Ringing in a new one

The object of a New Year is not that we should have a new year. It is that we should have a new soul and a new nose; new feet, a new backbone, new ears, and new eyes. Unless a particular man made New Year resolutions, he would make no resolutions. Unless a man starts fresh about things, he will certainly do nothing effective. Unless a man starts on the strange assumption that he has never existed before, it is quite certain that he will never exist afterwards. Unless a man be born again, he shall by no means enter into the Kingdom of Heaven.

[G.K. Chesterton]

No one ever regarded the First of January with indifference.  It is that from which all date their time, and count upon what is left.  It is the nativity of our common Adam.  

[Charles Lamb]

For last year's words belong to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make a beginning.

[T.S. Eliot]

Songs of Christmas

So I haven't been feeling very Christmassy of late, but I'm realizing that (given it's now the 21st) if I don't get into the spirit soon, I'll be sad when it's all over and I've missed out on the anticipation and wonder that Christmas can inspire. With that in mind, here is an excerpt from a Christmas hymn, which I found in a little Book of Common Prayer picked up while in London. I think this carol encapsulates in a few words where our hearts should be at Christmastime.

Hark! a thrilling voice is sounding;

"Christ is nigh," it seems to say;

"Cast away the dreams of darkness,

O ye children of the day!"

Waken'd by the solemn warning,

Let the earth-bound soul arise;

Christ, her Sun, all ill dispelling,

Shines upon the morning skies. 

Lo! the Lamb, so long expected,
Comes with pardon down from Heav'n;
Let us haste, with tears of sorrow,
One and all to be forgiven . . .

A Christmas Carol

The Skies I'm Under

Cottonwoods on the CA 166

One of the things I love most about Mumford & Sons is their lyrics. (Forgive me if you've heard too much from me about this band already, I'm an ardent enthusiast.) Anyway, groundbreaking observation, right? But in all seriousness, as a writer I appreciate the depth of meaning within their songs. Catchy as most pop music is, the words to those won't-get-out-of-my-head melodies are often one-dimensional, if not downright inane. And, I need hardly add, 99% of those songs revolve around a cheapened understanding of love. (Not saying I don't sing along in the car, just observing.) Don't even get me started on contemporary Christian music. There are some notable exceptions, but many times the lyrics I sing in church leave me embarrassed and frustrated at the state of the arts in Christian circles.

So when I hear a song like "Hopeless Wanderer," my heart expands. It's not that I understand every line, or that I feel the rhyme scheme is perfect, or that nothing could be improved upon--I'm a critic of the worst order, I can always find fault somewhere. But the lyrics speak to me. I understand the tension that exists between love of one's roots and the allure of the wide world, the untraveled road, those far away places where--remarkably--you can find a sense of belonging. But most of all I am struck by the wisdom in the last lines: "I will learn to love the skies I'm under." Probably without meaning to, Mumford & Sons distantly echoes a statement of the Apostle Paul in I Timothy 6:6: "But godliness with contentment is great gain." That lyric makes me wince a little when I think about it, because I am still far from achieving that divine contentment which does not depend on my circumstances--yet I also recognize that without it, I will not ultimately find fulfillment in any of the other, lesser things I pursue. The very tangible picture of "loving the skies I'm under," while poetic, is also remarkably practical: I can begin by recognizing and enjoying the beauty and uniqueness of the world around me, whatever I might be.

Though I think there's more to be drawn from this song, I'll let Mumford & Sons speak for themselves now:

Hopeless Wanderer
 
You heard my voice 
I came out of the woods by choice  
Shelter also gave their shade  
And in the dark I have no name  
So leave that click in my head  
And I will remember the words that you said  
Left a clouded mind and a heavy heart  
But I was sure we could see a new start
 
So when your hope's on fire  
But you know your desire 
Don't hold a glass over the flame  
Don't let your heart grow cold  
I will call you by name  
I will share your road
 
But hold me fast, 
Hold me fast
'Cause I'm a hopeless wanderer  
And hold me fast, 
Hold me fast 
'Cause I'm a hopeless wanderer
 
