, prejudices and over-self-confidence. Living and learning with and from you exposed my ignorance, corrected, humbled, and forced me to see the world through new eyes.

In many ways, we’ve whacked each other with our “abrasive personalities.” At times our words have not been kind or helpful and we have had to apologize and forgive, growing in maturity through each incident. Each one of us is unique, with interesting, if slightly unusual, quirks. I’ve often wondered if admittance to Augustine College requires that students must be, pardon the slang, a bit nutty. Despite all of our personality differences and eccentricities, each one of you has become very dear to me. Each of you has given me a little bit of yourselves in words, in images, and in love that I will treasure as long as I have memory. You’ve drawn me in and shared your life with me, from long walks, study sessions and intimate conversations to roof climbing, Star Wars and Dante. We’ve laughed at ourselves, each other and our professors, we’ve quibbled and repented. As a class we’ve struggled to understand, struggled to stay awake, struggled to finish papers. Together we’ve played the intellectual fool and paid the academic piper. Yes, we’ve “ruined” many professors’ days, and now we’re all here together about to be told to “get out” for good.

But Being Whacked intellectually means more than mere disciplinary training. It also indicates motivation. A nail does nothing till struck with a hammer. The force of the hammer’s shock drives the nail to accomplish its purpose, its telos. A croquet ball has potential energy by virtue of its weight and location, but remains snuggled slothfully into the grass until propelled by the impact of a mallet. Augustine College dealt us that blow to transform our potential intellectual energy into kinetic energy. Our professors taught us how to think, but they did not spoon feed us what we must think. By forcing us to examine primary sources and demonstrating the import of our conclusions, they motivated us to search for answers ourselves. Our professors disciplined us in frameworks of inquiry, supplied us with quality materials, and challenged us to seriously process the information to produce credible and supported conclusions. Within the past four months alone, fellow students, your labor has turned a worthwhile product in academic papers, conversation and debates, not to mention the encouragement, hilarity, and stimulation you have provided for the rest of us as a community. The questions you, my fellow students, have raised by simply being who you are, believing what you do, and becoming vulnerable enough to share yourself with our community will continue to drive my own quest for Truth. Through both faculty and each other, Augustine has dealt us a blow of both discipline and motivation: discipline of mind and motivation to use it.

Through Augustine College, we have been whacked sufficiently to move us through the first hoops of our adult lives. But how long will the momentum of that blow last us? Long enough to pack our belongings and travel home, shedding a few tears for the sundering of our fellowship? Long enough perhaps to order a few books from Dr. Patrick’s long list of suggestions? Long enough to engage logically in a handful of critical issue debates? Like any force here on this earth, the impetus of the Augustinian Whack will dwindle as it encounters friction, unless it is augmented by additional and greater stimulation. Unless we continue to feed the appetite for truth whetted by Augustine with good intellectual sustenance our metabolism will dwindle until we are left as mental couch potatoes. But pursuit of the truth does not end with scholarly inquiry. We have grown intellectually and as a community under the rod of Academic Instruction. Now, if we would hone the skills here inculcated, we must submit ourselves to the tutelage of the rod of Life. The world will be less kind than our professors at Augustine, less forgiving – if it be possible – than we have been toward each other, more confusing and frustrating than all the opinions of a dozen philosophers the night before a final exam. But just as we needed, and received, a good whack from each other and our professors to jumpstart the machinery of our intellect, so we require and must receive, to quote an anonymous professor, “a good kick in the ass” – in all likelihood more than one – to teach us how to live, how to practically employ what we have learned in this place to build and defend a home, a family, a way of life, based firmly in an understanding of Truth and an ongoing journey towards it.

The Rhythm and Rhyme of the Poem of My Life

2009-04-25T00:01:00.002-04:00

Another chapter ends. How many, O Lord, how many meetings and partings must there be? I know You teach me through each one of them, but when will I find a settling place? Even home now, I know, is not my final resting place. I return, but it is not mine as it was before. On this Earth, I truly belong not any where. Truly this is so. As Michael Card sings (and, yes, this is a Michael Card post - I'll explain later)...

...We travel this dark world that has but one light,
for we have here no lasting town.

And sometimes we run by the power of His might,
On our own at the best we can plod.
What we hopefully look for is just beyond sight:
We are pilgrims to the City of God.

I know that throughout my journeying, my life is in God's hands and is a joyful beautiful thing, a precious incomparable gift from Him. So though I go on to sing a new verse, the same song continues, for....

Life is a song we must sing with our days
A poem with meaning more than words can say
A painting with colors no rainbow can tell
A lyric that rhymes either heaven or hell
We are living letters that doubt desecrates
We're the notes of the song of the chorus of faith
God shapes every second of our little lives
And minds every minute as the universe waits by

CHORUS:
The pain and the longing
The joy and the moments of light
Are the rhythm and rhyme
The free verse of the poem of life

So look in the mirror and pray for the grace
To tear off the mask, see the art of your face
Open your ear lids to hear the sweet song
Of each moment that passes and pray to prolong
Your time in the ball of the dance of your days
Your canvas of colors of moments ablaze
With all that is holy
With the joy and the strife
With the rhythm and rhyme of the poem of your life
With the rhythm and rhyme of the poem of your life
watch here

The song of my life is "through-composed" with new music for every verse, though I'm amazed at how much every new verse refers to previous material. Yet it is all the same song, a song with an unknown ending; unknown, that is, to me. But it is a life marked by Christ, grounded in Holy Baptism and sustained by Christ's own Body and Blood. Need I know the end? No. I'm not directing the music. And why should I wish to extend the verse beyond what the composer intended? I've enjoyed the melody, I've danced to the tune. Now the tone changes and I with it.

It is well with my soul this night. As well as it shall ever be. For I am in Christ and Christ is in me. If I have died with Him, I shall also live with Him. And so I have, for so He has said when He put His Name upon me.

Random Packing Vexations

2009-04-22T14:37:00.003-04:00

Oh, dear me. I'm not sure how I'm going to get everything home. This is most vexing. Book sales don't pay off....hmm.

So far, I've almost filled 3 checked bags and my carryon. All electronics are somehow crammed into my computer case. I can't remember what we used for a 4th checked bag coming up, though I know I had one. Maybe it was my backpack....I honestly don't remember. I sure hope I don't have to dump the bags out and repack them at the air port, though I'm told it's a definite possibility. I'll try to leave myself at least 4 if not five or six hours to get through everything at the air port since I've never flown alone before. I'm not apprehensive about the actual flight. I just don't care for all the red tape and making sure all my stuff ends up going where it should go.

Anyway...that was quite random and unthoughtful, but, heh, life is random sometimes.

And I want tea and a nap. This pharynx inflammation is not making my life comfortable and I'm praying it goes away in time for Graduation. If not, I won't be able to talk. I feel like a gargling machine. :P If anyone knows a remedy for sore, infected, inflamed throats, please send it my way!

In Which I Attend Pascha and Transgress Orthodox Doctrine

2009-04-19T02:24:00.004-04:00

I have just returned from a Pascha service at my dear friend's Orthodox church. It was very beautiful and her spiritual father reminds me alot of the ones I'll be returning to shortly.

I was pleased to be able to follow the liturgy quite well and pick up the chant decently by the end. Most of the chanted texts were familiar to me - well, the ones in English, that is. (I've also learned that in an unfamiliar chanted liturgy, if you simply lag about one second behind a clear singer, you can get the pitch of the next note and clue into the word from the first phonetic syllable and the context.)

Needless to say, I was enjoying the liturgy, incense, prayers, candles, beautiful icons, etc so much that I my analyzing awareness had relaxed by the time we entered the Divine Liturgy. Not being on my toes, I started into the Nicene Creed as I normally do, stumbling a bit because the translation being recited (no handouts or hymnals) was somewhat different than the typical Western rendition. That should have clued me into other differences between West and East surrounding the Creed, but nooo. I keep stumbling on...

..."the Holy Spirit, the Lord and Giver of Life, who proceeds from the Father and the..... Oh!"

Suddenly, I felt a sharp elbow jab on my arm from Zack. I stopped, then realized what I had done! The Filioque in Orthodox Divine Liturgy! I almost burst out laughing, but jabbed Zack back instead. When I'd composed myself I snuck a peek at his face to see almost as big a grin as I had had on my own.

I'm still here. Nobody noticed the Western trespass on Eastern ground and I even got a blessing from Father M-- despite.

The Pascha service was beautiful and I'm very glad to have had this opportunity to attend such an important Christian service with my Orthodox friend, but all the same, I'll be glad to be back at my home parish in a week with my own dear Pastors and well-beloved liturgy.

