If there are fifty-two weeks in a year, how many strongs are there?
One hundred and seventy-nine blind men go into a crowded bar and then can’t find a place to sit.
If fifteen days is half a month, and six months is half a year, how many years are worth halving?
Falling in love is like falling into a river, but you’re happier about it for some reason.
Yesterday at the Church picnic I was asked what comes before and after "Words, words, words" in Hamlet. I remembered Hamlet's frustration with words, but not the exact context. So today I reread that part of the scene and it gives me more questions than answers about words and mental turmoil. I am also thinking of similarities between Chris McCandless and Hamlet. By the way, the movie Into the Wild either chronicles Chris' poetry or poetically speculates the nature of Chris' thoughts, which I find similar to Hamlet's, or at least springing from a similar source. Chris deals with the turmoil differently though (see again the warning in the last post about it being rated R. I wish I'd known the number of scenes to fast forward so that I would have kept the remote more handy).
Back to Hamlet, I am intrigued by this statement,
HAMLET Slanders, sir: for the satirical rogue says here
that old men have grey beards, that their faces are
wrinkled, their eyes purging thick amber and
plum-tree gum and that they have a plentiful lack of
wit, together with most weak hams: all which, sir,
though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet
I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down, for
yourself, sir, should be old as I am, if like a crab
you could go backward.
I suppose Hamlet is leveling the playing field. He is worried about slandering his elders, but is denying that decrepit age makes them above the law.
I also found some interesting and concise interpretations of Hamlet here. I like this one by Professor Ross the best, even though the feminist and post-modern ones also intrigue me. Lord have mercy.
Last night George and I spent a few hours learning about Frida Kahlo, a Mexican surrealist/realist painter. I do not want to judge her morality here (which was similar to the Bohemian artists and writers of the 1920's), and instead want to think about this aspect of her life,
On September 17, 1925, Kahlo was riding in a bus when the vehicle collided with a trolley car. She suffered serious injuries in the accident, including a broken spinal column, a broken collarbone, broken ribs, a broken pelvis, eleven fractures in her right leg, a crushed and dislocated right foot, and a dislocated shoulder. An iron handrail pierced her abdomen and her uterus, which seriously damaged her reproductive ability.
Although she recovered from her injuries and eventually regained her ability to walk, she was plagued by relapses of extreme pain for the remainder of her life. The pain was intense and often left her confined to a hospital or bedridden for months at a time. She underwent as many as thirty-five operations as a result of the accident, mainly on her back, her right leg and her right foot.
Frida Kahlo with Diego Rivera in 1932, by Carl Van Vechten.
After the accident, Kahlo turned her attention away from the study of medicine to begin a full-time painting career. The accident left her in a great deal of pain while she recovered in a full body cast; she painted to occupy her time during her temporary state of immobilization. Her self-portraits became a dominant part of her life when she was immobile for three months after her accident. Kahlo once said, "I paint myself because I am often alone and I am the subject I know best." Her mother had a special easel made for her so she could paint in bed, and her father lent her his box of oil paints and some brushes.[8]
Drawing on personal experiences, including her marriage, her miscarriages, and her numerous operations, Kahlo's works often are characterized by their stark portrayals of pain. Of her 143 paintings, 55 are self-portraits which often incorporate symbolic portrayals of physical and psychological wounds. She insisted, "I never painted dreams. I painted my own reality." (from Wikipedia, bold mine)
I am drawn to stories about pain, probably since my accident when I was 12 which left me immobilized in the hospital for almost a month, not to mention other heartbreaks including divorce, miscarriage and a still-birth. I find Frida's portraits refreshingly honest. She has been criticized for being self-absorbed, but I am satisfied with her reasoning given above. There is also a certain morbidity about her paintings. I can't completely say that she despaired, though there are statements that would point to that, but there are other evidences that she did not stay in that frame of mind. Her last painting of watermelons bears the caption, Viva la Vida.
The Ochlophobist's 'book club' suggestion, Orthodox Thinking on Theosis, has the title "Self-Transcendence" in the "contents". On the surface (I'm looking forward to reading what Mr. Russell says about it), I can interpret this title to promote a dialectical relationship with the idea of self, where one loses ones self. We can rest in the attitudes suggested in the Orthodox prayers, which can have a self-negating posture, but I think if we were to count the number of "I" pronouns in the Psalms, and even in many of the other prayers, penitential though they be, there would be a lot of them. We are to be honest about ourselves, not totally forgetting ourselves and our lives. Monastics tend to try to forget their past life, and make a complete break with it. They take on a completely new name, part with their possessions and heirlooms, and do not wish to be asked about their past before the monastery, after a certain period anyway. Probably the later vows. Frida painted a dialectical relationship with her self, not of negation by any means, but one that showed how her husband Diego saw her, the Frida he liked, and the Frida he didn't.
This was her perception of how he saw her anyway. I suppose that is what Frida did best, she painted her perceptions from her point of view. I don't want to invalidate this. She struggled to not be consumed by her pain. She struggled very long and intensely. She neither denied it, nor let it completely blind her to the beauty in the world, though she was blinded to beauty immediately after her accident. She said at that time that there was nothing beyond the ugliness of the world, and if there was she would be able to see it. She didn't stay there though. Maybe that's why she was spared, she learned to see the beauty again, even in herself. Her self-portraits can be pretty harsh, but there is a certain acknowledgment of the divine spark, a certain retained comeliness of form.
One painting in particular describes external, imposed pain pretty well, as do the ones of her miscarriages. [I've removed it here, but if you click on one of the other paintings it will take you to her gallery, which can be graphic]
I can't help but be reminded of the cross and the cup of suffering that our Lord accepted. Frida was not ignorant of Christ's sufferings, even though she rejected the Catholicism of her upbringing. Her exposure to Mexican religious art also influenced her paintings.
Perhaps though, when one has suffered, it is easy to get caught up in a persecution/Messiah complex. On one hand this can draw one to Christ, who also suffered, but it is probably easy to slip into the delusion that one is innocent, sinless, and undeserving, or worse, Divine, as He. I sort of like people with Messiah complexes though because they can try harder to act like Christ, with whom they identify. Frida built a garden of Eden out of the home of her childhood, and gave art classes there, Bohemian though they were. But we are not sinless. We can't be naked in the garden. Should she have been so naked in her sufferings as well? One thing being in the hospital does, is that it strips you naked. Indeed even during the bus collision, all of her clothes were torn away and she lay naked and impaled on the ground. During surgery one is stripped bare, and in recovery, there are those stupid gowns, barely on, which the staff draws back with too-familiar ease and entitlement. Necessary evil?
How can one pretend modesty after that? Once one has been involuntarily exposed to the world, what's the use of covering up? If I had had complete control of who to trust to expose myself to, the list would have included two people only. As an infant, a trusted child care provider, who loved me, and then no one until the husband of my choice who would also deliver my baby. To keep that list so short, should I risk my and my babies' lives? I'm going to leave the door open on that one. If they had been the only two, I probably wouldn't be blogging. But since there have been many breaches of protection of my privacy, I want to take control of the information I suppose. That's what Farah Fawcett did when she was diagnosed with cancer. Since the National Enquirer told it wrong, she decided to tell it and produced her own documentary chronicling the last few years of her life and her struggle. I'm glad for her and Frida's sharing of their pain. Frida said that she felt we are all united. When one expresses ones self openly, one is voluntarily inviting a certain type of communion. Oh yes, it was related in the PBS documentary that Frida became communist because of a mistaken idea that it would bring about community, where she wouldn't be alone in her suffering. I'm going to cut her and Farah some slack and pray for mercy on their souls.
He headed to the Alaskan wilderness as an extreme ascetic forsaking money, companionship, and the comforts of "civilization". In his light backpack however, he brought along Tolstoy, Thoreau, and Dr. Zhivago. Sean Penn made a movie about Chris McCandless called Into the Wild (which is rated R for occasional language and about 3 nudist scenes), based on the book by John Krakaur. Mr. Krakaur's original essay about the innocent is available, but don't click on it if you don't want the ending given away. Incidentally, the author makes a comparison to 5th and 6th century Irish monks who tried to escape civilization in Iceland, then Greenland.
