A snippet of one of my poetic forays showed up here at High Calling Blogs. Does this mean I've been published? ;)
Coming soon... an update on our "baby J", who, as of yesterday, seems to be doing quite well... Praise be to God!
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Of Poetry and Memory
Another blogger has challenged her readers to participate in a "great poem caper". I don't fancy myself a poet, so I probably wouldn't have been too tempted to try it (since it involves posting my "poetry" publicly)... except that she happened to provide just the right prompt.
This morning I started to read "England, England" by Julian Barnes, and the first few paragraphs captured my imagination. In them the author discusses one woman's well-warranted mistrust of memory:
A memory now of a memory a bit earlier of a memory before that of a memory way back when. So people assertively remember a face, a knee that bounced them, a springtime meadow; a dog, a granny, a woollen animal whose ear disintegrated after wet chewing [...] They remembered all this confidently, uncontradictably, but whether it was the report of others, a fond imagining, or the softly calculated attempt to take the listener's heart between finger and thumb and give it a tweak whose spreading bruise would last until love had struck -- whatever its source and intent, she mistrusted it.
That fluid aspect of memory absolutely fascinates me, and I have to wonder which, if any, of my memories are uncolored by what I know now and who I am now. Since I spent time thinking about memory this morning, and found this challenge tonight, I decided to give it a go. Why not? With any luck you won't remember them anyway!
I chose option 3, which was to take a first line and run with it. Oh, and, in true Orthodox fashion, I wrote not once, not twice, but three times.
If memories were sparrows...
If memories were sparrows…
They’d feed on seeds of love,
Nest in sturdy, sun-warm branches,
Content to glean life from dirt.
If memories were goslings,
Unruffled by fear’s winds,
They’d float freely and weightlessly,
Winging back to heart’s true home.
If memories were falcons,
They’d spot the smallest good,
Hold it fast with iron talons,
Ever vigilant and brave.
If memories were ostrich,
With strength they would endure,
They’d run life’s long miles unchanging,
Rooted with feet on the ground.
If memories were peacocks,
They’d capture in their plumes
All that’s light and all that glistens,
Vibrant, beautiful and proud.
If memories were penguins,
Plunging into icy seas,
They’d weather tide and undertow,
Find sustenance and succor.
If memories were songbirds,
Their gift soft, lilting strains,
They’d bring the heavens down to earth,
And lift to heaven the broken.
If memories were feathered,
Prey to pride and ego.
We’d cage; we’d clip their spreading wings,
We’d mute their truthful singing.
---
If memories were sparrows,
I’d shun the fancy songbirds and flashy waterfowl.
I would scoff at the showy peacock and silly long-necked heron,
Eschew (I would) the glowing colors of the flamingo and the glum scowl of the vulture.
I’d sniff at soaring hawks, at chattering nightingales, and shush the bright canary.
Then I’d scatter the choicest seeds far and wide
For those unassuming brown birds, the innumerable sparrows,
Every one so like the others, and yet so distinct and powerful,
gathering at the feeder of my heart.
---
If memories were sparrows,
Life would be simpler.
Sparrows can be captured, cataloged and caged.
While they, like any living thing, would change as they aged and would eventually die,
They would retain their nature through the changing,
As our bodies reproduces our fingerprints and every cell, our DNA.
If memories were sparrows,
I could selectively breed, choosing, of course, only the most robust and pleasant.
I release the defective birds to oblivion in the world and erase their records in my logs.
I could feed and nurture my favorites, and keep them always before me.
I could mercifully end the suffering of the damaged, broken specimens to promote happiness.
If memories were sparrows,
I would not have to be changed by them.
I could leave them behind when I wanted to escape, or move to a clime where they cannot thrive.
I could neglect them, feed them cold French fries – they wouldn’t complain.
If memories were sparrows,
I would be free to be me without feathers and droppings.
Ah… but then who would “me” be?
A tabula rasa? The happiest of souls?
If memories were sparrows,
Carefully culled and groomed,
Would I cling to the birds of destruction, death and despair?
Would I choose to enshrine in my heart the bloody memory of Christ?
Would I look at myself and remember my sins?
If memories were sparrows,
Death would be simpler.