Now to sleep before church tomorrow!

Philosophy Exam (in 3 hours)

2009-04-17T09:13:00.002-04:00

Ahoy! I'm going to practice my exam on ya'll. If you don't want to know about it, why then, don't read - I won't be offended (not that I am anyway when people don't read this. As I've said before, this blog is mostly for me to have a place to spew random thoughts.)

So, first off, I need to memorize three quotes; 1 assigned quote and two quotes of my choice (from philosophers we've studied this semester).

Thomas Aquinas:
The purpose of the study of philosophy is not to learn what others have thought but to learn how the truth of things stands.

Blaise Pascal:
If man is not made for God, why is he only happy in God? If man is made for God, why is he so opposed to God?

Martin Buber:
Whoever says You does not have something; he has nothing. But he stands in relation.

And after that, I get to try to answer 50 short answer questions over all the "philosophers" we've covered this year.
Augustine
Aquinas
Machiavelli
Luther (with a tad of Erasmus)
Descartes
Pascal
Hume
Kant
Mill (and by extension Bentham)
Buber (with some background Nietsche)
MacIntyre
and various Post-Moderns

Ho boy! Here we go!

And then we've got an Essay Question (worth a measly 40%) introducing a major idea from the term that we consider important. And that's what I'm going to sort of rudimentarily do here and now with Martin Buber's "I-Thou" philosophy.

**************************************************
According to Buber there are two attitudes a person can take toward the world and those in it corresponding to what he calls the "two basic words" which are actually word pairs. These attitudes are "I-You" and "I-It." To say You or It to a thing/person establishes a mode of relation to said thing/person. There is no "I" existence alone. "I" only exists in "I-You" mode or "I-It" mode. ("It" includes "He" and "She.") These words are said with one's being.

"It" is the object of goal directed verbs. I smell a flower; the flower is an "It." I measure a table; the table is an "It." I bandage a person; the person is "He." I test God; God is "He." The realm of Experience belongs to "I-It," because Experience experiences some thing.

Nor can one enter the realm of "I-You" by introspection or inner/spiritual experiences. Whether internal or external, the mode of relating via experience occurs solely in the realm of "I-It."

"Those who experience do not participate in the world. For the experience is "in them" and not between them and the world." In the same way, "the world does not participate in experience" but "allows itself to be experienced." In "I-It" mode, the subject abstracts some information or sensation from the object, but the object contributes nothing and neither does the subject. The act of sniffing the breeze captures information from the breeze but neither I nor the wind give each other anything.

If Experience is the way of functioning in the "I-It" realm, "I-You" establishes Relation. "Whoever says you does not have something for his object." He does not experience a "thing" or even a person. He stands in relation. He does not "have" anything at all. In Relation, "You" is not a conglomerate of qualities, but a Being - timeless, spaceless, unabstracted.

There are three categories of beings to which one can say "You": beings in nature, human beings, and spiritual beings. For each of these three categories, the "You" we say will take a slightly different form. In this post I will stick to "life with men" for "here the relation is manifest and enters language. We can give and receive the You." This relationship is reciprocal: both say "You," (though one can say You, thereby establishing the Relation mode of existence and the other know it not.)

"When I confront a human being as my You and speak the basic word I-You to him, then he is no thing among things nor does he consist of things." He's not a bunch of qualities nor is he bound by time and space. He's not merely a 16yr old with yellow hair and big feet in a tree. He's a being to whom I'm in relation. That doesn't mean he is abstracted from his age, hair color, shoe size, and perch, but that all of those things are seen in light of him. These things are seen as part of him, but once you abstract his hair color, shoe size, age or anyother quality from him, you no longer have him as a You but as an It. In relation, I do not experience my You. (There are occasions where I must deal with a person as He rather than You - both are necessary to living as a human - and those are the times when I experience him and his qualities.) Not experiencing does not mean that I do not know anything about my You when I am in relation; rather I know "only everything" for I no longer know particulars.

The "I-You" relation involves a "risk and sacrifice" for the "You" must be said with one's whole being. I in and I-It relationship can relax, removed from the object I experience, but I in the I-You experience puts myself in service to my You. This relation is both passive and active. "The You encounters me by grace - it cannot be found by seeking. But that I speak the basic word to it is a deed of my whole being, is my essential deed. The You encounters me. But I enter into a direct relationship to it. Thus the relationship is election and electing, passive and active at once...The concentration and fusion into a whole being can never be accomplished by men, can never be accomplished without me. I require a You to become; becoming I, I say You."

"I-You" relationships are completely unmediated in that no means comes between I and You. Such means is an obstacle to relation because it is an instrument of the It world. But the real divisive line of reality is not "between experience and non-experience, nor between the given and the not-given, nor between the world of being and the world of value, but across all the regions between You and It: between presence and object." Objects (It, He, She) reside in the past. I experienced a thunderstorm when I was three. I touched a starfish in 2007. The thunderstorm and the starfish are objects. They are past. Presence is being, is You. The "essential is lived in the present."

To bridge the boundary, some turn to the world of ideas. But ideas are not beings and cannot participate in I-You relations. "The It-humanity that some imagine, postulate, and advertise has nothing in common with the bodily humanity to which a human being can truly say You." One cannot love the idea of humanity. One must love persons. Only by saying You to each individual person can one say You to humanity. I-You relation demands action; "the essential act that here establishes directness is usually misunderstood as feeling, and thus misunderstood." Love, says Buber is not a feeling. "Feeling one "has"; love occurs. Fellings dwell in man, but man dwells in his love...Love is responsibility of an I for a You: in this consists what cannot consist in any feeling - the equality of all lovers, from the smallest to the greatest and from the blisfully secure whose life is circumscribed by the life of one beloved human being to him that is nailed his life long to the cross of the world, capable of what is immense and bold enough to risk it: to love man." These acts of an I-You relationship are reciprocal - not in that the one for whom they are done necessarily acts back but that "my You acts on me as I act on it. Our students teach us, our works form us."

Hatred, according to Buber, is not possible between and I and a You because hatred cannot be spoken with one's whole being nor can one hate if one truly sees a being in its wholeness." Hatred remains blind by its very nature; one can hate only part of a being. Whoever sees a whole being and must reject it, is no longer in the dominion of hatred but in the human limitation of the capacity to say You."

Though every You must at sometime become an It, be an object, it becomes again a You when an I speaks the basic word pair establishing I-You existence. One cannot at all times relate in the You world; the It world is necessary as well. The It world is firm and can be measured, put into nice little labeled boxes. The world of being, on the other hand, is present but unstable: "measure and comparison have fled." "It [the world of being] is your present; you have a present only insofar as you have it; and you can made it into an object for you and experience and use it - you must do that again and again - and then you have no present any more. Between you and it there is a reciprocity of giving: you say You to it and give yourself to it; it says You to you and gives itself to you. You cannot come to an understanding about it with others."

Man is tempted to live solely in the It world. It's much safer. There are do demands, no sacrifices, only using and experiencing. It is hard and objective. And so man is tempted to say You and mean It. Whoever means It says It with his being even if the form of his words is You; he establishes the I-It existence.
"One cannot live in the pure present: it would consume us if care were not taken that it is overcome quickly and thoroughly. But in pure past one can live; in fact, only there can a life be arranged. One only has to fill every moment with experiencing and using, and it ceases to burn."

I don't have time to explain more 'cause I've got to go take that exam. Hope this makes a little bit of sense! Bye, bye! :D

"And in all seriousness of truth, listen; without It a human being cannot live. But whoever lives only with that is not human."

Domine Quo Vadis?

2009-04-14T23:27:00.002-04:00

Lord, where are you going?

If Christ goes before me, He treads down the path. What could not touch Him is powerless to harm those that are His.

Is He "going to Rome to be crucified again"? Then why should I flee? May I rest in His care, now and forever. May I hold firmly to His cross and passion and not give up hope or seek to build a life for myself when He gives one to me full and freely. May I trust Him and not grasp. May I grieve, but not as one without hope. Amen.

Meltdown Mode

2009-04-14T21:25:00.004-04:00

So, (trying hard to comment objectively, aloof from myself)

I'm kind of in emotional meltdown mode today. I should be studying, but I'm not. I know it will pass, it always does (Praise be to Christ!), but that doesn't make it any easier when it does come, this churning sea of emotional turmoil. Maybe it's the fact that I discussed these pieces of art (among) in my art exam this morning.

The Justice of Emperor Otto III - Dirc Bouts the Elder
Venus and Mars Bound by Love - Paolo Veronese

Morning in the Riesengebirge - Caspar David Friedrich

On the Sailboat - Caspar David Friedrich

Or maybe I chose to discuss them because of this mood. At any rate, they were the paintings I found most simple to explain at length last night and today.