Friday the kids and I went to Church to peel, cube, and boil 100 lbs of potatoes, which were then mixed with cheese, and scooped into little balls, with around 14 people.
The kids brought home some of their friends and we finally beat the 4-player N-64 Tetris game which was begun 10 years ago. The last of the seven wonders was St. Basil's Cathedral! That was cool. Then we watched Tommy Boy, which I'd never seen all the way through before. We had to fast-forward more parts than the kids remembered. The deer scene brought back the trauma I experienced earlier this summer.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XiG4SGByY-8]
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z1lBAjxDrmo&feature=related]
Saturday morning we went back to Church, rolled out pie dough, ran it through the pasta machine and cut it into discs which were then pinched around the potato cheese filling. A team effort of about 25 people produced 195 dozen Peroghi! One more work day and we'll have enough for our annual Christmas bake sale.
So with all that, Vespers, Liturgy, and Half Priced books (just jr. fiction), and returning #2 son to UD (and the friends to their home), I've had a pretty full weekend.
This past weekend the older ones watched There Will Be Blood with George and I. The credits revealed that it is based on Upton Sinclair's novel, Oil. Wikipedia reveals that the movie is only very loosely based on the book, and that the screen writer only admits to basing it on the first hundred or so pages. I had drawn all sorts of conclusions about Mr. Sinclair watching the movie, but now I have to mix them in with the producers of the movie, as well as my own personal experience and opinions and those of others.
I have read a few critiques from Orthodox bloggers recently on materialistic or scientific cause and effect. Probably much of "secular" psychology is based on it. I have said before that I'm a bit Freudian in my analyses of people, but I think I need to clarify that by relating it to the idea of cause and effect of childhood relationships with family and other influential people, rather than on erotic tendencies. There Will Be Blood is pretty heavy on scientific cause and effect, to every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, theory, mainly in the relationship between fathers and sons. I appreciated the depth of thought and the acknowledgment of how we treat others will affect them, unto the next generations, but the effects were too mechanical, too copy cat. While we may build up steam after being traumatized, and explode on others to a similar degree, I think our reactions are a little more varied, taking into account other influences in our lives, than how they were portrayed in this movie.
Also, there were no efforts towards forgiveness. People seemed unable to control their reactions, and had no other options presented to them, especially not by the cooky churchpeople, who sang a hymn I know and still believe in, "Take it to the Lord in Prayer". However, it did acknowledge complexity in people, such as what to do with inconsistent behavior in parents. The little boy in the movie is portrayed as having the most excusable actions. I imagine that he represents Mr. Sinclair and the screen play writer. We always imagine ourselves the protagonist. But sometimes, maybe we are. The boy has to deal with his greedy, cruel, alcoholic father, who also pays him a lot of positive attention. But the boy knows something isn't right, you can see it in his face, even though he barely speaks throughout the whole movie. When he feels he is being replaced by a long, lost half-brother, he becomes jealous and tries to burn the guy and the stuff that connects him to his father - but there's something not right between his father and the brother, too. When he kicks and hits his father after he was abandoned to a boarding school, his father deserved it, truly. He had been used and replaced. Towards the end, I believe that the son is sincere and correct in being grateful that he had learned a trade from his father, but that it was time for him to move on to start his own business, deliberately out of his father's territory. But his father was paranoid about competition and abandonment and abused him. The son kept his cool and his dignity and rightly walked out of the room. But he did get a pretty good barb in on his way out. The barb had to do with not wanting to be biologically related to his father. That went too far, I thought. I don't think that biological relation has to carry with it the sins of the father. It may predispose one to certain temptations, but I think they can be overcome and the bloodline redeemed. The movie was too fatalistic in presenting effects from influential causes.
There were a few bones throne to the father. Apparently his father, the grandfather, had a mistress, and reading between the lines, he was raised in poverty and probably was not treated very well. I get this mainly from how he sleeps on the floor.
Other than that, the experimental soundtrack noise was quite irksome. The cinematography was really good, and conveyed a tactile sense of being connected to the thentofore unaltered earth. Daniel Day Lewis is a phenomenal actor in everything I've seen him in, beginning with "My Left Foot".
Wikipedia talks about Mr. Sinclair's political activism and socialism. He vilified capitalism, which is very evident in the movie. I recognize abuses caused by greedy profiteering, but I do not idealize the opposite ideology. Any ideologue can be abusive. Wikipedia also says that the book focuses more on the son than the father. I think I'll put it on my very long Amazon wish-list.
It was over 100 degrees, as it has been for days and days, when Maxim, three of the kids and I drove the scenic route to Kendalia, via Comfort. The hills were brown, but the valleys were holding on to green for dear life. I wonder if the pecan grove was irrigated, or if the stream along side it keeps the deep roots watered. As uncomfortable as the heat is, and wishing that things weren't so parched, including the driest Paluxy River I've ever seen (though this condition enabled us to see the dinosaur tracks better), I do not find reason to despair. 'The grass withers and the flower fades, but the word of God lasts forever', and so do the hills and the rocks. Forever means in the lifetimes of trees and anyone else I know (except the dinosaurs). These hills have been there since I found Jesus at camp in Comfort when I was 15. I've tried twice on my way to Kendalia to drive by that camp, but it always takes longer than I think, and I don't get passed the triangle of highways at Comfort's entrance because either the burial service or Vespers is about to start at the Monastery. I don't despair at this either. Just getting to the edges assures me that it was not all a dream. The hills are still there even though much of the grass isn't.
As it turns out Vespers wasn't served Monday evening because of construction at the Monastery in preparation for a Bishop visit. So we walked down to the dried up creek and began to climb the hills on the other side, the dry grass noisily cracking under our shoes. Shortly, the girls said their Vespers shoes were hurting their feet. I wore tennis shoes with my dress and wanted to keep going over the next hill in the heat, but I had to turn back. Poor me, the tragedian. When we got back the girls made friends with another visiting girl between their ages and had a good time talking to her and teaching her to knit till it was time to visit Jamie and head back home. People first, hills around highways, camps, and monasteries second, I suppose.
(p.s. the video at the above link shows how the Paluxy normally looks.)
I was at Holy Archangels Monastery in Kendalia two Saturdays ago visiting little Jamie's resting place with his family. I loved being there and feeling the peace at his graveside. It was palpable, quiet, and still.
It was not so peaceful on the way back when I hit a deer. Thankfully no one but the deer was hurt, except for my car which is still in the shop. The rental car is a Kia Rondo, which has a bigger hatchback area than my Matrix. Monday, I and a few of the kids will return to the Monastery in the Rondo with our dear blog friend, Maxim, who's coming down for a visit. Please pray that he'll have a peaceful time with no traumatic run-ins with the wildlife.
On another note, our two eligible kids had a very fun time at the annual St. Peter the Aleut Camp at the YMCA facility at near-by Possum Kingdom Lake last week. I went ahead and had Jordan drive my damaged Matrix to camp two Mondays ago since there wasn't time to get the damage assessed before then, while I drove his car. My door wouldn't open and he is sprier than me at crawling over the middle console. When we picked the kids up from camp last Friday I had a Mitsubishi Galant (due to last week's limited availability of cars in our price range), which was nice, but too low to the ground. The cheaper Rondo's seats are much higher and easier to get into.
Jamie's Priest, Father John from the new mission in Tyler (he gave the homily, "The Kingdom of Heaven Belongs to Such as These" on the header above), and his two kids came to camp this year, as did Father Seraphim with his son from the ROCOR Church in Dallas, and the two returning Priests, Father John with his Matushka Lydia from Dallas, and Fr. Antonio from Pharr. Matushka Patricia, Father John Whiteford's wife, also brought a carload of kids from Houston and was one of the counselors, as were a few other parents, Fr. Antonio's older daughters, and another friend of my boys. The kids love getting together with other Orthodox from around mostly Texas every year for services, talks, and the many fun activities. It's rare for them to have 50 Orthodox peers. We also enjoyed having a house full of campers as well as Fr. Antonio the weekends before and after camp.