It would come to me, silent, comfortable, and welcome, as I would be ensconced in my aviary of pride and aversion to suffering.
And only in eternity would I have to remember.
This morning I started to read "England, England" by Julian Barnes, and the first few paragraphs captured my imagination. In them the author discusses one woman's well-warranted mistrust of memory:
A memory now of a memory a bit earlier of a memory before that of a memory way back when. So people assertively remember a face, a knee that bounced them, a springtime meadow; a dog, a granny, a woollen animal whose ear disintegrated after wet chewing [...] They remembered all this confidently, uncontradictably, but whether it was the report of others, a fond imagining, or the softly calculated attempt to take the listener's heart between finger and thumb and give it a tweak whose spreading bruise would last until love had struck -- whatever its source and intent, she mistrusted it.
That fluid aspect of memory absolutely fascinates me, and I have to wonder which, if any, of my memories are uncolored by what I know now and who I am now. Since I spent time thinking about memory this morning, and found this challenge tonight, I decided to give it a go. Why not? With any luck you won't remember them anyway!
I chose option 3, which was to take a first line and run with it. Oh, and, in true Orthodox fashion, I wrote not once, not twice, but three times.
If memories were sparrows...
If memories were sparrows…
They’d feed on seeds of love,
Nest in sturdy, sun-warm branches,
Content to glean life from dirt.
If memories were goslings,
Unruffled by fear’s winds,
They’d float freely and weightlessly,
Winging back to heart’s true home.
If memories were falcons,
They’d spot the smallest good,
Hold it fast with iron talons,
Ever vigilant and brave.
If memories were ostrich,
With strength they would endure,
They’d run life’s long miles unchanging,
Rooted with feet on the ground.
If memories were peacocks,
They’d capture in their plumes
All that’s light and all that glistens,
Vibrant, beautiful and proud.
If memories were penguins,
Plunging into icy seas,
They’d weather tide and undertow,
Find sustenance and succor.
If memories were songbirds,
Their gift soft, lilting strains,
They’d bring the heavens down to earth,
And lift to heaven the broken.
If memories were feathered,
Prey to pride and ego.
We’d cage; we’d clip their spreading wings,
We’d mute their truthful singing.
---
If memories were sparrows,
I’d shun the fancy songbirds and flashy waterfowl.
I would scoff at the showy peacock and silly long-necked heron,
Eschew (I would) the glowing colors of the flamingo and the glum scowl of the vulture.
I’d sniff at soaring hawks, at chattering nightingales, and shush the bright canary.
Then I’d scatter the choicest seeds far and wide
For those unassuming brown birds, the innumerable sparrows,
Every one so like the others, and yet so distinct and powerful,
gathering at the feeder of my heart.
---
If memories were sparrows,
Life would be simpler.
Sparrows can be captured, cataloged and caged.
While they, like any living thing, would change as they aged and would eventually die,
They would retain their nature through the changing,
As our bodies reproduces our fingerprints and every cell, our DNA.
If memories were sparrows,
I could selectively breed, choosing, of course, only the most robust and pleasant.
I release the defective birds to oblivion in the world and erase their records in my logs.
I could feed and nurture my favorites, and keep them always before me.
I could mercifully end the suffering of the damaged, broken specimens to promote happiness.
If memories were sparrows,
I would not have to be changed by them.
I could leave them behind when I wanted to escape, or move to a clime where they cannot thrive.
I could neglect them, feed them cold French fries – they wouldn’t complain.
If memories were sparrows,
I would be free to be me without feathers and droppings.
Ah… but then who would “me” be?
A tabula rasa? The happiest of souls?
If memories were sparrows,
Carefully culled and groomed,
Would I cling to the birds of destruction, death and despair?
Would I choose to enshrine in my heart the bloody memory of Christ?
Would I look at myself and remember my sins?
If memories were sparrows,
Death would be simpler.
It would come to me, silent, comfortable, and welcome, as I would be ensconced in my aviary of pride and aversion to suffering.
And only in eternity would I have to remember.