Good grief! I think I just want to cuddle into some solid warm sympathetic something and weep a little. I'm not sad, I'm just, I don't know. It sounds very silly and childish, but I've come to accept tears as an honorable outlet rather than a shame. They are substitutes for the words I can't say, don't even know how to say.

Some day, maybe I'll learn to be the strong woman I've tried to be since I was little. Back then, it was so easy to be Joan of Arc, Molly Pitcher, or other female patriots or saints of my fancy. Then, bang, something hit me at about 13 years old, started throwing me around at 15, and totally disoriented and hung me up by my thumbs at 16-17. Coming out of 17, I learned to ride the waves, predict them, and even to occasionally keep my mouth shut when the sea starts pitching. Now, I've become familiar to the point that the emotional upheaval is like an old annoying aquaintance. I know each feeling and what sorts of things it feels when it comes. I've learned to recognize that my reason does not control my "rational" thought during certain phases of my life. I'm becoming better at riding out the torrent, and waiting for a better day.

This is perhaps, my biggest point of contention with the Thomists I know: namely that man's thoughts and actions are rational (This may or may not reflect Aquinas: I can't even think about him right now.). You see, my thoughts were once rational. But sometimes, it is as if something else has hijacked my mind and completely turned my senses haywire. I'm in control, but it's not my rational me, or at least, it's a different rational me that's not rational. Then, say those Aristotelian men who've probably never undergone such an ordeal, it's your passions getting the better of your reason. But it's not. It's not a drive or a desire or a seeking the good. It's a whole different way of reasoning where logic doesn't satisfy or console, where this unreasonable reason takes control of one's mouth while the other reason cries in the background, "I don't really mean that. I'm so sorry. How, why does this other reasoning control me for these brief spans?" Deep down inside, I realize that my thoughts are incoherent and my words even less so.

It is so frustrating to live with two reasons - a reasonable and an unreasonable. Right now the unreasonable one wants me to unreasonably mourn a road I didn't take. But even that will pass, by God's grace.

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost.

Thanks to ODLBN for his wisdom and encouragement.

Hail Thee Festival Day!

2009-04-12T22:50:00.002-04:00

Hail thee Festival Day! Blest Day to be hallowed forever. Day when our Lord was raised, breaking the kingdom of death!

Christ is Risen!

He is Risen indeed, Alleluia!

Christ is Risen!

He is truly Risen!

A holy kiss of this wonderous day to you all!

Unfortunately, I didn't get to sing Hail Thee Festival Day today. But apart from that, today was beyond amazing. Lest I forget it in the week of upcoming exams,* I'm going to try to record a bit of it here.

(Note: if you wish to read further, be aware that this post is quite slanted in the direction of the author's own opinion without any attempt at objectivity whatsoever.)

Last night I cast myself upon my bed having savored the first morsels of Easter munchables following an high Anglican Vigil and High Mass and having made more preparations for my feast today. (Did I mention that I was cooking in the kitchen from basically 7:30am to 5pm on Saturday?) I awoke at 5:15am, planning to mop the kitchen floor, take the chilled ham out of the freezer (which isn't really freezing), set out silverware, and sundry other minor dinner details. Instead I went back to bed for a scanty 15 minutes, before rising, dressing, grooming, and attending to ham & Co. Of course, I didn't have time to mop the floor.

I wore the same floral frock I have donned for the last 4 or 5 Easters - the one with with blue and purple flowers and a large, lace edged collar. Not exactly the warmest thing to wear for a freezing walk in the gray dawn, but I did sacrifice dress shoes for my dress boots (which are becoming very undressish now that I have walked in them for approximately an hour a day on hard concrete or salty slush since purchasing them.) Samantha and I set out at 6:20am for the Lutheran church I have been attending since my arrival here. The cold drove us to quite rapid speeds, and I think we broke my record for transit time to church - 25 minutes for what usually takes 30-40min.

Sunrise service was sparsely attended, unfortunately, but we sang four hymns (why couldn't we have sung more?) during the course of the service, used the whole of Divine Service Setting I (singing most parts = thumbs up), partook Eucharist (Praise be to Christ!), and I managed not cross myself too conspicuously (Why do I feel so self-conscious doing it in this church and not selfconscious at all in the other churches?). At the end of the service, the pastor called out from the back of the church, "He is Risen!" one last time. We responded, "He is Risen indeed!" -- At which he called out to us, "Good Job!" :P

Samantha and I betook ourselves to the basement and wolfed (in 15 min.) an excellent breakfast of pancakes, eggs, sausage, and coffee/hot chocolate (I skipped the caffeine for the fake chocolate). Then we high-tailed it out of there for the college, discussing the Blessed Virgin Mary and Other Assorted Saints (if you can abreviate BVM, why not OAS?) on the way. Samantha and I made it to the college to find Zack already there (you see, the man was our ride to his confirmation) donning confirmatory garb. I slipped the ham into the oven, remembering to turn the thing on, just in time to hop into the little blue car of Zack with Emily, Janice, and Samantha. (I wondered if Zach accompanied to his confirmation by four females might give the hens of the congregation cause to cackle. Apparently, the hens were ok, but why must all clergy be match-minded?)

We arrived a bit early (thank goodness! I was feeling quite, quite, quite ill [someone please teach me how to fast the Thurs-Fri-Sat without killing myself when I start to Pascally feast] but after a few minutes, I got over it) and took refuge beneath the earth - i.e. the basement - while the Matins above finished. I'm pretty sure that the Cathedral of the Annunciation could be the world's tiniest cathedral; it's at least in for the running. We packed the place full. The service was nifty, nice and liturgical. The biship was beaming, ruddily decked and toweringly hatted. The incense was strong, pervasive and cloudlike. Processions, liturgy, and curly bishop sticks are happy things. Zach sat in the front row (with his family) while the rest of us Augushteinians sat about 3/4 of the way from the front - which was still very close, distance-wise. Professor Tingley, his wife, and his two beautiful little daughters occupied the pew in front of us.

I liked the "Bish" (as Zach refers to him) a lot. What's not to like in full vestments and a high red hat which snaps open like a foldable laundry basket? I liked him even more when he compared the Holy Spirit to a wireless router. It sounds crazy, but the analogy totally worked - You can't see or explain how the Holy Spirit brings Christ to you, but He does. And making Zack explain the origins of the words "prevent" and "confirm" in Latin was brilliant. So the chap got confirmed, oiled, and blessed. (Dr.) Tingley stood up with him and was beaming that shy but very proud and happy Tingley sort of half smile. Of course, I didn't take the Eucharist, but I still opted for a blessing.
I actually really miss the communion blessing. I've almost been tempted in the past to ask my dear Pasto's for the blessing instead of the Sacrament, but I really want the Sacrament too.

After service, we took pictures of Zack and the Bishop; Zack, the Bish, the family; Zack, the Bish and Sponser/Standing-up-with-him-people (I don't remember what they're called). Yes, I got some pictures too. After all, I need a few un-nutty Zack pictures and how could I pass up snapping a photo of a real, live, uncaged Bishop? Then I ate food - confirmation refreshments - talked to other students, talked to Zack's family, talked to Zack's bishop who is a perfect mix of the corny and the ecclesiastic (He's Slightly Cwirlesque). Then we overloaded Zack's car by adding in Joel - who had also made it to the confirmation via another ride. On the way back, a strange golden onion-topped something piqued our curiousity so we pursuaded Zack to divert our route by it. We stopped so Joel could go up to it and read the label. He had to jump right through the hedge; he couldn't go around by the sidewalk. :P It turned out to be a ROCOR (Russian Orthodox Church Outside Russia) and we spent the rest of the ride home discussing this phenomenon and noting police cars apparently watching tiger-flag waving protesters.

On returning home, I rescued the overflowing ham juice from the ham, basted and put the ham back in the oven, and devoted myself to completing dinner prep. I'll spare you, dear reader, a step by step commentary - other than that I shooed the boys out of the kitchen - but I must outline the menu:

Honey-Wheat bread and rolls
Mashed Potatoes
Honey,Lemon,Ginger Carrots
Mixed Veggies (corn, green beans, peas)
Pineapple, honey(+mustard) glazed ham
Devilled Monks (will discuss below)
Raspberry layered Jello
Lettuce Salad with other luscious toppings
Sliced Strawberries
Peach Crisp
Donuts
Strawberry Milkshake

It was A TON of work, but it was absolutely magnificent!
Devilled Monks are my own creation. It came to me that I should gratify Emily's monk obsession by making devilled eggs in the form of Saxon monks. (Heehee!) I boiled the eggs, cut about a fourth inch off the top, and scooped out the yolk. I put the filling back in, pressing it out flat on the top to make a cm margin of yellow around the edges of the egg, and put the cap back on: visualize a yellow tonsure. Then I dipped a toothpick in balsamic vinegar and poked in little dark holes for eyes and smiley mouth. (Emily screamed and hugged me when she saw them: that made the trouble totally worth it.) Pictures might be forthcoming.