I would like to write about this past week in one post even though the more organized part of me could compartmentalize the different elements and themes into several different posts, or at least do a chronological, journal type series. Instead I am inspired by the haphazard cataclysm of the Rockies to just throw it all together and let the dramatic diagonal strata be exposed for what they are. The resultant dust will either settle or be washed downstream, but it will not disappear.
Above the strata, dust, flora and fauna stand my husband and children. Now that number one son is approaching 21, and does not really like road trips, he was left behind to take care of the subterranean homestead and the omni-terrestrial Church services. The homestead is subterranean because before the flood, the ground it now stands upon was buried. Texas is part of the great drainage system east of the Great Divide, which we crossed. I would like to read Bill Bryson's Short History of Nearly Everything to be better informed, but barely south of my house is a famous deposit of dinosaur tracks that they say are embedded in what used to be the Texas coast. If that is so, since then more deposits of dirt have extended it perhaps through the great explosions of Yellowstone volcanoes. This must have been pre-flood, because since then layers of sediment have solidified, and great tracks of it washed away by the Flood and subsequent rains, leaving too flat valleys for any other explanation between fingered, stratified ridges. At least west of the Dallas Fort Worth metroplex where I live. East of here is more flat, but greener as the drainage becomes more concentrated. These ridges, plains, and valleys make a gradual, leveling ascent to the great plains in the Texas panhandle. Palo Duro Canyon, 30 miles south of Amarillo, reveals a not too modest crack in the high plains with beautiful layers, especially the red sandstone which makes the Red River, which separates us from Oklahoma, red.
Number two son did not play in the canyon with the rest of us because he was completing his nine days at the Gunnison, Colorado Observatory. His physics group won a grant to travel there to set up new equipment to confirm the existence of planets in other solar systems. It took a few days to calibrate the equipment, and then just when they were ready, rain and clouds prevented any observations through the telescopes for the rest of his time. Before the rain though, Jared saw the milkiest Milky Way he had ever seen through his contact lensed eyes. They still had work to do with some sort of calculations, and additionally had fun scoping out the area with his comrades before we arrived to pick him up. This made him an excellent restaurant and hiking guide for us. We did not get to meet his classmates because google maps plotted the wrong directions to the observatory. We spent an hour driving around in the beautiful mountains south of Gunnison while his friends said good-bye and packed up. One of them let him copy her trip pictures onto his flash drive, so at least we got to see them that way.
After picking Jared up from his hotel, we spent a day hiking around Gunnison and Crested Butte. By then the rain had cleared and the temperature warmed a bit. I am amazed at how warm 60 degrees feels at 12,000 feet. That night we had delicious local pizza and told Jared about recent events, obliquely referred to in my post the beginning of the week before. The heaviness has not gone, but was more easily born at higher elevations in the thinner air and almost overwhelming surroundings. In our winter trip through the Appalachians, which was preceded by a lets-ignore-everything reunion, the surroundings completely absorbed my attention. The more dramatic Rockies were not able to drown everything out. Though they did quiet them a good bit. The Rockies were loud enough, however, to distract me from The Man Who Was Thursday, by G.K. Chesteron. We had gone through the first 60 pages in the Texas plains, which accommodate audible.com embellishment. The Rockies wouldn't have it. This way Jared had time to catch up on those 60 pages, as I had also brought the book and was reading along to help my concentration, which has been very scattered since last week. We all, except for Rebecca who had other things to do, listened together for the remaining five hours after Amarillo coming home. We had about half an hour to discuss it for the remainder of the drive. We didn't like some of the dualistic/ying yang theology nor the Alice in Wonderland type ending (see Aaron's clarifying comment), but thought the characters were pretty intelligently done. The initial confrontations were very engaging, but I thought some of the revelations disappointing. He paid homage to women at the very beginning and ending of the story with what I guess is a Beatrice-type allusion. This balances out his emphasis on and justification for the war-like actions of men, not that I agree with the nature of these balances or justifications. All of this can slightly be spun in one's own mind regarding spiritual warfare with one's own sins, but the way the God-type character is depicted makes that a very generous stretch. Still, I like the way Chesterton works out his philosophy in fiction, even if I don't agree with it. He made a comment in the preface about the story being written in a play-like manner. I notice this with C.S. Lewis too. There's a lot of cutting to the chase. I like that this story can be read in one trip to Colorado, or rather Amarillo, and back, unlike David Copperfield which was four times longer. But I don't know if I would have liked Lewis or Chesterton to lengthen theirs, nor Dickens to shorten his. They are what they are in the way they are written.
I think I'll post pictures next time.
My first tiny, cute, and as it turns out, sour, strawberry
Two tomatoes on the way!
And the Mother's Day chilies (minus oh so busy at college, Jared. It seemed like a milestone however to get my first remote Mother's day phone call.)
I have not seen my ex-Mother In Law in over 11 years. My children, Ben and Rachel, have not seen her in about 6 years, but yesterday their dad called to say that she had just died after a long illness. She was a very private woman, and the only Catholic in her household. When I knew her I was staunchly Protestant, but I played "Ave Maria" on her antique piano one time and opened my mind to it just a little. She went to Mass pretty often by herself and did not pressure her family to do likewise. She and her husband built a house from scratch in the country and restored antique oak furniture. I very much admired them for that. When her son and I had difficulties, I wanted her to be more active in helping me, but she did not see things the same way I did. Maybe she was right. However, I'm sadder than I expected at her death. Last night Ben chanted this prayer slower than he usually chants, in his lovely bass voice, for his departed Grandmother:
Chosen Intercessor and High Priest, Who hast laid down Thy soul for the salvation of the sinful world and hast given us authority to be children of God, and to dwell in the never-ending day of Thy Kingdom, grant forgiveness and eternal joy to Thy servant who has fallen asleep, for whom we cry to Thee in supplication. Jesus, All-merciful Judge, vouchsafe Thy servant Mara the sweetness of Paradise.
O holy Guardian Angel given by the Lord: Come pray for thy servant, whom thou didst accompany, preserve, and direct on all the paths of life, and cry with us to the All-compassionate Saviour:
Jesus, tear up the handwriting of the sins of Thy servant Mara.
Jesus, heal the wounds of her soul.
Jesus, grant that there not be bitter memories of her on earth.
Jesus, for the sake of this have mercy on those who were grieved and offended by her.
Jesus, cover her imperfections with the radiant garment of Thy redemption.
Jesus, gladden her by Thy loving-kindness.
Jesus, Ineffable, Great and Wondrous- reveal Thyself to her.
Jesus, All-merciful Judge, vouchsafe Thy servant Mara the sweetness of Paradise.
John 11:14 Then Jesus said to them plainly, “Lazarus is dead. 15 And I am glad for your sakes that I was not there, that you may believe. Nevertheless let us go to him.”
16 Then Thomas, who is called the Twin, said to his fellow disciples, “Let us also go, that we may die with Him.”
17 So when Jesus came, He found that he had already been in the tomb four days. 18 Now Bethany was near Jerusalem, about two miles[a] away. 19 And many of the Jews had joined the women around Martha and Mary, to comfort them concerning their brother.
20 Now Martha, as soon as she heard that Jesus was coming, went and met Him, but Mary was sitting in the house. 21 Now Martha said to Jesus, “Lord, if You had been here, my brother would not have died. 22 But even now I know that whatever You ask of God, God will give You.”
23 Jesus said to her, “Your brother will rise again.”
24 Martha said to Him, “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection at the last day.”
25 Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in Me, though he may die, he shall live. 26 And whoever lives and believes in Me shall never die. Do you believe this?”