Mews and Musings
Week 12 of our pregnancy has rolled around, and I roll with it, from one side to the other in the night, with all the tenacity of a hen on a spit and the effectiveness of a pallid pancake flipped repeatedly in a too-cool pan. I'm trying to teach myself to sleep on my left side before the necessity of a swelling belly forces the issue, but I have met with only scant success, accompanied by newly-sore hips. God bless the doctor who told me both that my nighttime self-torture was unnecessary for the present and that the right side was as good as the left; God bless him, but I am nothing if not persistent, and so I flop repeatedly most nights, marking a physical boundary between bouts of strange dreams.
Lost in the nightly shuffle is MooMoo, my once-faithful mewing belly warmer. For a while she just scolded when I disturbed her rest, prompting me to whisper little apologies in my half-sleep, but about 2 weeks ago she grew weary of my tossing and decided to sleep next to Daniel. Apparently he wasn't a much better solution, because she has since given up on the humans altogether and has reached a tenuous peace accord with Monte. I wasn't there when they drew up the treaty, but I imagine the document commemorating the concord would read something like this:
"We the cats of the house, in order to form a more perfect night's sleep, establish purring and ensure domestic tranquility... do agree not to reduce each other to shreds of fur, to tolerate occasional furtive butt sniffing and to sleep together on the futon, provided that neither one of us creeps closer than 14.5 inches in proximity, except to execute the aforementioned sniffing when sanctioned by an excess of curiosity and when not impinging on the personal comfort or perceived safety of the other."
And so, while I generally don't get up to check on them in the middle of the night, I can see them in my mind's eye as surely as if I were there observing: Monte an extra-large black Bundt cake with a head, and MooMoo a furry, dark, dainty loaf of sweet bread, sleeping contentedly on their disheveled new bed of choice. One of them will have established a claim on Daniel's jacket, and the other will settle for the blanket I use to keep myself warm when sleep evades me and I give up on finding it, but they will both be there in some softly snoring configuration.
At first I was a little bit sad. I had grown so used to MooMoo's soothing presence at night, but then I realized that this arrangement is actually ideal. Assuming that our little princess cat is dethroned in about six month's time by a crying, wriggling, cooing, wrinkled human infant, MooMoo's days on the bed (and in our room) are numbered anyway. It's better this way: she preserves the dignity of self-will that is essential to the feline, and I toss unfettered under the suddenly lighter covers.
Our mostly cat-free sleep comes to an end about the time my need to answer nature's call outweighs my desire for a warm bed. With my first stirring comes the thump indicating that Monte has dismounted the futon, with MooMoo slinking silently behind. For a while, Monte will be content to pin Daniel's chest to the bed and demand a few caresses which he rewards with voluminous purring. But then he grows restless and begins his ritual morning trampling. If he starts his "wake up the humans" routine too early, he often finds himself unceremoniously dumped behind a closed door. If, however, he times it right, he's rewarded with breakfast, so most mornings it must seem worth the gamble.
After breakfast, which MooMoo sometimes shuns, the cats enjoy a little stare-down on the stairs. MooMoo perches at the far end of the top landing, and Monte crouches at the opposite end of the second step down, where they sit for several minutes. I confess that I don't know what this accomplishes, but it is apparently as important as all of the other rituals in their lives, such as the nightly chase that thunders through the house.
I see in the cats the importance of order and predictability in everyday life. Cats are unsettled by the most innocuous of changes, for better or for worse, and they crave the comfort of knowing what to expect from life. I'm not much different, really. I find changes in my life and body to be somewhat rattling, even as I embrace them.
Our own lives have grown quieter and the cats have adjusted their lifestyle to match. I think, perhaps, we humans talk somewhat less than we used to. However, we tend not to waste words, and I dare say we understand more. Some things don't need explaining, like why we both cried the first time we saw that Gerber commercial in which parents proclaim their commitment to their unborn or newborn babies. Some things have grown in significance, like the pleasure of a good back-scratch or, for Dan, the bliss of a few moments in which I make no demands. Other things have begun anew, like the nightly anointing of my head and belly with oil that helps me to remember in whose hands and by whose mercy all of us have our being.
Mostly, whatever the changes, we're just grateful for the blessing of life... divine, human and feline. That, and we cherish the fleeting memory of an undisturbed night's sleep!