I wrestled long with my youth
We tried so hard to live in the truth  
But do not tell me all is fine  
When I lose my head, I lose my spine  
So leave that click in my head  
And I won't remember the words that you said  
You brought me out from the cold  
Now, how I long, how I long to grow old
 
So when your hope's on fire  
But you know your desire  
Don't hold a glass over the flame 
Don't let your heart grow cold  
I will call you by name  
I will share your road
 
But hold me fast, 
Hold me fast 
'Cause I'm a hopeless wanderer  
And hold me fast, 
Hold me fast 
'Cause I'm a hopeless wanderer  
And I will learn, I will learn to love the skies I'm under  
And I will learn, I will learn to love the skies I'm under 
The skies I'm under

Veni, veni, Emmanuel

Artist and saint alike grope in awe to comprehend the incomprehensible disproportion of the glory of God and the humility of the Incarnation: the Master of the Universe, become of the earth, earthy, in order to become one with his creatures, so that we may be one with him.

~ Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith & Art, Madeleine L'Engle

How novel-writing relates to real life

I recently came to the horrifying realization that once (or rather, if) my novel is published, my characters won't be my own any more. Each reader will appropriate them to him or herself and will probably picture them with certain attributes/characteristics that I may or may not have intended to give them as I wrote. That thought gives me pause when I imagine the glories of publication, because it means that my work may eventually escape my control.

In some ways--if the analogy isn't too weird--writing is like love. For a relationship to work, you must eventually lay all your cards on the table. Vulnerability is a frightening but necessary component in both cases: you cannot write a worthwhile novel without baring your soul to some degree, and it would be strange if writers were more honest with the reading public than one is with the love of one's life.

Also, you have to let go your grip on someone if you really want to love and be loved freely: compelling someone's affection is no kind of love. So too, writers have to hold their work with open hands. I have to accept the fact that some readers won't like what I write. Others will wish certain themes had been more or less developed, or imagine scenes differently than I have. But that's part of the glory of the reader-writer relationship--it allows our imaginations to meet, whatever the consequences. And surely the meeting of souls (and intellects) belongs not only of writing, but also to love.

[Pretend there's a picture here. Apparently I've reached my storage quota, so can't upload one at the moment . . .]

In principio erat Verbum.

Washington, D.C.

Words. Language. One of the most basic gifts that we as humans share. Words allow us to press beyond the barriers that separate one consciousness from another: to find connection in a world full of isolation. Words get beyond the physical to the spiritual. As a literature major and a writer, I have a close relationship with words. My dear literature professor, Dr. Libby, taught my classmates and I to recognize and value the profound skill with which great writers have wielded the written word for centuries past. Words define us in so many ways--culturally, socially, personally. Yet sometimes, when we desire most excruciatingly to verbalize our heart's agony or joy, words let us down.

Christ Himself, the Word of God, though innocent, stood silent before His accusers. He who had enthralled crowds like no other with his simple parables and authoritative teachings from Scripture. Though He never leaves us, sometimes God brings us also into the discipline of silence. In all likelihood, we will not be called to stand, unprotesting, in the face of death. But what about silence from someone we care about, creative silence, the silence of the grave . . . even silence from God? These wordless moments find us all sooner or later. The great question is, what will I do with that silence? Try to fill it--or wait?

I apologize if I've quoted these passages before. I think you'll find they're still relevant:

The Lord is good to those who wait for him,
    to the soul who seeks him.
It is good that one should wait quietly
    for the salvation of the Lord.
It is good for a man that he bear
    the yoke in his youth.

Let him sit alone in silence
    when it is laid on him;
let him put his mouth in the dust—
    there may yet be hope; 

 let him give his cheek to the one who strikes,
    and let him be filled with insults.

- Lamentations 3:25-30

He felt his hunger no longer as a pain but as a tide. He felt it rising in himself through time and darkness, rising through the centuries, and he knew that it rose in a line of men whose lives were chosen to sustain it, who would wander in the world, strangers from that violent country where the silence is never broken except to shout the truth.