Anyway, I laid a nice table - sit down meal with table cloth, ceramic Easter table service, pretty serving bowls, etc. We were expecting 9 people for dinner - one didn't show up, but an extra did. We started late because of delay in arrivals at around 3:15pm; the food had started to cool, but that was ok. All in all we had:

Emily - sort of sub/honorary RA
Samantha - student
Zack - student
Joel - student
Jesse - Orthodox Clingon
Cyril - Eastern Catholic Clingon
Elizabeth - Orthodox Clingon
Reita - Anglican (becoming) Clingon

We ate, and ate, and talked, and sang some hymns, and talked, and then Cyril got up to go to church again, and we kept talking, and then the rest got up to go to church, etc at about 6:30pm.

Then Emily, Samantha and I headed to the chaplaincy (Da Place ov Cyril - hee hee) for Eastern Catholic Agape Vespers. It was lovely! We sang, we were "attentive" to "widom," the rather young priest (English is definitely not his first language, but his accent is beautiful) read/preached a sermon that I'd bet is from Chrysostom, though I'm not certain. It was so, so beautiful. We sang some more wonderful liturgy, got "incensed," and cried "Christ is Risen!" - "He is truly Risen!" responsively. Toward the end of the liturgy, while singing a beautiful resurrection chorus, people began to line up to kiss the icon of Christ. After kissing the icon, they began to greet the priest and each other by kissing each other on each cheek saying "Christ is Risen!" - "He is Truly Risen!"
At first, Emily, Samantha and I stood on the sidelines watching the joyful greetings. Having figured out the chorus, I was singing it with all my heart - "Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death, and on those in the tombs bestowing life." After a few minutes, Harold, our Student Life Director worked his way over to us and greeted me in the same manner - "you can't come and not participate in the greeting." I was glad to receive it. A few others also extended greetings (kisses included in the package.) After about five minutes of this, Rebecca, Harold's wife, joyfully called out to us, "come, come! This isn't for Catholics only! You don't need to kiss the icon, but you must have a blessing and join us in greeting!" I could resist no longer. Sure, I wanted a blessing from the glowing priest; yes, I wanted to rub cheeks with every last person in that room and exclaim, "Christ is Risen!" - "He is Truly Risen!" a billion times! It was awesome!

After it was all over, Harold invited us to a Ukrainian Easter Party. "Hey, why not?" thought I. Oh, my goodness! Do Ukrainians know how to feast! There was enough rich pastries and cheeses and meat (especially pork sausages) to sink a battleship. And I have no idea how they fit so many people into that tiny little house. There were at least 10 families - kids included, plus single students. I didn't do much talking - watching Ukrainian Catholic culture keep Easter feast was pretty fascinating. Yes, there was the unavoidable beer keg, wine, and other such beverages. I opted for fresh apple cider. The trick to amusing one'self at parties where one is unfamiliar with the culture and ignorant of the language that half of the company speaks is to evesdrop on interesting conversations. Every now and again, several people would call relatives or friends, holding up their cell phones while the entire company sang rousing Easter hymns in Ukrainian (I think that's what it was) or English.

And now I'm home again, terribly tired out by cooking and feasting and singing. Tomorrow is my last day to study for exams and I haven't even begun. Yet, the Feast of Easter merits a break from academic pursuits. I don't regret it.

I'm especially glad that my dinner turned out so well. I've been planning it for some time. I was told by my guests that if I ever want to catch a husband, all I need to do is give the man that ham. Nice try boys. And Zack and Joel plotted to kidnap me to feed them and Emily to entertain them. :D It's nice to know that I can actually plan a feast and pull it off well. It gives me a feeling of accomplishment - a feeling like I've mastered something important - and it satisfies my feminine impulse to feed and nurture.

But I've a feeling I'll be eating leftover donuts for the next few days...

*Professor Bloedow gleefully explained that our upcoming αγων (test, contest) is the root of the English word "agony." Thanks Dr. Bloedow.

Christ is Risen!

2009-04-12T00:24:00.002-04:00

Alleluia! Christ is Risen from Death and we with Him!

Now for a brief sleep before the glorious dawn breaks...

(I totally reek of the wondrous scent of incense; I wish my clothes would keep the smell through a washing, but I know that they won't.)

They don't make them like Daddy anymore.

2009-04-08T17:57:00.007-04:00

They just don't. Dad is... he's, well, he's everything. I wish I could be like him, just a little. Mom too.

I don't know how they do it, how they keep on going. I don't understand how they know, how they are so confident. I want to do and not regret; to regret, be forgiven and put it behind me; to love, teach, lose my temper, and repent to and with my children. I want Mom's drive, Dad's knowledge.

I want to just look at them. I want to see, no, behold them. I want behold them looking at each other. I want to behold them in suit and gown. I want to see Dad in ripped, ragged, oil-stained Carhart's, stinking of diesel with wood curls in his hair and beard. I want to see mom with flour covering her grape-juice stained blouse, or on her hands and knees in a freshly plowed garden. I want to see them walking through the woods hand in hand. I want to see Mom in church, hear her weeping during a hymn. I want to see Mommy nodding during devotions as Daddy's mouth mirthfully twitches.

I want to see them when things aren't nice. I see again Daddy gently holding a dead rabbit, shaking with rage. I want to watch Mommy standing in a cemetery, her arms wrapped around her, looking at a red, heart-shaped, stone. I want to see Daddy stand beside her and watch them clasp each other close. I want to see Mom tired and black with frustration, angry at the exasperating undone chores. I want to watch Daddy, lying prostrate with the wracking pain of kidney stones, yet sealing in the groans. I want to watch him open his arms to a hurt wife, tense with resentment, and enclose her stiff form in a gentle embrace. I want to watch her force her angry arms to embrace him too and see the tense hurt relax and fall away as she melts into him. I want to see him massage her aching shoulders and watch her massage his aching feet. I want to watch them bandaging a burned child, see the hurt in their eyes preceding the spanking that touched me far less.

I want to see Dad balancing on a homemade ladder, far above the ground, and hear mom gasping in terror yet passing him tools as he calls for them. I want to see Daddy sneaking up to the house with a bouquet behind his back - for all the world like a sheepish five year old with dandilions. I want to watch Mom make Daddy's favorite cake.

It's not that I enjoy the sinfulness of my parents. I don't. But for all their sinfulness, I wouldn't have missed seeing the their repentance and forgiveness for each other and for me. They've shown me how to live. They've shown me love by living - living in front of me. I've seen them argue. I've seen them kiss. I've seen them cry together. I've seen them play. I've seen them work.They can work; my, can my parents work! I've seen the mud, the sweat, the mussed hair, the exhaustion, heard the laughter. I've watched them do things they didn't want to do but did anyway. I've gazed wide-eyed at the sacrifices.

No longer do I see them. I am far away. Yet these pictures in my mind are closer to my soul than any dead, still words in a book. I miss them. Yes, I long to be like them. I long to dance the earthy dance they dance in unashamedly earthy garments. But I would gladly give that all up to just watch them: to watch them for the rest of my life, understanding, pondering, and marveling in hushed awe at what I see.

They just don't make them like Daddy anymore. Mommy neither.

This is why girls burst into tears when their fathers send them brilliant email criticisms of their work - it's awe, love, and something akin to reverence.

Holy Week Ecumenism: a little bit of everything

2009-04-05T23:30:00.002-04:00

Ahem. This is what the upcoming week looks like. I might as well get in all that I can while I still have the freedom and opportunity. This week is Western Holy Week. Next week I'll turn Eastern for at least one Pasca service - we'll see how much work I get done this week.

Monday: 7:30 pm. Latin Mass at a Traditional Roman Catholic church followed by Compline.

Tuesday: [? 7am Latin Mass?] 8:00pm. Tenebrae at a High-Anglican church.

Wednesday: 7:30pm. Tenebrae at the R.C. Cathedral Basilica.

Thursday: 7:30pm. Maundy Thursday Divine Service at my regular Lutheran church.

Friday: 10:30 am. Good Friday Service at my regular Lutheran church.
[? 3pm. Latin Mass? Passion Service at the Basilica?]