Lost in the nightly shuffle is MooMoo, my once-faithful mewing belly warmer. For a while she just scolded when I disturbed her rest, prompting me to whisper little apologies in my half-sleep, but about 2 weeks ago she grew weary of my tossing and decided to sleep next to Daniel. Apparently he wasn't a much better solution, because she has since given up on the humans altogether and has reached a tenuous peace accord with Monte. I wasn't there when they drew up the treaty, but I imagine the document commemorating the concord would read something like this:
"We the cats of the house, in order to form a more perfect night's sleep, establish purring and ensure domestic tranquility... do agree not to reduce each other to shreds of fur, to tolerate occasional furtive butt sniffing and to sleep together on the futon, provided that neither one of us creeps closer than 14.5 inches in proximity, except to execute the aforementioned sniffing when sanctioned by an excess of curiosity and when not impinging on the personal comfort or perceived safety of the other."
And so, while I generally don't get up to check on them in the middle of the night, I can see them in my mind's eye as surely as if I were there observing: Monte an extra-large black Bundt cake with a head, and MooMoo a furry, dark, dainty loaf of sweet bread, sleeping contentedly on their disheveled new bed of choice. One of them will have established a claim on Daniel's jacket, and the other will settle for the blanket I use to keep myself warm when sleep evades me and I give up on finding it, but they will both be there in some softly snoring configuration.
At first I was a little bit sad. I had grown so used to MooMoo's soothing presence at night, but then I realized that this arrangement is actually ideal. Assuming that our little princess cat is dethroned in about six month's time by a crying, wriggling, cooing, wrinkled human infant, MooMoo's days on the bed (and in our room) are numbered anyway. It's better this way: she preserves the dignity of self-will that is essential to the feline, and I toss unfettered under the suddenly lighter covers.
Our mostly cat-free sleep comes to an end about the time my need to answer nature's call outweighs my desire for a warm bed. With my first stirring comes the thump indicating that Monte has dismounted the futon, with MooMoo slinking silently behind. For a while, Monte will be content to pin Daniel's chest to the bed and demand a few caresses which he rewards with voluminous purring. But then he grows restless and begins his ritual morning trampling. If he starts his "wake up the humans" routine too early, he often finds himself unceremoniously dumped behind a closed door. If, however, he times it right, he's rewarded with breakfast, so most mornings it must seem worth the gamble.
After breakfast, which MooMoo sometimes shuns, the cats enjoy a little stare-down on the stairs. MooMoo perches at the far end of the top landing, and Monte crouches at the opposite end of the second step down, where they sit for several minutes. I confess that I don't know what this accomplishes, but it is apparently as important as all of the other rituals in their lives, such as the nightly chase that thunders through the house.
I see in the cats the importance of order and predictability in everyday life. Cats are unsettled by the most innocuous of changes, for better or for worse, and they crave the comfort of knowing what to expect from life. I'm not much different, really. I find changes in my life and body to be somewhat rattling, even as I embrace them.
Our own lives have grown quieter and the cats have adjusted their lifestyle to match. I think, perhaps, we humans talk somewhat less than we used to. However, we tend not to waste words, and I dare say we understand more. Some things don't need explaining, like why we both cried the first time we saw that Gerber commercial in which parents proclaim their commitment to their unborn or newborn babies. Some things have grown in significance, like the pleasure of a good back-scratch or, for Dan, the bliss of a few moments in which I make no demands. Other things have begun anew, like the nightly anointing of my head and belly with oil that helps me to remember in whose hands and by whose mercy all of us have our being.
Mostly, whatever the changes, we're just grateful for the blessing of life... divine, human and feline. That, and we cherish the fleeting memory of an undisturbed night's sleep!
Monday, January 12, 2009
The Audacity!
I've read two of Yann Martel's books now, and each time he had me hooked in the introduction. It's probably because he has, in both cases, started by going back in time to his expectations and mindset as a college student studying philosophy. From there he talks about his journey as a writer and how he came to write the book I held in my hand. In both cases, I felt that there was something about him that was just like me, except that we come from different cultural backgrounds, genders, countries of birth and life experience and have almost nothing, really, in common. Just philosophy and writing. Of course, the writing link is tenuous at best: his writing has been critically acclaimed and translated into several languages, while mine wasn't skillful enough to save me the indignity of a lay-off from a publication that can hardly claim literary distinction among its merits. Basically, I read his introductory words and become convinced immediately that we have everything (and nothing) in common. Former philosophy majors that we are, I'm fairly certain that if Mr. Martel and I ever actually discussed the matter, we'd both be rather comfortable with paradox. It's just about all the major leaves one with... so why not embrace it?