27 She said to Him, “Yes, Lord, I believe that You are the Christ, the Son of God, who is to come into the world.”
32 Then, when Mary came where Jesus was, and saw Him, she fell down at His feet, saying to Him, “Lord, if You had been here, my brother would not have died.”
33 Therefore, when Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her weeping, He groaned in the spirit and was troubled. 34 And He said, “Where have you laid him?”
They said to Him, “Lord, come and see.”
35 Jesus wept. 36 Then the Jews said, “See how He loved him!”
37 And some of them said, “Could not this Man, who opened the eyes of the blind, also have kept this man from dying?”
38 Then Jesus, again groaning in Himself, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone lay against it. 39 Jesus said, “Take away the stone.”
Martha, the sister of him who was dead, said to Him, “Lord, by this time there is a stench, for he has been dead four days.”
40 Jesus said to her, “Did I not say to you that if you would believe you would see the glory of God?” 41 Then they took away the stone from the place where the dead man was lying.[d] And Jesus lifted up His eyes and said, “Father, I thank You that You have heard Me. 42 And I know that You always hear Me, but because of the people who are standing by I said this, that they may believe that You sent Me.” 43 Now when He had said these things, He cried with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come forth!” 44 And he who had died came out bound hand and foot with graveclothes, and his face was wrapped with a cloth. Jesus said to them, “Loose him, and let him go.” (emphasis mine)
This has always been a confusing story to me. Why would Jesus deliberately take His time? Why did He tarry when He could have prevented Lazarus' death? Just so that people could believe? Belief was more important than saving someone's life, and was worth the emotional roller coaster? It is comforting that Christ was troubled and wept. He enters into our sorrow. Four days. I would have been pretty upset at Jesus by then if He were a close friend and I knew and believed in what He could do. People who lose loved ones even now get mad at God. We know He could have prevented it and very often does for other people.
Some suffer in order to increase their faith. The fact that Lazarus was dead for four days, longer than any other person who had been raised from the dead is significant too. Christ shows that there is no amount of time that is too long to be raised again. Four days is too long for a mother to wait. A whole earthly lifetime is too long to wait to be rejoined with a loved one. Much too long. And Jesus wept for this fact.
I remember the cloth over Jamie's (as well as my son Isaac's) face, and I can't wait, but God defiantly makes us anyway, till it is removed and his body is set free from its confines at Holy Archangel's Ephraimite Greek Orthodox Monastery. Aionia Mneme, Kyrie Eleison. Memory Eternal, Lord have mercy.
This Purple Shamrock has survived my not-so-green thumb since it was given to me nine years ago when Isaac died. It's a mercy.
This is one of two Bluebonnets that are growing in my yard after a baggie full of seeds from a dear parishoner were broadcast last fall. Bluebonnets can be hard to grow as they're pretty picky about soil. They like Mary's yard and the steep embankments of Texas highways however.
I'm glad to have a couple of indigenous Mesquite trees in my yard as well. I've heard that cows distributed Mesquite pods in Texas during the cattle drives and that they weren't here before then.
This desensitized lizard lives in our backyard.
After the Panikhida Sunday night I shared with the parents that when my baby died I was not yet Orthodox, and so he did not get to have an Orthodox funeral. I told them I was experiencing this with them, and in many ways it felt like it, though I'm sure the pain is not as acute as it was when the loss was still new in my case. I have been hungry for these services and to know what it was like for them as Orthodox. When my son died I had a confidence that he went to be with the Lord, but the Orthodox services have the clout to back that up and the poetry to express it well.
Father Basil had told us at Church Sunday morning that the funeral service for an infant is different than for an adult because babies are considered Saints since they have not sinned.
One of the monks at the monastery where Jamie is buried said, "It is rare to have a funeral where you have no doubt where the person is."
Here are some excerpts from The Service for the Burial of an Infant (St. John of Damascus Orthodox Mission),
Let us not lament the infant, but rather mourn for ourselves who sin always, that we may be delivered from Gehenna.
Thou hast deprived the infant of earthly delights, O Master. As the Righteous Judge, do Thou count him worthy of heavenly good things.
He hath taken thee from the earth and numbereth thee with the choir of the saints, hath shown thee a citizen of Paradise, O truly blessed infant. (from Ode 4)
"Lament not for me, for I have in no way begun to be meet for weeping, But rather weep always for yourselves who have sinned, O kinsmen and friends," the dead infant cries out, "that, tested you not receive torment." (from Ode 5)
Thou hast deprived Thine infant of earthly good things, that Thou mayest show him a partaker of Thy Heavenly good things, in-asmuch as he has not transgressed Thy divine command. We glorify the boundless depth of Thy judgment, O Good One. (from Ode 6)
With Thy light, o Word, do Thou illumine the face of Thine infant, who, in the Faith, has now been translated unto Thee at an untimely age, and sings unto Thee: O Lord God, blessed art Thou.
Thy parting now appears to be a cause of sorrow unto them that love thee, but for thee, in truth, obtains joy and gladness. For thou, O infant, inheritest eternal life.
Behold my affliction, O Virgin, which the multitude of my evils have brought upon me. And before I depart hence, by thy maternal prayers grant me refreshment, that God may be merciful to me. (from Ode 7)
In his rage the Chaldean tyrant ordered the furnace to be heated sevenfold for the Godly Ones. But having seen them saved by a better might, he cried aloud unto their Maker and Redeemer: You Children, bless; you Priests, sing; you people, highly exalt Him unto all the ages.
Refrain: Give rest to the soul of the infant, O Lord.
May Christ establish thee in the bosom of Abraham, in the abodes of rest, where is the joy of them that ever keep festival, in the places of release where living water is, Who dist become an infant for the sake of us who are crying out unto Him unceasingly: You Priests, sing; you people highly exalt Him unto the ages.
The constant memory of thy parting, in truth, has become for us a cause of sorrows and tears. For before tasting the beautiful things of this life, thou hast departed the earth and the bosom of thy parents. But Abraham's bosom shall receive thee as an infant that had no part in any defilement.
Let us bless the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, the Lord.
"Why do you mourn me, the infant that has been transplanted hence?" he cries out invisibly, as he lies dead. "For there is no cause for grief. For the joy of the righteous is appointed unto infants who have committed no deeds worthy of tears. For they sing unto Christ: You Priests, sing; you people, highly exalt Him unto the ages!" (from Ode 8 )
O Christ Who dist become an Infant, yet without change; Who, of Thine own will, didst unite Thyself unto the Cross and didst behold the maternal affliction of her that gave Thee birth: Do Thou ease the sadness and cruel grief of the faithful parents of the dead infant, that we may glorify Thy majesty. (from Ode 9)
***
In addition to these comforting words which tell us the state of our dearly departed infant, the Orthodox funeral service speaks to the grief of the mourning loved ones, especially the parents, as Reader David Bryan also brought out today.
No one is more pitiful than a mother,/
and no one is more wretched than a father,
for their inward beings are troubled/
when they send forth their infants before them./
Great is the pain of their hearts because of their children,/
and still more when these are pleasing of speech,/
as they call to remembrance/
their words with the song://
Alleluia.
For often before the grave they beat their breasts and say:/
"O my son, and sweetest child!/
Hearest thou not what thy mother says?/
Behold, also, the womb that bore thee./
Why speakest thou not with us,/
as once thou didst speak?/
But thout art silent/
and speaketh not with us://
Alleluia!"
"O God, God, Who hast summoned me;/
Be Thou the consolation of my household now,/
for a great lamentation has befallen them./
For all have fixed their gaze on me,/
having me as their only-begotten one./
But do Thou, Who wast born of a Virgin Mother,
refresh the inward parts of my mother,/
and bedew the heart of my father with this://
Alleluia!"
***
The burial at Holy Archangels monastery was sad but peaceful, and the monks chanted very gently and sweetly in Greek while the breeze was blowing over us. When they were lowering the casket, a big sustained gust came and my daughter Rachel, and later Jamie's mother remarked that they thought it was a special gift. George just said that when it happened what went through his mind was, "Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His Saints."