Saturday: evening sometime. Vigil at a High-Anglican church.

Sunday: 7:00 am. "Sonrise" Service at my regular Lutheran church.
8:30 am. Easter Breakfast.
10:00 am. Easter Service at an Anglo-Catholic Cathedral for a fellow student's confirmation.

Does that sound like a pretty decent week of ecumenistic churchgoing in the best liturgy of the Western Rite?

MacDonald's Lilith: A Matter of Life and Death.

2009-04-04T00:10:00.006-04:00

I sense another long night approaching; once again I'm seized by the blogging urge at an unearthly hour. Here goes:

Introducing George MacDonald on procreation, children, and submission in his novel Lilith. As I have not (to my loss which I hope to soon remedy) read anything else by MacDonald, I won't presume to add much interpretation to the passages: they speak for themselves.

Setting the Stage:
Lilith is a highly figurative work. Every detail hints at something else - both within the narrative and outside the narrative. Hence it is difficult to properly understand without it's fictional context or a sense of what the author is driving at. Yet the point of some passages could hardly speak clearer.
In this book, Lilith - the mythic first (angelic) wife of Adam (take it figuratively where you will) - is the great Antagonist (herself decieved by the Satanic Shadow). She hates living things, especially children and particularly her own daughter Lona, seeking their destruction, (sustaining and perpetuating her beauty and youth by feeding upon blood.) It is foretold that her child will be her undoing.
The primary recalcitrant protagonist, Mr. Vane, is a man of our world (or rather "dimension") who is slowly learning both who he is, his name, how to live, and how to die (the four themes intertwine quite closely) among other things. At the moment of this conversation, Mr. Vane discourses with Mara (Woman of Sorrow - hint, hint) about the land of Bulika where (though he does not know it) Lilith rules. Mara speaks:

There is a city in that grassy land," she replied, "where a woman is princess. The city is called Bulika. But certainly the princess is not a girl! She is older than this world, and came to it from yours -- with a terrible history, which is not over yet. She is an evil person, and prevails much with the Prince of the Power of the Air. The people of Bulika were formerly simple folk, tilling the ground and pasturing sheep. She came among them, and they received her hospitably. She taught them to dig for diamonds and opals and sell them to strangers, and made them give up tillage and pasturage and build a city. One day they found a huge snake and killed it; which so enraged her that she declared herself their princess, and became terrible to them. The name of the country at that time was The Land of Waters...But the wicked princess gathered up in her lap what she could of the water over the whold country, closed it in an egg, and carried it away. Her lap, however, would not hold more than half of it; and the instant she was gone, what she had not taken fled away underground, leaving the country as dry and dusty as her own heart. Were it not for the waters under it, every living thing would long ago have perished from it. For where no water is, o rain falls; and where no rain falls, no springs rise. Ever since then, the princess has lived in Bulika, holding the inhabitants in constant terror, and doing what she can to keep them from multipying. Yet they boast and believe themselves a prosperous, and certainly are a self-satisfied people -- good at bargaining and buying, good at selling and cheeting; holding well together for a common interest, and uterly treacherious where interests clas; proud of their princess and her power, and despising every one they get the better of; never doubting themselves the most honourable of all the nations, and each man counting himself better than any other. The depth of their worthlessness and height of their vain-glory no one can understand who has not been there to see, who has not learned to know the miserable misgoverned and self-deceived creatures.

Introducing Lilith's pride:
Mr. Vane, in his lonely journey toward Bulika, stumbled across a woman - or rather, what remained of a woman - lying uncovered, cold, and 'skeletonic' [word coined here] in the woods. Unwilling to leave a woman exposed, yet unwilling to bury her if life could by any means be brought back, Vane devotes over a month to her care in the merest hope of revival from the death which seems to hold her in its grip. He bathes her daily in a warm stream, squeezes juice into her lips, and focuses his whole attention, his very desire and hope, on the remote chance of recovering this once dazzlingly beautiful woman as a companion. Toward the latter weeks of his watch, however, a leech-like creature begins to suck his blood every night, but he pays it little mind for the flesh begins to fill out on his charge. One morning he is woken by the woman. This rather strange exchange fires from her lips (reminiscent of Lewis' Jadis [whom Lewis casts as a descendent of Lilith]):

I stopped: a strange smile had flickered over her beautiful face.
"Did you find me there?" she asked, pointing to the cave.
"No; I brought you there," I replied.
"You brought me ?"
"Yes."
"From where?"
"From the forest."
"What have you done with my clothes - and my jewels?"
"You had none when I found you."
"Then why did you not leave me?"
"Because I hoped you were not dead."
"Why should you have cared?"
"Because I was very lonely, and wanted you to live."
"You would have kept me enchanted for my beauty!" she said, with proud scorn.
Her words and her look aroused my indignation.
"There was no beauty in you," I said.
"Why, then, again, did you not led me alone?"
"Because you were of my own kind."
"Of your kind?" she cried, in a tone of utter contempt.
"I thought so, but I find I was mistaken!"
"Doubtless you pitied me!"
"Never had woman more claim on pity, or less on any other feeling!"
With an expression of pain, mortification, and anger un-utterable, she turned from me and stood silent. Starless night lay profound in the gulfs of her eyes: hate of him who brought it back had slain their splendour. The light of life was gone from them...

"Ha! How long do you pretend I have lain unconscious? -- Answer me at once."
"I cannot tell how long you had lain when I found you, but there was nothing left of you save skin and bone: that is more than three months ago. --Your hair was beautiful, nothing else! I have done for it what I could."...
...She gave a shudder of disgust, and stood for a while with her gaze fixed on the hurrying water. Then she turned to me:
"We must understand each other!" she said. "--You have done me the two worst of wrongs -- compelled me to live, and put me to shame: neither of them can I pardon!"
She raised her left hand, and flung it out as if repelling me. Something ice-cold struck me on the forehead....

Hang on a minute, Lilith! I'm starting to get a very vague idea of your value system and it looks a tad skewed from the get go: to compel you to live and to shame you by helping you are the greatest wrongs one could do to you?

Lilith's appetite for children, mothers, and hatred of procreation:
Vane has begun to have horrible doubts as to Lilith's identity (he doesn't yet know her name) after seeing her transform? into a spotted leopardess and charge toward Bulika. He sees a mother pursued by the leopardess, hears a scream of anguish, and rushes to the scene to find that the mother has crushed the leopardess' left paw with a stone, prompting the beast's bloody flight. He converses with the mother (who is herself not native to Bulika):

"There, my darling is asleep! The foul beast has not hurt her! -- Yes; it was my baby she was after!" she went on, caressing the child. "and then she would have torn her mother to pieces for carrying her off! -- Some say the princess has two white leopardesses," she continued: "I know only one -- with spots. Everybody knows her! If the princess hear of a baby, she sends her immediately to suck its blood, and then it either dies or grows up and idiot. I would have gone away with my baby, but the princess was from home, and I thought I might wait..."
"Why is the princess so cruel?"
"There is an old prophecy that a child will be the death of her. That is why she will listen to no offer of marriage, they say."
"But what will become of her country if she kills all the babies?"
"She does not care about her country. She sends witches around to teach the women spells that keep babies away, and give them horrible things to eat. Some say she is in league with the Shadows to put an end to the race. At night we hear the questing beast, and lie awake and shiver. She can tell at once the house where a baby is coming, and lies down at the door, watching to get in. There are words that have power to shoo her away, only they do not always work..."

Of Bulikian materialism and strangers:
Vane cowering in an alley when the spotted leopardess passes is joined by a Bulikian woman who condescends to speak to him, though strangers and poor are to be shunned.

"[The spotted leopardess] is kept in a cage, her mouth muzzled, and her feet in gloves of crocodile leather. Chained she is too; but she gets out often, and sucks the blood of any child she can lay hold of. Happily there are not many mothers in Bulika!"...
...I asked her many questions. She told me the people never did anything except dig for precious stones in their cellars. They were rich, and had everything made for them in other towns.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because it is a disgrace to work," she answered. "Everybody in Bulika knows that!"
I asked how they were rich if none of them earned money. She replied that their ancestors had saved for them, and they never spent. When they wanted money they sold a few of their gems.
"But there must be some poor!" I said.
"I suppose there must be, but we never think of such people. When one goes poor, we forget him. That is how we keep rich. We mean to be rich always."
"But when you have dug up all your precious stones and sold them, you will have to spend your money, and one day you will have none left!"
"We have so many, and there are so many still in the ground, that that day will never come," she replied.
"Suppose a strange people were to fall upon you, and take everything you have!"
"No strange people will dare; they are all horribly afraid of our princess. She it is who keeps us safe and free and rich!"
Every now and then as she spoke, she would stop and look behind her.
I asked why her people had such a hatred of strangers. She answered that the presence of a stranger defiled the city.
"How is that?" I said.
"Because we are more ancient and noble than any other nation. --Therefore," she added, "we always turn strangers out before night."...
..."Is there no place in the city for the taking in of strangers?"
"Such a place would be pulled down, and its owner burned. How is purity to be preserved except by keeping low people at a proper distance? Dignity is such a delicate thing!"