Daniel and I were talking last night about my writing while waiting for sleep to overtake us. I had made it about 3/4 of the way through the newest Martel intro and again had that distinct feeling that I must write, even if it is for an audience of none. I told my sleepy husband that it was a pity, really: I have all the time in the world to be creative, and not much energy to do anything else, and yet I have no idea what to write. I have no shortage of life experiences to begin from. I've traveled some, talked to hundreds of people, I have known loves and losses and if anything I feel like I am already bursting with inspiration. How, though, to pull from 1000 ideas just one to make my focus? I have no idea. Well... I know what will happen well enough. It could be scripted. I'll eventually, Lord willing, have my hands full with children, and then I will know exactly what to write... I just won't have the time to commit it to screen or paper.
I know part of what holds me back, and I told Daniel so. Until I battle that demon, I will continue to think about writing and limit my words to the mostly polite boundaries of my blog space. I know that if I do write someday, I wouldn't know how to do it without exploring parts of human experience that are impolite, if not insidious. I would probably shock and dismay people who would prefer to think of me as a nice Christian girl who couldn't or wouldn't think up such things, because "nice" Christians seem to behave as if the sinful nature we all share does not bear uttering, because uttering is akin to glorifying. I don't mean that my deepest desire as a writer is to create salacious texts that have no value beyond the prurient, rather I am uncomfortable with the idea that to write about human failings with honesty is to first find those failings in my own heart and life - if not in full bloom, in seeds of thought. They are there, without question, but I sometimes feel that I must keep up the facade. I'm not a "nice" Christian girl; I am a highly imperfect person who struggles, and I could be nothing less as an author. I wouldn't know how to create characters without making them deeply flawed. No devotionals, inspirational works or simple moral tales for me. But what else is a Christian to write? I want to write fiction, and to write powerful fiction is first to write truth. The truth is that humanity is imperfect... not beyond the reach of redemption, but in desperate need of that redemption.
Minutes ticked by. Daniel eventually succumbed to the wiles of sleep. I, however, lay awake, tying to find some way to be comfortable on my left side and contemplating my myriad different muses. It occurred to me at some point that the this whole desire to write is rather audacious. It assumes that I have something of inherent importance to say. Of course, nobody is obligated to read anything I may pull together, but by bothering to make it public, I am saying that my thoughts, my creations must be shared. Surely our Creator gave us the creative instinct, and, in one sense, at least, man was create to share His creation. What, however, can I possibly say that hasn't been said? What can I knit in words that won't have the must and texture of recycled fragments? Why bother?
Honestly, I don't know. I think, thought, that I'm just audacious enough try anyway. Only time will tell.
Daniel and I were talking last night about my writing while waiting for sleep to overtake us. I had made it about 3/4 of the way through the newest Martel intro and again had that distinct feeling that I must write, even if it is for an audience of none. I told my sleepy husband that it was a pity, really: I have all the time in the world to be creative, and not much energy to do anything else, and yet I have no idea what to write. I have no shortage of life experiences to begin from. I've traveled some, talked to hundreds of people, I have known loves and losses and if anything I feel like I am already bursting with inspiration. How, though, to pull from 1000 ideas just one to make my focus? I have no idea. Well... I know what will happen well enough. It could be scripted. I'll eventually, Lord willing, have my hands full with children, and then I will know exactly what to write... I just won't have the time to commit it to screen or paper.