[edited to include a link to the wonderful Homily given by Fr. John at Jamie's funeral]
Today, the Sunday of Orthodoxy, is the fourth anniversary of the reception of my husband, myself, and our six children into the Holy Orthodox Church, the Body of Christ. I believe it is in large part due to the intercessions of our seventh child, Isaac, departed this life shortly before he was born on March 10th, 2000, the same day that Ben was born, but nine years later. When we buried Isaac, we had inscribed in his tombstone, "In His Care". I believe Isaac petitioned the Lord to put us into the care of the Orthodox Church to be nurtured by His Body and Blood.
Today the Church commemorates the Triumph of Orthodoxy in which the Seventh Ecumenical Council proclaimed that the Church is visible and material in the Incarnation of Christ, and that thus holy images of Christ and the Saints may be venerated, held, and kissed as one would love their prototype, as had been done by the Church since Christians departed this life.
Today after Liturgy, before the procession of Holy Icons around the Church commemorating the re-establishment of icons by the Church, there will be a Panikhida, for Baby Jamie (1/2/08 - 3/3/09) at St. Barbara's. After that we will travel to East Texas where we will be reunited with him and his family at the funeral home for another Panikhida.
This is what the family shared about him for public release, "'Jamie' was always so happy and active. We will miss his sweet personality, bright blue eyes, and dimpled smile. He brought such joy to our lives and we look forward to our reunion with him, where there will be no more parting.
May his memory be eternal."
Our very dear friends, the Reader Daniel, "Zachary" and Lindsey and their older son, Josh, moved from our parish shortly before Jamie was born and began attending the mission which our blogging friend, John "Terry", from Notes from a Common-place Book helped found. They came back to our parish to have Jamie baptized. That is when I first met John, by the way, as he traveled to St. Barbara's for the occasion. I wrote about that here. They also came back to visit several times during this past year. They were received into the Orthodox Church a few years before we were at St. Barbara's, and so their Godparents are here. In fact, Zach is my son, Jordan's, Godfather and Lindsey is my daughter, Rachel's, Godmother. Jamie's Godfather also attends our parish. Jamie was indeed a very happy, loving baby. He did not seem to have as much separation anxiety as many babies. I had the privilege just a couple of months ago at fellow parishioner and blogger (Oh Taste and See), the Reader David "Bryan's" house to hold him and appreciate his exceptionally sweet nature. The picture above says it all.
Tomorrow morning we will attend his funeral at the mission Church, St. John of Damascus, whose namesake eloquently defended icons in the Seventh Council. Then we will travel to the Holy Archangels in Kendalia, who will care for his body and pray for his soul. Our prayers are with Jamie and his dear, sweet family.
Commemorated on March 6
The Holy Empress Helen uncovered the Precious Cross and Nails of the Lord at Jerusalem in 326.
At the beginning of the reign of St Constantine the Great (306-337), the first Roman emperor to recognize Christianity, he and his pious mother St Helen decided to rebuild the city of Jerusalem. They also planned to build a church on the site of the Lord's suffering and Resurrection, in order to reconsecrate and purify the places connected with the Savior's death and Resurrection from the foul taint of paganism.
The empress Helen journeyed to Jerusalem with a large quantity of gold. St Constantine wrote a letter to Patriarch Macarius I (313-323), requesting him to assist her in every possible way with her task of the restoring the Christian holy places.
After her arrival in Jerusalem, the holy empress Helen began to destroy all the pagan temples and reconsecrate the places which had been defiled by the pagans.
In her quest for the Life-Creating Cross, she questioned several Christians and Jews, but for a long time her search remained unsuccessful. Finally, an elderly Hebrew named Jude told her that the Cross was buried beneath the temple of Venus. St Helen ordered that the pagan temple be demolished, and for the site to be excavated. Soon they found Golgotha and the Lord's Sepulchre. Not far from the spot were three crosses, a board with the inscription written by Pilate (John 19:19), and four nails which had pierced the Lord's Body.
Now the task was to determine on which of the three crosses the Savior had been crucified. Patriarch Macarius saw a dead person being carried to his grave, then he ordered that the dead man be placed upon each cross in turn. When the corpse was placed on the Cross of Christ, he was immediately restored to life. After seeing the raising of the dead man, everyone was convinced that the Life-Creating Cross had been found. With great joy the empress Helen and Patriarch Macarius lifted the Life-Creating Cross and displayed it to all the people standing about. (OCA.org Daily Commemoration)
***
What earthly sweetness remains unmixed with grief? What glory stands immutable on the earth?
All things are but feeble shadows, all things are most deluding dreams,
yet one moment only, and death shall supplant them all.
But in the light of Thy countenance, 0 Christ, and in the sweetness of Thy beauty, give rest to him whom Thou hast chosen,
for as much as Thou lovest mankind.
I weep and lament when I think upon death,
and behold our beauty created in the likeness of God lying in the tomb disfigured, bereft of glory and form.
0 the marvel of it! What is this mystery concerning us? Why have we been delivered to corruption? Why have we been wedded unto death?
Truly, as it is written, by the command of God Who giveth the departed rest.
- St. John of Damascus Funeral Hymns
Memory Eternal
I guess -C inspired me without realizing it. I picked the pattern out of Ukrainian Easter Eggs and How We Make Them after viewing her exquisite Pysanki without remembering she had one very similar. Circular patterns feel more natural to me so I'll probably make more like it. The red one isn't dark enough in that it doesn't contrast enough with the gold, so I either should have left the egg white before drawing the lines, or I should have used a darker red than Scarlet.
The wooden egg behind it is of and from the St. Nicholas Orthodox Church in Juneau, Alaska.
Here are some of the ostrich eggs our authentically Carpatho-Russian Matushka does for the sale. She also teaches classes. See the St. Barbara website to the left for timely details.
The lines seemed to be working,
The colors, except the green which mottled, seemed pure,
Up until the last, the black, after which,
I dropped it. I dropped it. I green and yellow dropped it.
Forgive me. You can live here, even though you're cracked.
(H/T to Ella Fitzgerald)
I took pictures between colors so that you could see the process better. This one shows the waxed lines that will end up being the white ones. See how it's counter-intuitive when you're making them? The one on the left is Rachel's. Again, sorry for the blurriness, it apparently focused on the crumbs on the lid.
The extra lines in the next one shows what will stay gold. The gold that you see in this picture will not stay that way. I also dabbed in some green with a Q-tip because the next layer of red will not be as bright if I were to dye the whole thing green. I could dip the egg in "orange wash", which is just orange without vinegar, to get rid of the green, but since the green will be so small, it's easier just to dab the few spots.
I didn't take an extra picture after I blocked in the green. This next one shows the extra lines and shaded parts that will stay red.
Then it's ready to be dipped in the black. You can kind of distinguish between the black dye and the black wax in this shot. The wax turns black, btw, because of the carbon changes when it's heated on the stylus. The one on the left is Rachel's finished egg, which was dipped in watered down light blue, full strength light blue, and royal blue.
And the finished egg, except for varnish.
I am not the most geometrically correct pysanki person. It is hard to draw straight lines on a curved surface, and you can't use a straight edge. My kids however are much better at line control than me. Mercifully, somehow the colors make the imperfections not so devastating. I've always been an impressionist anyway. And usually I like to make more organic pysanki of flowers, leaves and such. So far this year I've been practicing more on basic lines, but I'll probably get back to the flowers soon.
Another note on dyes. Our first year we did not buy the packaged dyes, but made our own. Traditionally in Eastern Europe, people would make dyes out of the plants that grew in their region, so each region's pysanki took on a local character in both color and design. We made brown dye out of coffee and blue dye out of blueberries. However, neither the coffee nor the blueberries were grown anywhere near my area. I don't think I have pictures of those eggs which were sold at our Church's annual spring Pysanki sale. You can click on the link for details about this year's sale.