Wow, Bulikite! You live in constant fear of your princess, yet you speak of her as the one who keeps us "safe and free and rich." Wealth takes priority. Yours is a society where work is shameful - we spend our fathers' riches - and racism coexists with infanticide. Interesting connection with the latter two, but perhaps I shouldn't make much of it, Eh?

Lilith on aging:
Vane is foolishly (against Mr. Raven/Adam's advice) listening to Lilith who is attempting to seduce him to bend to her deceitful, selfish machinations:

"Our natures, however, are so different, that this may not be easy. Men and women live but to die; we, that is such as I --we are but a few -- live to live on. Old age is to you a horror; to me it is a dear desire: the older we grow, the nearer we are to our perfection. Your perfection is a poor thing, comes soon, and lasts but a little while; ours is a ceaseless ripening. I am not yet ripe, and have lived thousands of your years --how many, I never cared to note. The everlasting will not be measured."

Sooo, Lilith sees man's life as a horror, her own as everlasting exercise in perfection. Hmm. Let's see if we can expand on this.

Lilith's Drive for Personal Autonomy:
Deceived into performing service for Lilith, Vane accidentally leads her back into his world -- from which she may be able to reach her innocent daughter! Mr. Raven, the mysterious Crow/ Sexton/ Librarian, revealed in his true nature as Adam, exposes Lilith in the guise of a cat and gently but masterfully exercises his capacity to stay her for the moment and exhort her to repentence. She will have none of it:

...returning to the cat, stood over her and said, in a still, solemn voice: --
"Lilith, when you came here on the way to your evil will, you little thought into whose hands you were delivering yourself! -- Mr. Vane, when God created me...He brought me an angelic splendour to be my wife: there she lies! For her first thought was power; she counted it slavery to be one with me, and bear children for Him who gave her being. Once child, indeed, she bore; then, puffed with the fancy that she had created her, would have me fall down and worship her! Finding, however, that I would but love and honour, never obey and worship her, she poured out her blood to escape me, fled... How it is with her now, she best knows, but I know also. The one child of her body she fears and hates, and would kill, asserting a right which is a lie, over what God sent through her into His new world. Of creating, she knows no more than the crystal that takes its allotted shape, or the worm that makes two worms when it is cloven asunder. Vilest of God's creatures, she lives by the blood and lives and souls of men. She consumes and slays, but is powerless to destroy as to create.....

....It is but her jealousy that speaks, " he said, "jealousy self-kindled, foiled and fruitless; for here I am, her master now whom she would not have for her husband! while my beautiful Eve yet lives, hoping immortally! Her hated daughter lives also, but beyond her evil ken, one day to be what she counts her destruction -- for even Lilith shall be saved by her childbearing. Meanwhile she exults that my human wife plunged herself and me in despair, and has borne me a countless race of miserables; but my Eve repented, and is now beautiful as never was woman or angel, while her groaning, travailing world is the nursery of our Father's children. I to have repented, and am blessed. --Thou, Lilith, hast not yet repented; but thou must. --Tell me, is the great Shadow beautiful? Knowest thou how long thou wilt thyself remain beautiful? --Answer me, if thou knowest."
Then at last I understood that Mr. Raven was indeed Adam, the old and the new man; and that his wife, ministering in the house of the dead, was Eve, the mother of us all, the lady of the New Jerusalem.
The leopardess reared; the flickering and fleeing of her spots began; the princess at length stood radiant in her perfect shape.
"I am beautiful -- and immortal!" she said -- and she looked the goddess she would be.
"As a bush that burns, and is consumed," answered he who had been her husband. "--What is that under they right hand?"
For her arm lay across her bosom, and her hand was pressed to her side.
A swift pang contorted her beautiful face, and passed.
"It is but a leopard-spot that lingers! it will quickly follow those I have dismissed," she answered.
"Thou art beautiful because God created thee, but thou art the slave of sin: take they hand from thy side."
Her hand sank away, and as it dropt she looked him in the eyes with a quailing fierceness that had in it no surrender.
He gazed a moment at the spot.
"It is not on the leopard; it is in the woman!" he said. "Nor will it leave thee until it hath eaten to they heart, and they beauty hath flowed from thee through the open wound!"
She gave a glance downward, and shivered.
"Lilith," said Adam, and his tone had changed to a tender beseeching, "hear me, and repent, and He who made thee will cleanse thee!"
Her hand returned quivering to her side. Her face grew dark. She gave the cry of one from whom hope is vanishing. The cry passed into a howl. She lay writhing on the floor, a leopardess covered with spots.
"The evil thou meditatest," Adam resumed, "thou shalt never compass, Lilith...how will it fare with thee when Time hath vanished in the dawn of the eternal morn? Repent, I beseech thee; repent, and be again an angel of God!"
She rose, she stood upright, a woman once more, and said,
"I will not repent. I will drink the blood of thy child."

If you want to know what happens next, read the book: I haven't time to give the entire plot, and even this extended passage is perhaps a bit superfluous, but I couldn't resist including it. It's such a fascinating exchange.
The cat of Lilith shut up in a closet, Mr. Vane and Adam prepare to return to the other world to rescue Lona and the little ones she cares for. Adam comments on Lilith:

"We must be on our guard," he said, "or she will again outwit us. She would befool the very elect!"
How are we to be on our guard?" I asked.
"Every way," he answered." She fears, therefore hates her child, and is in this house on her way to destroy her. The birth of children is in her eyes the death of their parents, and every new generation the enemy of the last. Her daughter appears to her and open channel throuh which her immortality -- which yet she counts self-inherent -- is flowing fast away: to fill it up, almost from her birth she has pursued her with an utter enmity. But the result of her machinations hitherto is, that in the region she claims as her own, has appeared a colony of children, to which my daughter is heart and head and sheltering wings...

It appears that to Lilith, children challenge and steal the parent's life; they constitute a huge drain. Her own "immortality" must be preserved at all costs. Even mother love falls before the drive for self-deification.

Mr. Vane's refusal to die to live:
Once before, Mr. Vane refused Adam and Eve's admonition to sleep the death that dies into life. Now, Adam tells him that he will be no help to the children until he die and wake again. Vane had promised to listen to and obey Adam, but, atop Adam's steed, he changes his mind (Lilithesque). He deceives himself that, by virtue of his love for the Little Ones (Lona and her charges), his rebellion is justified:

"I long so much to ride after the leopardess," I answered, "that I can scarce restrain myself!"
"You have promised!"
"My debt to the Little Ones appears, I confess, a greater thing than my bond to you."
"Yield to temptation and you will bring mischief upon them -- and on yourself also."
"What matters it for me? I love them; and love works no evil. I will go."
But the truth was, I forgot the children, infatuate with the horse.
Eyes flashed through the darkness, and I knew that Adam stood in his own shape beside me. I knew also by his voice that eh repressed an indignation almost too strong for him.
"Mr. Vane," he said, "do you not know why you have not yet done anything worth doing?"
"Because I have been a fool," I answered.
"Wherein?"
"In everything."
"Which do you count your most indiscreet action?"
"Bringing the princess to life: I ought to have left her to her just fate."
"Nay, now you talk foolishly! You could not have done otherwise than you did, not knowing she was evil! --But you never brought any one to life! How could you, yourself dead?"
"I dead?" I cried.
"Yes," he answered; "and you will be dead, so long as you refused to die."...
..."Mr. Vane," croaked the raven, "think what you are doing! Twice already has evil befallen you --once from fear, and once from heedlessness: breach of word is far wose; it is a crime."
"The Little Ones are in frightful peril, and I brought it upon them!" I cried. "--But indeed I will not break my word to you. I will return, and spend in your house what nights --what days -- what years you please."
"I tell you once more you will do them other than good if you go to-night," he insisted.
But a false sense of power, a sense which had no root and was merely vibrated into me from the strength of the horse, had, alas, rendered me too stupid to listen to anything he said!

The end does not justify the means. Love is not a trump card which we can play to do what we really want. Though we are excellent at building up a huge castle of excuses for ourselves, rebellion is not the proper product of love. And the dead cannot make themselves or anyone else alive.