I know part of what holds me back, and I told Daniel so. Until I battle that demon, I will continue to think about writing and limit my words to the mostly polite boundaries of my blog space. I know that if I do write someday, I wouldn't know how to do it without exploring parts of human experience that are impolite, if not insidious. I would probably shock and dismay people who would prefer to think of me as a nice Christian girl who couldn't or wouldn't think up such things, because "nice" Christians seem to behave as if the sinful nature we all share does not bear uttering, because uttering is akin to glorifying. I don't mean that my deepest desire as a writer is to create salacious texts that have no value beyond the prurient, rather I am uncomfortable with the idea that to write about human failings with honesty is to first find those failings in my own heart and life - if not in full bloom, in seeds of thought. They are there, without question, but I sometimes feel that I must keep up the facade. I'm not a "nice" Christian girl; I am a highly imperfect person who struggles, and I could be nothing less as an author. I wouldn't know how to create characters without making them deeply flawed. No devotionals, inspirational works or simple moral tales for me. But what else is a Christian to write? I want to write fiction, and to write powerful fiction is first to write truth. The truth is that humanity is imperfect... not beyond the reach of redemption, but in desperate need of that redemption.
Minutes ticked by. Daniel eventually succumbed to the wiles of sleep. I, however, lay awake, tying to find some way to be comfortable on my left side and contemplating my myriad different muses. It occurred to me at some point that the this whole desire to write is rather audacious. It assumes that I have something of inherent importance to say. Of course, nobody is obligated to read anything I may pull together, but by bothering to make it public, I am saying that my thoughts, my creations must be shared. Surely our Creator gave us the creative instinct, and, in one sense, at least, man was create to share His creation. What, however, can I possibly say that hasn't been said? What can I knit in words that won't have the must and texture of recycled fragments? Why bother?
Honestly, I don't know. I think, thought, that I'm just audacious enough try anyway. Only time will tell.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Thank God for Books
I have spent so much time reclining and almost completely sapped of energy lately that I have renewed my commitment to an old passion for books. Even new-to-me books have the comforting power of old familiar friends, and they allow me to break free from the wasteland that is TV and the tedium of my life of late.
This really is a revival of an old love, too. I have several memories of my stolen moments with books. One night, when I was about 15, I stayed up until 3 or 4am to finish the Oedipus Cycle. It was a pleasure read that I had found in a used book bin, and I don't think I had a single friend at the time who would have understood that choice. I also remember reading Nathaniel Hawthorne in a lawn chair in our tiny garden outside, surrounded by Dad's lovingly-tended flowers, and protected from the sun by the wall of the "little house" and my ruffled blue umbrella. Then there were the times I turned down invitations to social times with friends. I don't remember if I was entirely truthful about why each time, but often it was about a book that had dragged me in to its web of words. Fast forward to my tumultuous, confusing and exceptionally long-lasting college years, and you might find me spread out alone on a blanket at the Huntington Library gardens or sharing my lunch and my book time with the forward squirrels in the UCLA Arboretum. On my few and far between visits to the beach, you could find me avoiding the sun in my tent or under my umbrella, book in hand. On our visit to a state natural area last year, Daniel and I dragged books and towels with us so that when we had tired of walking and talking, we could lounge by the river and bathe in the dying embers of the sun while listening to the voices from other times and places in our books.
You may notice a theme here... me, books, outdoors. Perhaps that is why, when I am as shut up as I have ever been, books are so comforting. Their often musty pages evoke the natural settings that I have so often shared with books. I haven't had energy enough to even sit out on our porch to read, so the power of a book to transport me from my present setting has been invaluable.
What do I read? Anything, really. Emphasis on British and Scandinavian novels. In the last week or so, I have finished Possession (by A.S. Byatt: an amazing book that defies my powers of imagination to come up with an explanation as to how one person could have brought such a tale to life in all of its complexity and detail) the Forsyte Saga (an 870-page old library edition printed in 1924 that Dan bought for me from a local used book seller - the only copy of a book by John Galsworthy sold in the memory of the shop's owner), Gunnar's Daughter by Sigrid Undset (a fictional story of a 10th-century Norse woman told in a style reminiscent of Icelandic Sagas), The Age of Innocence and The Buccaneers by Edith Wharton, Elizabeth Gaskell's North and South, and I Will Plant You a Lilac Tree (the memoir of Schindler's List Holocaust survivor Laura Hillman). I'm nearly finished with Gabriel Garcia Marquez's Love in the Time of Cholera and I gave up on page 50-ish of The Book of Runes (when I discovered definitively that the author's aim, rather than explaining the historical usage of Scandinavian runic, was to create a new method to resurrect the runes as an oracle along the lines of I Ching or Tarot and when my patience for that sort of silliness ran out). I have a pile of other books that I will eagerly devour when I have finished these, compliments of the people who sent me books for Christmas and Daniel, who has made periodic visits to the used book store and our storage unit to keep both of us in books to read.