I should have begun by sharing the history of Pysanki, which is mostly a Ukrainian and Carpatho-Russian tradition, and the nature of the symbols used. This site has most of the explanations I've heard about Mary Magdalene and about an egg representing the Resurrection. It also includes this description of how ancient pagan symbols were "baptized" when Christianity reached the region,
There is a whole vocabulary of the symbols which are used to decorate the eggs. Many of the symbols are universal, drawn from nature: the sun and stars, flowers and fruits, leaves and trees, animals, birds and fish. Sometimes the pagan meaning is simply carried over to the Christian use of the symbol, and sometimes a new layer of meaning is added. A fish is an ancient symbol of health and also a symbol of Christ himself. A pine tree represents youth and health, as well as the Christian hope of eternal life. A rooster is a symbol of fertility, and also a reminder of the cock that crowed when Peter denied his Lord. Geometrical symbols are also popular: a triangle represents the human family--father, mother, and child--as well as the Holy Trinity. An egg with forty triangles represents the forty days of Lent. Specifically Christian symbols such as the cross and a church need no interpretation.
It also has some very nice pictures.
I am somewhat behind on my Pysanki making this year. If I commit to one a day I should be able to come up with 26 before they are due. Our family has promised 36 so I hope the kids will be able to take up my slack. Fortunately Spring Break will occur before the due date, so maybe my talented college kids will find the time.
Here's my first four in the order of making them. So far I like #3 the best. I don't know if the blurriness is because of me, the camera, or the computer. They looked focused on the viewfinder, but not when I uploaded them.
These eggs have been cleaned with Charcoal Starter, but they have not yet been varnished, which really makes the colors pop.
There are good explanations of how to make Pysanki available to anyone who will buy a book or do a computer search. Last year I provided a link, but this year I'll try to explain it. The design is created by drawing lines or filling in shapes over the desired color with melted wax. The hardest thing to get used to, is that you create your design in opposite order from light to dark, so that the highlights come first. You start with a white egg that has been blown and cleaned through a drilled hole in the bottom. We use a German made drill and accordion "bellows" connected to a needle. The color will take better if the egg has been rinsed with distilled water and vinegar.
Many people pencil in the egg divisions which are at least horizontal and vertical into 8 parts. Most eggs will start with these 3 lines being covered with wax by using a calligraphy stylus that has been heated in a candle flame, usually beeswax, and loaded from a separate beeswax block. Then the loaded stylus is reheated to melt the wax which for a few seconds will cover the line that is gone over on the egg, before it has to be reheated in the flame. The first egg above shows that I blocked in the cross and the wheat with wax while the egg was still white. Then the egg is usually dipped in yellow, depending on the design. What is desired to stay yellow is then drawn or blocked in. The design becomes increasingly obscured by wax with each layer of color, so the end result will be a complete surprise, but I get ahead of myself. After the yellow is blocked in, the egg is dipped in the next color, which was red in the third egg. After the red was blocked in, that egg was dipped in black. After the last color has taken, the egg is carefully held over the candle, not too long or it could scorch or even explode, and not too short or the wax wont come off cleanly. The wax is wiped off with a Kleenex. All the steps make a tedious process, especially for the non-detail oriented like me, but the unveiling makes it worth it. It usually turns out better than I think because I am aware of mistakes when I am drawing on the wax, but I can't predict how forgiving the colors will be until the wax is removed. But then when one's egg is held next to a truly experienced and skilled pysanki maker's, one is not so impressed with ones self.
A brief statement about the dyes, they come from the Ukraine, I think, in powdered form in an envelope to be added to 1 1/4 cups of distilled, boiling water. Most also require a tablespoon of vinegar, which can be re-added later if the dye stops taking to the egg. Most of our people use Jet Puff Marshmallow Cream jars as they are a good width to make sure the egg gets covered when dipped. Since the eggs are hollow, they float, so a spice jar is usually placed over it to keep it down for the necessary few minutes until the desired color is achieved. By the way, one must remember to seal the hole at the bottom of the egg with melted wax so that it will not fill up with dye and continuously drip even after you think you've drained it and resealed it. A most frustrating experience.
Like reading books, Pysanki making is a very worthwhile pursuit, but I have to really put my determination hat on to begin every day. Reading and writing blogs takes no such determination, but is like falling off a log. Reading and writing well, now I do have to exert effort to not be totally reckless, which I'm sure I don't apply enough of which to do.
With the college boys home for the holidays, they had time to devote to making another movie. This one's called Red Window. Again, it's easier to see in "higher definition" available on the youtube page as it is filmed at night, albeit a moonful night...
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4QovXtddrEs]
I wish I'd taken more pictures on our trip, but I have mixed feelings about taking photos since my divorce. Since then even baby pictures of my kids are something to be avoided as they can also contain bad memories, or memories made bad on retrospect. Fortunately Jeremy took some videos, so we have a bit more of a record than I can share here right now. This is the view of the Church at St. Gregory Palamas Monastery in Ohio from the porch of the homey building which had the parlor and refectory where we were received.
The next two are of the Hermitage of the Holy Cross in West Virginia.
The red building is their Church which has a very warm, cozy feel inside. I usually prefer this type of Church to the ones that are often being planned at this stage.
If I may switch topics, this season after Nativity is one in which I have learned to start preparing for Forgiveness Sunday, the first Sunday of Lent. The week after our first Forgiveness Sunday 5 years ago left me a wasted lump of jello, barely able to move without excruciating leg soreness. This was after about 20 prostrations in front of our dear fellow-parishioners. I love this service as I usually feel I am failing my fellow man miserably, and it is a chance to wipe the slate clean. But since then, I've started trying to condition myself before this yearly event. However, I guess it was three years ago last fall, I came down with a terrible back spasm that left me bedridden for a week, barely able to move at all. Since then I've slowly gotten stronger, but still have to be extremely careful how I bend over. I have also favored the way I sit and move around to the point that my lower body, except for standing and walking, is very weak. I think the injury was due to unprepared lifting of heavy patients during my young adult years as a nurse. Maybe my back was also weakened by 4 epidurals during childbirth, and also a particularly stressful time that fall, because I don't remember any other event happening during that time that would have caused it. Anyway, for Christmas George gave our family a new Wii Fit that I have now tried out for the past two days. I can already feel my posture muscles and leg muscles getting stronger, and I am letting myself bend laterally for the first time in a while, as I've had to balance myself vertically to avoid back pain. The exercises are very slow and gentle and while strenuous, they are not too daunting. It's amazing how much a balance sensor in the "step" can diagnose your posture and keep you in a more healthy zone. About 10 years ago I used to do aerobics at a public location and haven't gone back, recently because of the strenuous pace you usually have to adopt at the beginning, but also because it is public and inconvenient. This program however has a very gradual buildup, and after you've achieved a certain measured proficiency you unlock new exercises and more repetitions. It also measures and graphs daily, or however often you work out, weight fluctuations. I am really impressed with how the Wii motivates the whole family to get off the couch with healthy and fun options that are not overtly seductive in nature, as many video games are. I don't really like how they portray the female personal trainer, so I chose the male, but the Wii caricature you make of yourself is shaped more like a peanuts cartoon, and your family members' Mii's participate with you even when they are not physically present. I suppose this contributes to a virtual and non-authentic life, but hopefully being in better shape will lead to something more authentic in the future. So bear with me.
Here's a demo,
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5oNVIcMnZh4]
Rod Dreher has a good introduction to the philosophy and practices of Wendell Berry in "Wendell Berry's time is now", posted last fall. (H/T to With Each Passing Moment)
As I watch old homestead ranches around me getting bought up by commercial businesses and packed housing developments, as Americans have been doing for a few generations, well it's what Americans have always done, ask the Indians, I wish more people would do as Mr. Berry in living within his means and respecting creation at his family homestead as the article describes. I love this part of his poem,
I am at home. Don't come with me.