Lilith's Painful Repentence and the hand she cannot open:
Mr. Vane (disobeying Adam) has sought out the Little Ones - the children in the care of Lona whom he loves - and has organized them into a miniature army to take over Bulika, find their mothers and defeat the princess. When they reach the palace, Lona in affectionate childlike confidence makes a beeline for the arms of her mother--who dashes her to the marble pavement with demonic triumph. She breathes her last, the words, "Mother, Mother," on her lips. Vane is crushed, and repentent.The children bind Lilith whose strength has dwindled, though she's bloodthirsty enough still, and set out to bear the physically dead and the spiritually dead to Adam. Their first halt is the desert house of Mara ('catwoman,' the white leopardess). Vane tries to correct the children's misconceptions of Mara:

"Will the cat-woman --I mean the woman that istn't the cat-woman, and has no claws on her toes -- give her [Lilith] grapes?"
"She is more likely to give her scratches!"
"Why? --You say she is her friend!"
"That is just why. --A friend is one who gives us what we need, and the princess is sorely in need of a terrible scratching."...

Mara speaks:
"Mr. Vane," she said, "and you, Little Ones, I thank you! This woman would not yield to gentler measures; harder must have their turn. I must do what I can to make her repent!"
The pitiful-hearted Little Ones began to sob sorely.
"Will you hurt her very much, lady Mara?" said the girl I have just mentioned, putting her warm little hand in mine.
"Yes; I am afraid I must; I fear she will make me!" answered Mara. "It would be cruel to hurt her too little. It would have all to be done again, only worse."
"May I stop with her?"
"No, my child. She loves no one, therefore she cannot be with any one. There is One who will be with her, but she will not be with Him."
"Will the shadow that came down the hill be with her?"
"The great Shadow will be in her, I fear, but he cannot be with her, or with any one. She will know that I am beside her, but that will not comfort her...."

The Children are put to bed. Vane and Mara wait in her hearth room, Lilith recumbent and seemingly unconscious upon the settle, as the shadows congeal around them. Midnight comes, Mara rises and unwraps her previously muffled face:

Then I saw her face. It was lovely beyond speech --white and sad, heart-and-soul sad, but not unhappy, and I knew it never could be unhappy. Great tears were running down her cheeks; she wiped them away with her robe; her countenance grew very still, and she wept no more. But for the pity in every line of her expression, she would have seemed severe. She laid her hand on the head of the princess -- on the hair that grew low on the forehead, and stooping, breathed on the sallow brow. The body shuddered.
"Will you turn away from the wicked things you have been doing so long?" said Mara gently.
The princess did not answer. Mara put the question again, in the same soft, inviting tone.
Still there was no sign of hearing. She spoke the words a third time.
Then the seeming corpse opened its mouth and answered, its words appearing to frame themselves of something else than sound. --I cannot shape the thing further: sounds they were not, yet they were words to me.
"I will not," she said. "I will be myself and not another!"
"Alas, you are another now, not yourself! Will you not be your real self?"
"I will be what I mean myself now."
"If you were restored, would you not make what amends you could for the misery you have caused?"
"I would do after my nature."
"You do not know it: your nature is good, and you do evil!"
"I will do as my Self pleases --as my Self desires."
"You will do as the Shadow, overshadowing your Self inclines you?"
"I will do what I will do."
"You have killed your daugher, Lilith!"
"I have killed thousands. She is my own!"
"She was never yours as you are another's."
"I am not another's; I am my own, and my daughter is mine."
"Then, alas, your hour is come!"
"I care not. I am what I am; no one can take from me myself!"
"You are not the Self you imagine."
"So long as I feel myself what it pleases me to think myself, I care not. I am content to be to myself what I would be. What I choose to seem to myself makes me what I am. My own thought makes me me; my own thought of myself is me. Another shall not make me!"
"But another has made you, and can compel you to see what you have made yourself. You will not be able much longer to look to yourself anything but what he sees you! You will not much longer have satisfaction in the thought of yourself. At this moment you are aware of the coming change!"
"No one ever made me. I defy that Power to unmake me from a free woman! You are his slave, and I defy you! You may be able to torture me --I do not know, but you shall not compel me to anything against my will!"
"Such a compulsion would be without value. But there is a light that goes deeper than the will, a light that lights up the darkness behind it: that light can change your will, can make it truly yours and not another's --not the Shadow's. Into the created can pour itself the creating will, and so redeem it!"
"That light shall not enter me: I hate it! --Begone, slave!"
"I am no slave, for I love that light, and will with the deeper will which created mine. There is no slave but the creature that wills against its creator...
"You speak foolishness from a cowering heart! You imagine me given over to you: I defy you! I hold myself against you! What I choose to be, you cannot change. I will not be what you think me --what you say I am!"
"I am sorry: you must suffer!"
"But be free!"
"She alone is free who would make free; she loves not freedom who would enslave: she is herself a slave. Every life, every will, every heart that came within your ken, you have sought to subdue: you are the slave of every slave you have made --such a slave that you do not know it! See your own self!"

If you've made it this far, dear reader, I certainly hope you did not just skim that last passage: there's a lot there. Basically, Lilith thinks she is her own master and defies any one who would hold her accountable to aught but herself. She claims to control her very being - she is what she chooses to see herself. She claims to own her daughter.
The worm/leech which is Lilith, creeps into Lilith through the dark spot in her side. She begins to see herself in her horror. Mara speaks to Vane:

"...She sees at last the good she is not, the evil she is. She knows that she is herself the fire in which she is burning, but she does not know that the Light of Life is the heart of that fire. Her torment is that she is what she is. Do not fear for her; she is not forsaken. No gentler way to help her was left..." Large tears fell from her eyes on the woman who had never wept, and would not weep.
"Will you change your way?"she said at length.
"Why did he make me such?" gasped Lilith. "I would have made myself --oh, so different! I am glad it was he that made me and not I myself! He alone is to blame for what I am! Never would I have made such a worthless thing! He meant me such that I might know it and be miserable! I will not be made any longer!"
"Unmake yourself, then," said Mara.
"Alas, I cannot! You know it, and mock me! How often have I not agonised to cease, but the tyrant keeps me being! curse him! Now let him kill me!"
The words came in jets as from a dying fountain.
"Had he not made you," said Mara, gently and slowly, "you could not even hate him. But he did not make you such. You have made yourself what you are. --Be of better cheer: he can remake you."
"I will not be remade!"
"He will not change you; he will only restore you to what you were."
"I will not be aught of his making."

...."Those, alas, are not the tears of repentance!" she said. "The true tears gather in the eyes. Those are far more bitter, and not so good. Self-loathing is not sorrow. Yet it is good, for it marks a step in the way home, and in the father's arms the prodigal forgets the self he abominates. Once with his father, he is to himself of no more account. It will be so with her."
She went nearer and said,
"Will you restore that which you have wrongfully taken?"
"I have taken nothing," answered the princess, forcing out the words in spite of pain, "that I had not the right to take. My power to take manifested my right."

....I looked, and saw: before her, cast from unseen heavenly mirror, stood the freflection of herself, and beside it a form of splendent beauty. She trembed, and sank again on the floor helpless. She knew the one what God had intended her to be, the other what she had made herself...
..."You have conquered. Let me go into the wilderness and bewail myself."
Mara saw that her submission was not feigned, neither was it real. She looked at her a moment, and returned...
"Open thy hand, and let that which is in it go."
A fierce refusal seemed to struggle for passage, but she kept it prisoned.
"I cannot," she said. "I have no longer the power. Open it for me."
She held out the offending hand. It was more a paw than a hand. It seemed to me plain that she could not open it.
Mara did not even look at it.
"You must open it yourself," she said quietly.
"I have told you I cannot!"
"You can if you will --not indeed at once, but by persistent effort. What you have done, you do not yet wish undone --do not yet intend to undo!"
"You think so, I dare say, " rejoined the princes with a flash of insolence, "but I know that I cannot open my hand!"
"I know you better than you know yourself, and I know you can. You have oten opened it a little way. Without trouble and pain you cannot open it quite, but you can openit. At worst you could beat it open! i pray you, gather your strength, and open it wide."
"I will not try what I know impossible. It would be the part of a fool!"
"Which you have been playing all your life! Oh, you are hard to teach!"
Defiance reappeared on the face of the princess. She turned her back on Mara, saying,
"I know what you have been tormenting me for! You have not succeeded, nor shall you succeed! You shall yet find me stronger than you think! I will yet be mistress of myself! I am still what I have always know myself --queen of Hell, and mistress of the worlds!"