- Flannery O'Connor, The Violent Bear It Away

In memoriam

Dr. Bonnie Libby, Associate Professor of Literature, Patrick Henry College

"The sequel of to-day unsolders all

The goodliest fellowship of famous knights

Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep

They sleep—the men I loved. I think that we

Shall never more, at any future time,

Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,

Walking about the gardens and the halls

Of Camelot, as in the days that were."

 . . .

   Then from the dawn it seem'd there came, but faint

As from beyond the limit of the world,

Like the last echo born of a great cry,

Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice

Around a king returning from his wars. 

 

[Excerpt from "Idylls of the King: The Passing of Arthur," by Alfred, Lord Tennyson]

I wrote one of many commonplaces (brief reflective essays) for Dr. Libby on a portion of this poem. She had such a deep appreciation for the writers of the past--and a wonderfully encouraging approach to the work of aspiring writers such as myself. As a literature major, I took numerous classes with Dr. Libby and interacted with her often outside the classroom. Her office was always a welcoming place, complete with tea set and (of course) shelves and shelves of books. 

 

I believe it was the fall of my senior year that she had her Brit Lit students over to her house for chili and a viewing of She Stoops to Conquer. Another time, I joined one of the many Shakespeare outings she spearheaded for a production of A Midsummer Night's Dream. Even after I graduated, Dr. Libby continued to take an interest in my life, being willing--on multiple occasions--to write letters of reference for my graduate school applications. We also exchanged notes on our travels: she so loved her adventures in Ireland, and I wish I could have heard more about them. She suggested that I stay at The Highbury Centre when we talked about my upcoming visit to London; that proved such a blessing, as it was through The Highbury Centre that I found longer term housing in London last autumn. 

My greatest regret is not having had more time to talk with Dr. Libby (I still can't bring myself to call her Bonnie, though I'd known her for over two years outside of an official student-professor capacity) about our common loves of literature, travel, etc. Her quiet demeanor was undergirt by a great deal of wit, wisdom, and love of life and God. I wish I could have absorbed more of all of these qualities in the time I was privileged to study under her and know her as a friend.

The above excerpts, from the last of Tennyson's poems in his King Arthur cycle, not only remind me of Dr. Libby's love for beauty in poetry and prose, but capture as well my sense of loss at her passing and my trust that she has been well and gloriously welcomed into her eternal rest. 

 

Well done, good and faithful servant . . . Enter into the joy of your master.

~ Matthew 25:21

Ireland

it's a great escape

Ready to snorkel.

View of Uncle Chris's house from the beach side.

Glorious sunsets.

Clams Dad and Stevie brought home for us!

Ready to go fishing.

I don't think I had his full attention . . . I blame The Far Side book.

Stitches "fishing."

Sunrise.

A little golf practice.

Best way to fly a kite = with a fishing pole!

Maggie.

Sadly, I'm not a Scrabble genius, and I take far too long deciding on words that don't even score very high.

Uncle Chris, on the other hand, is a Scrabble player to be reckoned with (Tammy too).

Brothers match.

Hot and glassy.

A pro at work.

Dad caught some of the biggest fish this day.

Sea bass!

View of the house from the back.

The back bay.

Stevie and I jogged along some mornings.

Flying in would be nice--although the dirt runway might be a little bumpy.

Host and hostess.

Such a fun trip!

The long road north.

Shrimper.

Mexicali. The wait at the border was a little over an hours. The biggest pain was the car right in front of us--felt like it was fumigating us :P

There are places I remember . . .

[Part I. More to follow as I have patience.]

These dips in the road make for a real roller-coaster ride.

Almost there!

Stevie at Uncle Chris's place, just after a morning run.

Kitchen!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Living area.

Uncle Chris and Aunt Tammy.

Dad soaking in some sunshine.

Whalehead.

Beach at low tide.

Stitches.

Chilling.

(Sorry for the weird orientation of pictures. It started out looking nice . . .)