Several weeks ago, at one of my darkest, most frightened moments, the book I picked up was my maternal grandmother's old Bible, given to her by her children when it appears that my mom, at least, was as yet unable to write her own name. Zipped up in its pages were a few scattered bookmarks and scraps of her life and reminders of her faith. I looked through the inserted relics before reading several of the Psalms and some favorite passages from the Old testament and New, and I felt myself growing more calm, and better able to pray, which meant that I could eventually sleep. Grandma was, if she was nothing else, a prayer warrior. I remember thinking when she passed away, "who will pray for me like she did? No one." I can still see her on her knees in the small hours of the morning, lifting up all of those she loved into God's hands.
I'm grateful for the power of words to transport, to comfort, to inspire... and I am glad that God committed his love for us to writing through the voices of the many men who wrote the Book of books. And I am glad that God has given us the ability to keep on writing about the things that thrill, motivate, move, comfort and scare us, because I have found in books, in these lonely, isolated days, connections to divinity and humanity that I have sorely missed.
This really is a revival of an old love, too. I have several memories of my stolen moments with books. One night, when I was about 15, I stayed up until 3 or 4am to finish the Oedipus Cycle. It was a pleasure read that I had found in a used book bin, and I don't think I had a single friend at the time who would have understood that choice. I also remember reading Nathaniel Hawthorne in a lawn chair in our tiny garden outside, surrounded by Dad's lovingly-tended flowers, and protected from the sun by the wall of the "little house" and my ruffled blue umbrella. Then there were the times I turned down invitations to social times with friends. I don't remember if I was entirely truthful about why each time, but often it was about a book that had dragged me in to its web of words. Fast forward to my tumultuous, confusing and exceptionally long-lasting college years, and you might find me spread out alone on a blanket at the Huntington Library gardens or sharing my lunch and my book time with the forward squirrels in the UCLA Arboretum. On my few and far between visits to the beach, you could find me avoiding the sun in my tent or under my umbrella, book in hand. On our visit to a state natural area last year, Daniel and I dragged books and towels with us so that when we had tired of walking and talking, we could lounge by the river and bathe in the dying embers of the sun while listening to the voices from other times and places in our books.
You may notice a theme here... me, books, outdoors. Perhaps that is why, when I am as shut up as I have ever been, books are so comforting. Their often musty pages evoke the natural settings that I have so often shared with books. I haven't had energy enough to even sit out on our porch to read, so the power of a book to transport me from my present setting has been invaluable.
What do I read? Anything, really. Emphasis on British and Scandinavian novels. In the last week or so, I have finished Possession (by A.S. Byatt: an amazing book that defies my powers of imagination to come up with an explanation as to how one person could have brought such a tale to life in all of its complexity and detail) the Forsyte Saga (an 870-page old library edition printed in 1924 that Dan bought for me from a local used book seller - the only copy of a book by John Galsworthy sold in the memory of the shop's owner), Gunnar's Daughter by Sigrid Undset (a fictional story of a 10th-century Norse woman told in a style reminiscent of Icelandic Sagas), The Age of Innocence and The Buccaneers by Edith Wharton, Elizabeth Gaskell's North and South, and I Will Plant You a Lilac Tree (the memoir of Schindler's List Holocaust survivor Laura Hillman). I'm nearly finished with Gabriel Garcia Marquez's Love in the Time of Cholera and I gave up on page 50-ish of The Book of Runes (when I discovered definitively that the author's aim, rather than explaining the historical usage of Scandinavian runic, was to create a new method to resurrect the runes as an oracle along the lines of I Ching or Tarot and when my patience for that sort of silliness ran out). I have a pile of other books that I will eagerly devour when I have finished these, compliments of the people who sent me books for Christmas and Daniel, who has made periodic visits to the used book store and our storage unit to keep both of us in books to read.