You stay home too.
While I agree with and admire his ethics, I haven't been able to become an ardent disciple because I don't think his particular way of life is completely practical for everyone. I love self-sufficiency, but not everyone is as smart as he is. Did he make most of his livelihood on his farm or by his gifted writing? I've talked about how much more fertile and better watered Kentucky is compared to where I live too. Still, I could probably get by with the produce available at our Farmer's Market. Wait, last time I was there I noticed that most things weren't local. But if I spent a lot of time studying, I could probably find enough local sources to keep us well-fed. But my attentions are usually diverted elsewhere. I resent the hour and a half I spend at Walmart every week as it is. And my home garden, which I prefer to access rather than going across town to the farmer's market, I'm self-sufficient that way, got mostly eaten by bugs, or didn't produce much (for the needs of a family of 8 ) for other unknown reasons. I intend on getting better at gardening though. It is a healthy sport.
I also agree with him that greedy people's industry has exploited much of our natural resources and littered the landscape. But I have decided not to be angry or contemptuous about it. I'm not saying he is, as I haven't read his works directly. 
I watched a program on Monet the other day which made a comment about his industrial cityscapes being unusual compared to other Impressionists who avoided them. I can't find the painting they talked about, but his Waterloo Bridge in London will suit my purposes. (See also his train station paintings.) I just read that he was frustrated with London weather when he painted it, but I like how he kept the mood and was true to what he saw. I don't get the feeling he hated the smoke stacks the dirty water or the fog/pollution, but made an unromantic yet non photographic work of art out of them. That's an interesting distinction. Most people probably like his garden paintings or the ones of his wife, Camille, better, but I'm glad to have his statement about the city too. It just sits there with the rest because that was what he experienced, even though he loved gardening better. Maybe it's a statement against Total Depravity.
On that note, I'll leave you with this poem by Walt Whitman,
There Was a Child Went Forth every day;
And the first object he look'd upon, that object he became;
And that object became part of him for the day, or a certain part of
the day, or for many years, or stretching cycles of years.
The early lilacs became part of this child,
And grass, and white and red morning-glories, and white and red clover, and the song of the phoebe-bird,
And the Third-month lambs, and the sow's pink-faint litter, and the mare's foal, and the cow's calf,
And the noisy brood of the barn-yard, or by the mire of the pond-side,
And the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there--and the beautiful curious liquid,
And the water-plants with their graceful flat heads--all became part of him.
The field-sprouts of Fourth-month and Fifth-month became part of him;
Winter-grain sprouts, and those of the light-yellow corn, and the esculent roots of the garden,
And the apple-trees cover'd with blossoms, and the fruit afterward,
and wood-berries, and the commonest weeds by the road;
And the old drunkard staggering home from the out-house of the tavern, whence he had lately risen,
And the school-mistress that pass'd on her way to the school,
And the friendly boys that pass'd--and the quarrelsome boys,
And the tidy and fresh-cheek'd girls--and the barefoot negro boy and girl,
And all the changes of city and country, wherever he went.
His own parents,
He that had father'd him, and she that had conceiv'd him in her womb, and birth'd him,
They gave this child more of themselves than that;
They gave him afterward every day--they became part of him.
The mother at home, quietly placing the dishes on the supper-table;
The mother with mild words--clean her cap and gown, a wholesome odor
falling off her person and clothes as she walks by;
The father, strong, self-sufficient, manly, mean, anger'd, unjust;
The blow, the quick loud word, the tight bargain, the crafty lure,
The family usages, the language, the company, the furniture--the yearning and swelling heart,
Affection that will not be gainsay'd--the sense of what is real--the thought if, after all, it should prove unreal,
The doubts of day-time and the doubts of night-time--the curious whether and how,
Whether that which appears so is so, or is it all flashes and specks?
Men and women crowding fast in the streets--if they are not flashes and specks, what are they?
The streets themselves, and the façades of houses, and goods in the windows,
Vehicles, teams, the heavy-plank'd wharves--the huge crossing at the ferries,
The village on the highland, seen from afar at sunset--the river between,
Shadows, aureola and mist, the light falling on roofs and gables of white or brown, three miles off,
The schooner near by, sleepily dropping down the tide--the little boat slack-tow'd astern,
The hurrying tumbling waves, quick-broken crests, slapping,
The strata of color'd clouds, the long bar of maroon-tint, away
solitary by itself--the spread of purity it lies motionless in,
The horizon's edge, the flying sea-crow, the fragrance of salt marsh and shore mud;
These became part of that child who went forth every day, and who now goes, and will always go forth every day.
Today the hymn "Come Thou Fount", my mother's favorite hymn, has been going through my head, and I'd like to set it down here. It is one of the songs in the night I used to play quite regularly on my recorder, which she gave me on one of my early teen birthdays.
1. Come, Thou Fount of every blessing,
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;
Streams of mercy, never ceasing,
Call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet,
Sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount! I’m fixed upon it,
Mount of Thy redeeming love.
2. Sorrowing I shall be in spirit,
Till released from flesh and sin,
Yet from what I do inherit,
Here Thy praises I'll begin;
Here I raise my Ebenezer;
Here by Thy great help I’ve come;
And I hope, by Thy good pleasure,
Safely to arrive at home.
3. Jesus sought me when a stranger,
Wandering from the fold of God;
He, to rescue me from danger,
Interposed His precious blood;
How His kindness yet pursues me
Mortal tongue can never tell,
Clothed in flesh, till death shall loose me
I cannot proclaim it well.
4. O to grace how great a debtor
Daily I’m constrained to be!
Let Thy goodness, like a fetter,
Bind my wandering heart to Thee.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
Prone to leave the God I love;
Here’s my heart, O take and seal it,
Seal it for Thy courts above.
5. O that day when freed from sinning,
I shall see Thy lovely face;
Clothed then in blood washed linen
How I’ll sing Thy sovereign grace;
Come, my Lord, no longer tarry,
Take my ransomed soul away;
Send thine angels now to carry
Me to realms of endless day.
And here's a recording of Enya's "How Can I Keep from Singing" while to that rock I'm clinging.
by William Wordsworth
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune,
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
Is he saying that the sea and wind as they are are not enough? Or is he saying that people are too caught up in acquiring goods to notice even them? I think the former because he isn't saying they aren't being noticed, but that they no longer move us. Greed has deadened our hearts. He posits that naturalistic paganism is better than heart-killing wealth procurement. That giants appearing, sounding out of the depths is what it would take to resurrect the heart. This would produce a pounding heart, but isn't this a call for excitement? Something awesomely fearsome needs to trump wealth, which has grown stale, to revitalize man? No, a return to paganism is not what we need, though it seems many find it superior to materialism. I heard an Orthodox lecturer say one time that America is returning to paganism in this "post-Christian" world. I'm not sure we're "post-Christian", but we're certainly not shining as brightly as we should.
I don't think the sea and wind need to become more exciting than the way he first describes them. If one is bored looking, feeling, and listening to them, there is a sickness of soul all right. It could be greed, despair or some other besetting sin. Something else is howling louder than the wind, and we must rise up like Proteus to silence it.
(poem from About.com's Classic Poem Daily.)
He wrote, directed, scored and acted this last of his silent films made in 1936, well after Talkies were introduced. The whole movie demonstrates his amazing coordination and multi-talents, but this scene, yikes!
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oybM6O6fjHk]
Two years ago George planned a wonderful evening of dinner and a play for Valentine's day. The play was based on P.G. Wodehouse's "Right Ho, Jeeves", and was my first introduction to Jeeves and Wooster. I was enthralled from the start with the wit, pacing, and surprising plot twists being spun in different directions by silly Bertie and his wise butler, Jeeves, amidst undauntable amicability between the two. I went promptly to the library and acquired the Jeeves Omnibus and had fun reading the first couple of stories aloud to the kids.