Then came the most fearful thing of all. I did not know what it was; I knew myself unable to imagine it; I knew only that it came near me I should die of terror! I now know that it was Life in Death --life dead, yet existent; and I knew that Lilith had had glimpses, but only glimpses of it before: it had never been with her until now....with my eyes I saw the face of a live death! She knew life only to know that it was dead, and that, in her, death lived. It was not merely that life had ceasedin her, but that she was consciously a dead thing. She had killed her life, and was dead --and knew it. She must death it for ever and ever! She had tried her hardest to unmake herself, and could not! She was a dead life! she could not cease! she must be! ...Her bodily eyes stood wide open, as if gazing into the heart of horror essential -- her own indestructible evil. Her right hand also was now clenched --upon existent Nothing --her inheritance!

But with God all things are possible: He can save even the rich!...

"I yield," said the princess. "I cannot hold out. I am defeated. --Not the less, I cannot open my hand."

"Have you tried?"

"I am trying now with all my might."

"I will take you to my father. You have wronged him worst of the created, therefore he best of the created can help you."

"How can he help me?"

"He will forgive you."

"Ah, if he would but help me to cease! Not even that I am capable of! I have no power over myself; I am a slave! I acknowledge it. Let me die."

"A slave thou art that shall one day be a child!" answered Mara. --"Verily, thou shalt die, but not as thou thinkest. Thou shalt die out of death into life. Now is the Life for, that never was against thee!"

Did you follow all that? Watch the unfolding drama of the hand when Lilith reaches the house of Adam where all sleep and die to live:

"Beautiful Eve, pursuade your husband to kill me: to you he will listen! Indeed I would but cannot open my hand."

"You cannot die without opening it. To kill you would not serve you," answered Eve. "But indeed he cannot! no one can kill you but the Shadow; and whom he kills never knows she is dead, but lives to do his will, and thinks she is doing her own."

"Show me then to my grave; I am so weary I can live no longer. I must go to the Shadow --yet I would not!"

She did not, could not understand!

..."You shall not go to the Shadow," I heard Eve say, as we passed them. "Even now is his head under my heel!"

..."Lilith," said Mara, you will not sleep, if you lie there a thousand years, until you have opened your hand, and yielded that which is not yours to give or to withhold."

"I cannot," she answered. "I would if I could, and gladly, for I am weary, and the shadows of death are gathering about me."

"They will gather and gather, but they cannot infold you while yet your hand remains unopened...Open your hand, and you will sleep indeed --then wake indeed."

"I am trying hard, but the fingers have grown together and into the palm."

"I pray you put forth the strength of your will. For the love of life, draw together your forces and break its bonds!"

"I have struggled in vain; I can do no more. I am very weary, and sleep lies heavy upon my lids."

"The moment you open you hand, you will sleep. Open it, and make an end."

A tinge of colour arose in teh parchment-like face; the contorted hand trembled with agonised effort, Mara took it, and sought to aid her.

"Hold, Mara!" cried her father. "There is danger!"

The princess turned her eyes upon Eve, beseechingly.

"There was a sword I once saw in your husband's hands," she murmured. "I fled when I saw it. I heard him who bore it say it would divide whatever was not one and indivisible!"

..."Bring it, Adam," pleaded Lilith, "and cut me off this hand that I may sleep."

"I will," he answered.

...She saw the sword, shuddered, and held out her hand. Adam took it. The sword gleamed once, there was one little gush of blood, and he laid the severed hand in Mara's lap. Lilith had given one moan, and was already fast asleep. ..."Where the dead deformity clung," replied Mara, "the true, lovely hand is already growing."

All right. Now to try to sum up why in the world I spent all this time typing out passages from a Victorian era fantasy about a bloodthirsty woman who won't die and happens to have a deformed hand.

Children are critical in George MacDonald's Lilith --in more ways than I have quoted here. The faith of the childlike makes them the wise ones in all their foolishness. They are the ones who, though living have already died and are thereby truly alive. (Which is why Lilith couldn't actually destroy Lona; she had already died into life.) Children are the gifts of the Father, hope for creation. They center the entire narrative which circles around Vane and Lilith becoming children. For Vane, the children seem to be the first people he ever loves (other than himself and his horses), while for Lilith, the first sign of permanent character change to good emerges when she expresses concern over the safety of the children. The children themselves, like the water, are hidden away, and their very lack of fear, protects them. (If you've read the book, think crossing the monster basin.) The very act of growing up (precipitated by increasing selfishness) renders them "bad giants" for it is as children that they receive and joy in good gifts.

Lilith, in her unregenerate state, abhores children and seeks their destruction because they threaten her power over her own existence and supremacy. She will not even allow other mothers their infants, but while teaching "her" people pride, greed, and cruelty, she enforces infanticide, and contraception. This stance against babies is described as a league with the Shadow to put an end to the human race and a malice toward the repentant Eve whose children are blessed and redeemed.

Is there an applicable lesson here? For one, MacDonald demonstrates the immeasurable blessing of children to their mothers and to the world. Evil seeks to prevent this blessing and murders it whenever possible. He also holds up children as the model of the wisdom of God in foolishness and as those who are ready to simply receive, trust, and love unquestioningly. The children even love Lilith when she bites them as they feed their captive; Lona loves her mother even when she slays her body. Because they love and trust, they sleep easiest and wake earliest.

I'm continually fascinated by MacDonald's descriptions of the people of Bulika as facets of their culture and society so nearly resemble our own. Can a culture like this be restored? For Bulika, one gets a sense that the waters unleashed by the burial of Lilith's hand in a deep spring will bring healing to the country and the city. Where are the waters of our day hid? What words repel the witches who prevent the birth of babies with horrible food? MacDonald's answer seems to indicate that only regeneration through repentence, forgiveness, and dying to one's own will and flesh, works the transformation of individuals and the culture. Yet repentence and surrender cannot come by an act of one's own strength - the eyes will not see until shown a true reflection; the hand will not open of one's own accord. For this, we need Mara - the "Lady of Sorrows," the "voice that called in the wilderness before ever the Baptist came," the one who calls to repentence. MacDonald seems purposely not to make her directly symbolic of any one individual. But she is the preacher who calls out, like wisdom in the streets, she holds up the mirror of the Law and offers bread and water to the hungry and thirsty. And until her work is done, she will not cease to beckon.

The end. I hope it's coherent.

Did I really just do that?

2009-04-02T02:07:00.002-04:00

Someone tell me I did not just stay up until two in the morning ..... again.

Yes, well, I did. But it was worth it. With Graduation fast approaching, who knows whether I shall ever have another opportunity to sing hymns for 4 hours straight? Papers are overrated; hymns are not.

(But we just couldn't find it in us to pull ourselves together enough to sing "The Angel Gabriel" without laughing hysterically by the end of the first verse. We did try four times. Please don't ask me why because I don't want to ruin the hymn for you. )

Answer to the Last Post

2009-03-31T22:17:00.002-04:00

Urban Climbing solves everything.

Now I have a scraped knee and left hand, a bruised right hand, soaked and dirty pants, numb fingers and am blissfully happy despite. I had laughter, terror, adrenaline, muscular exertion, comraderie, and even a bit of shame at rebuke. Conclusion: the external features of the college building are therapeutic if used properly with people who know what they are doing. (Don't explore the conditional statement in that sentence too closely.)

Falling Up

2009-03-31T18:48:00.002-04:00

Oh, dear reader. I just don't know where to start.

Why does it take 20 minutes to translate two verses of John 2?
Why do I have a week and a half to write two term papers and yet have no motivation, even though I find the topics interesting?
Why does the term paper draft I have attempted simply seem to repeat the same vocabulary in different arrangements through all 8 pages?
Why can't I sleep at night and why am I so tired in the morning?
Why in the world did every third person I made eye contact with during my hour long walk stare at me like I was from outer space?
Why is my left first metatarsal-phalange joint swollen and sore every time I walk?

Why in the world did I fall up the stairs instead of down, and how in the world could I fall up hard enough to produce a huge painful lump on my patella?

I'm not really frustrated, merely mildly inquisitive. My lack of frustration is itself something curiously annoying. I really need (or want) some time of my own to sort things out. I feel as if I can't produce anything worthwhile simply because I haven't had enough time to process all the information and come to conclusions.

All said, I'm ready to come home and smell the kids. I really wouldn't mind just working in a garden or barn for a few months with a few smart people to verbally ruminate with. I feel as if either I've overdosed on information or I've undergone so many paradigm shifts that the information just doesn't have many hooks to hang on anymore. I need to re-evaluate.

What Falls Up, Must Fall Down. But how do I know whether my sensation of weight is due to gravity or due to another force? (Einstein: I can't)