Several weeks ago, at one of my darkest, most frightened moments, the book I picked up was my maternal grandmother's old Bible, given to her by her children when it appears that my mom, at least, was as yet unable to write her own name. Zipped up in its pages were a few scattered bookmarks and scraps of her life and reminders of her faith. I looked through the inserted relics before reading several of the Psalms and some favorite passages from the Old testament and New, and I felt myself growing more calm, and better able to pray, which meant that I could eventually sleep. Grandma was, if she was nothing else, a prayer warrior. I remember thinking when she passed away, "who will pray for me like she did? No one." I can still see her on her knees in the small hours of the morning, lifting up all of those she loved into God's hands.
I'm grateful for the power of words to transport, to comfort, to inspire... and I am glad that God committed his love for us to writing through the voices of the many men who wrote the Book of books. And I am glad that God has given us the ability to keep on writing about the things that thrill, motivate, move, comfort and scare us, because I have found in books, in these lonely, isolated days, connections to divinity and humanity that I have sorely missed.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
9 weeks and counting...
Just a quick update for those of you who may be wondering how things are going... and who may not have seen this on Facebook.
We had an ultrasound on Friday with our new OB. He said everything looked encouraging, that the heartbeat was "plenty fast enough" and that, as long as the baby keeps growing as expected, he wasn't too worried about the little bit of bleeding in the uterus (probably coming from a spot where the placenta failed to completely fuse to the uterine wall). It was so fun to see the baby moving around and to hear the little "steam-engine" heartbeat (to quote Dan).
The doctor is a senior citizen who has been at the business of babies for a LONG time and has the deep low drawl of a Southern gentleman. He was simultaneously no-nonsense and in possession of a sense of humor. Dan and I both really liked him.
Among the surprises of the day, baby looked to be about 3 days larger than the original estimated due date would indicate, so we have a newly revised (sooner!) due date of August 9. Either way, this baby is apparently determined to arrive at the hottest, most miserable time of the year! The other interesting tidbit is that the doctor thinks I may need a c-section when the time comes. That is one bridge that we won't be crossing for several months, but it doesn't concern me too much either way. (One thing that wasn't surprising is that baby has a tail. Even that seemed somehow adorable.)
The doctor told us that a good ultrasound at this stage means that the likelihood of miscarriage, while it never drops to zero, is greatly diminished. Given the bleeding I have experienced, the doctor did encourage me to keep my activity to a minimum, so I will still be keeping to bed and chaise much of the time until I am told to do otherwise.
As always, we appreciate the prayers, happy thoughts and encouragement that so many of you have offered (and would ask our prayer warriors to keep at it)!
We had an ultrasound on Friday with our new OB. He said everything looked encouraging, that the heartbeat was "plenty fast enough" and that, as long as the baby keeps growing as expected, he wasn't too worried about the little bit of bleeding in the uterus (probably coming from a spot where the placenta failed to completely fuse to the uterine wall). It was so fun to see the baby moving around and to hear the little "steam-engine" heartbeat (to quote Dan).
The doctor is a senior citizen who has been at the business of babies for a LONG time and has the deep low drawl of a Southern gentleman. He was simultaneously no-nonsense and in possession of a sense of humor. Dan and I both really liked him.
Among the surprises of the day, baby looked to be about 3 days larger than the original estimated due date would indicate, so we have a newly revised (sooner!) due date of August 9. Either way, this baby is apparently determined to arrive at the hottest, most miserable time of the year! The other interesting tidbit is that the doctor thinks I may need a c-section when the time comes. That is one bridge that we won't be crossing for several months, but it doesn't concern me too much either way. (One thing that wasn't surprising is that baby has a tail. Even that seemed somehow adorable.)
The doctor told us that a good ultrasound at this stage means that the likelihood of miscarriage, while it never drops to zero, is greatly diminished. Given the bleeding I have experienced, the doctor did encourage me to keep my activity to a minimum, so I will still be keeping to bed and chaise much of the time until I am told to do otherwise.
As always, we appreciate the prayers, happy thoughts and encouragement that so many of you have offered (and would ask our prayer warriors to keep at it)!
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