A few months ago I saw that Netflix offered the early 90's British TV series, Jeeves and Wooster, with Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie, and put the first season, two episodes per disc, on our queue, spread out between other movies. The first disc with two episodes met mixed reviews in our family. George was out of town so he didn't see it, and mine and Ben's enthusiasm was mostly carried in on the coattails of our previous experiences with the play and the books. The other kids were luke-warm to bored. I'll admit Hugh Laurie is a more annoying Bertie than the actor in the play was. And the first episodes were a bit slow. All this to say, it has taken us a while to view disc 2.
So last night, after George's and my post-Valentine plan to see The Curious Case of Benjamin Button fell through as it is on its way out of our local theaters, with only an hour before bedtime, we decided to go ahead and put in Episode 4 (see link above, I don't know what happened to #3), which would be an hour long. Much to our surprise, as it was not titled the same (again see link above), it was the first half of the play that we saw two years and one day before! The five kids who are not living in a dorm like Jared is, enjoyed this episode much more than the episodes on the first disc. Ben's laughter was exceptionally mirthful throughout. Of course we had to go ahead and watch the fifth episode to complete the tale.
To the tune of "Favorite Things" from The Sound of Music.
Rainbows on gay people's windows and litter on kittens,
Microwaved hot water and chemical packs in mittens,
Tons of cardboard shipping boxes mean many trees died,
These are a few of modernity's things.
Genetically designed ponies and Krispy Kreme drive-thru donuts,
IM bells and cell bells and Chef Boyardee noodles,
Wild geese that fly into airplane wings,
These are a few of modernity's things.
Girls in white dresses even though they're not virgins,
Snowflakes that get blown by belching smoke blowers,
Silver white winters that melt into dammed springs,
These are a few of modernity's things.
When the dog bites
When the bee stings
When I'm feeling sad,
I simply sue someone and take prescription pain numb-ers,
And then I don't feel so bad.
Suffice it to say that I have been asked, "How is “Boys will be boys,” Calvinist? Wouldn’t they say that boys will be condemned for being boys, as it were?"
While Calvinists believe that all are condemnable for being totally depraved, I do not think they believe that the elect will be so, condemned that is, because they are still depraved. My husband tells me that there's a popular Calvinist preacher in Seattle who gets a lot of applause for saying it doesn't matter what you do, your position in heaven is totally based on His choosing you regardless of any works or merits. No wonder they're so thankful!
Calvinists believe that a person is corrupt by nature. Orthodox believe that our natures are good and made in the image of God. Individuals must choose to live up to their natures, as Christ was the first to do. While an Orthodox is the chiefest of sinners, it is because he has failed to choose what God has predestined him to be, united in heart, mind, soul, and body to Christ as evidenced by words, deeds, and thoughts. He has chosen against his nature.
Here's a NY Times article on the above mentioned pastor, Mark Driscoll (Warning, it's pretty graphic.)
"Mark Driscoll’s sermons are mostly too racy to post on GodTube, the evangelical Christian “family friendly” video-posting Web site. With titles like “Biblical Oral Sex” and “Pleasuring Your Spouse,” his clips do not stand a chance against the site’s content filters. No matter: YouTube is where Driscoll, the pastor of Mars Hill Church in Seattle, would rather be. Unsuspecting sinners who type in popular keywords may suddenly find themselves face to face with a husky-voiced preacher in a black skateboarder’s jacket and skull T-shirt. An “Under 17 Requires Adult Permission” warning flashes before the video cuts to evening services at Mars Hill, where an anonymous audience member has just text-messaged a question to the screen onstage: “Pastor Mark, is masturbation a valid form of birth control?”
Driscoll doesn’t miss a beat: [edited out] The audience bursts out laughing. Next Pastor Mark is warning them about lust [me: disconnect anyone?] and exalting the confines of marriage, one hand jammed in his jeans pocket while the other waves his Bible. Even the skeptical viewer must admit that whatever Driscoll’s opinion of certain recreational activities, he has the coolest style and foulest mouth of any preacher you’ve ever seen.
Mark Driscoll is American evangelicalism’s bête noire. In little more than a decade, his ministry has grown from a living-room Bible study to a megachurch that draws about 7,600 visitors to seven campuses around Seattle each Sunday, and his books, blogs and podcasts have made him one of the most admired — and reviled — figures among evangelicals nationwide. Conservatives call Driscoll “the cussing pastor” and wish that he’d trade in his fashionably distressed jeans and taste for indie rock for a suit and tie and placid choral arrangements. Liberals wince at his hellfire theology and insistence that women submit to their husbands. But what is new about Driscoll is that he has resurrected a particular strain of fire and brimstone, one that most Americans assume died out with the Puritans: Calvinism, a theology that makes Pat Robertson seem warm and fuzzy.
At a time when the once-vaunted unity of the religious right has eroded and the mainstream media is proclaiming an “evangelical crackup,” Driscoll represents a movement to revamp the style and substance of evangelicalism. With his taste for vintage baseball caps and omnipresence on Facebook and iTunes, Driscoll, who is 38, is on the cutting edge of American pop culture. Yet his message seems radically unfashionable, even un-American: you are not captain of your soul or master of your fate but a depraved worm whose hard work and good deeds will get you nowhere, because God marked you for heaven or condemned you to hell before the beginning of time. Yet a significant number of young people in Seattle — and nationwide — say this is exactly what they want to hear. Calvinism has somehow become cool, and just as startling, this generally bookish creed has fused with a macho ethos. At Mars Hill, members say their favorite movie isn’t “Amazing Grace” or “The Chronicles of Narnia” — it’s “Fight Club.” [bold mine]
Mars Hill Church is the furthest thing from a Puritan meetinghouse. This is Seattle, and Mars Hill epitomizes the city that spawned it. Headquartered in a converted marine supply store, the church is a boxy gray building near the diesel-infused din of the Ballard Bridge. In the lobby one Sunday not long ago, college kids in jeans — some sporting nose rings or kitchen-sink dye jobs — lounged on ottomans and thumbed text messages to their friends. The front desk, black and slick, looked as if it ought to offer lattes rather than Bibles and membership pamphlets. Buzz-cut and tattooed security guards mumbled into their headpieces and directed the crowd toward the auditorium, where the worship band was warming up for an hour of hymns with Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run.”
On that Sunday, Driscoll preached for an hour and 10 minutes — nearly three times longer than most pastors. As hip as he looks, his message brooks no compromise with Seattle’s permissive culture. New members can keep their taste in music, their retro T-shirts and their intimidating facial hair, but they had better abandon their feminism, premarital sex and any “modern” interpretations of the Bible. Driscoll is adamantly not the “weepy worship dude” he associates with liberal and mainstream evangelical churches, “singing prom songs to a Jesus who is presented as a wuss who took a beating and spent a lot of time putting product in his long hair.”
The oldest of five, son of a union drywaller, Driscoll was raised Roman Catholic in a rough neighborhood on the outskirts of Seattle. In high school, he met a pretty blond pastor’s daughter named — providentially — Grace. She gave him his first Bible. He read voraciously and was born again at 19. “God talked to me,” Driscoll says. “He told me to marry Grace, preach the Bible, to plant churches and train men.” He married Grace (with whom he now has five children) and, at 25, founded Mars Hill.
God called Driscoll to preach to men — particularly young men — to save them from an American Protestantism that has emasculated Christ and driven men from church pews with praise music that sounds more like boy-band ballads crooned to Jesus than “Onward Christian Soldiers.” What bothers Driscoll — and the growing number of evangelical pastors who agree with him — is not the trope of Jesus-as-lover. After all, St. Paul tells us that the Church is the bride of Christ. What really grates is the portrayal of Jesus as a wimp, or worse. Paintings depict a gentle man embracing children and cuddling lambs. Hymns celebrate his patience and tenderness. The mainstream church, Driscoll has written, has transformed Jesus into “a Richard Simmons, hippie, queer Christ,” a “neutered and limp-wristed popular Sky Fairy of pop culture that . . . would never talk about sin or send anyone to hell.”"
