this too shall pass?

It's that time of year again- the week before finals, when papers are due and all those things you have been putting off suddenly become unavoidable. As usual, I am not handling it with very much grace. The difference this year is that I have Robb by my side, being patient and kind and helpful. This leads me to hope a couple of different things:
a) that I live up to his expectations
b) that I can someday repay him for his hours of sitting with me while I do homework
and
c) that I actually pass these courses so that his efforts and time will not have been in vain.
I may not be able to write these papers and take these tests for my own good, but I can definitely do them for Robb's sake.

Get behind me, Santa!

Our cat Fennel is sitting on my lap right now, purring furiously. She is calm for once because she got worn out chasing the vacuum cleaner and mop. It's amazing how easily entertained she is- she will run around for hours after a piece of string or paper.
I don't quite understand it, but having Fennel curled up purring in my lap is one of the best antidotes to the winter blues that I have found so far. Second only to sitting in my best beloved's arms.
Listening to Sufjan's Christmas albums twice through in one day doesn't hurt, either.

those winter sundays

We read a Robert Hayden poem today in class that ended with these lines:

"What did I know, what did I know

Of love's austere and lonely offices?"

Love's offices can indeed be unlovely, but we undertake them with glad hearts because they are for a beloved. This is the quieter side of parenthood. This is inconvenient services rendered to loved ones. This is the side of love I do not truly know yet.

I hope that God cannot get lonely, because if he could he would certainly have cause to. His offices are both austere and lonely much of the time- or at least to our human minds they must seem so.

218 to go.

Tomorrow Robb and I celebrate two months of engagement. Two down, seven to go.
This in-between state is actually much more difficult than I ever could have anticipated. We are truly committed to one another and know that the rest of our lives will be spent together, and yet we are required to continue our separate lives as usual. To say good night and part ways every evening. To keep different last names. To not notice each other's bodies too much. To pretend that we don't only ever want to be together.
My priorities have take a violent turn since meeting Robb, and since being engaged to him they have virtually ceased to exist beyond the message that throbs through my mind always: Be With Robb. Forget school, forget other friends, forget being a good daughter and sister. Just contrive to always be in Robb's presence. Sometimes I catch myself and wonder at this strange monolithic mentality, but mostly it is second nature now and as innate as the hunger pains that I feel when not allowed to eat every two hours.

I cannot wait to see this band live.

Autumn

The leaves are falling, falling as from far off,
as though far gardens withered in the skies;
they are falling with denying gestures.

And in the nights the heavy earth is falling
from all the stars down into loneliness.

We are all falling. This hand falls.
And look at others; it is in them all.

And yet there is One who holds this falling
endlessly gently in his hands.

-Rainer Maria Rilke

The changing of the seasons is affecting me adversely this year. Or perhaps I am affecting it adversely. I can't quite tell. All I know is that today when I walked out after dinner and the light was slate-grey, my heart sank. Then a fall wind came and blew through my hair, and as much as I love it for its crisp brightness, I could not help but feel a tinge of despair. The season of death is coming, and there is nothing to be done.
I love fall in theory- the bright leaves, the clean wind, the warm clothes- but in my heart I know that as the darkness pulls tighter and tighter around my days and the sun becomes a friend who comes only for lunch, I will have to fight melancholy off with liturgy and friends and my love as best I can.

What have we but each other?

It is difficult for me to fathom the changes that have been taking place in my life lately. I have started (albeit half-heartedly) my senior year of college, and the events that have unfolded to get me to this place are completely different from what I expected. Rather than strutting triumphantly into one more year of academic conquests, I am tiptoeing in hoping that my professors will once again be merciful and that I will leave this place with at least part of my pride intact.

But really, that is not the change that I contemplate when I look upon these last weeks. All matters academic pale in comparison to the fact that on Sunday, my best beloved asked me if I would marry him.

[edited version]
So that's pretty sweet.

In Christ alone my hope is found;
He is my light, my strength, my song;
This cornerstone, this solid ground,
Firm through the fiercest drought and storm.
What heights of love, what depths of peace,
When fears are stilled, when strivings cease!
My comforter, my all in all—
Here in the love of Christ I stand.

In Christ alone, Who took on flesh,
Fullness of God in helpless babe!
This gift of love and righteousness,
Scorned by the ones He came to save.
Till on that cross as Jesus died,
The wrath of God was satisfied;
For ev'ry sin on Him was laid—
Here in the death of Christ I live.

There in the ground His body lay,
Light of the world by darkness slain;
Then bursting forth in glorious day,
Up from the grave He rose again!
And as He stands in victory,
Sin's curse has lost its grip on me;
For I am His and He is mine—
Bought with the precious blood of Christ.

No guilt in life, no fear in death—
This is the pow'r of Christ in me;
From life's first cry to final breath,
Jesus commands my destiny.
No pow'r of hell, no scheme of man,
Can ever pluck me from His hand;
Till He returns or calls me home—
Here in the pow'r of Christ I'll stand.

le toi du moi

I am home.
This means sharing a bed with Amanda. Finally having good coffee for breakfast. Wandering into CPO whenever I damn well feel like it. Calling and texting people at will. Not using a converter anymore to charge my computer. Eating delicious snap peas from our garden. Getting tipsy with friends if I want to.
Best of all, though, it means seeing Robb every day. Resting in his arms for blissful stretches of time. Seeing his face in the morning, afternoon, and evening. No more computer screens between us, no more desperate emails, no more daily letters. Never again will I leave him for such a stretch of time. Or any stretch of time, if I can help it.

eleven hours.

Injoy

We are back from the Lake District, which was lovely- so lush and alive. But it is wonderful to be back at St. Anne's, because it means that day after tomorrow we will be in London, and then two days after that I will be on a plane.
Going. Home.
Home meaning my loved ones, not any geographical place, of course. I will be picked up by someone I love (hopefully) and then go to Wheaton to more loved ones and there will I stay. This trip has made me never want to part ways with my beloved one(s) ever again.

feist is such a geek.

I wrote this before I came to England.

The England of my imagination is a place where murders abound, where animals talk and where women are forever searching for a husband. In this place, men have brilliant witticisms at hand for any occasion and weave learnèd quotations into mundane conversations. “Wake Duncan with thy knocking,” says Lord Peter to his man pounding on a door. “Faugh!” says Bertie Wooster, when he is a great deal overwrought. Here we find spinsters with uncanny abilities for tracking down murderers. Here charming bears of Very Little Brain become wedged in a Great Tightness. Here it is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.

My England is a land of words well crafted. It is a place where men manage to talk the most charming piffle imaginable. The ring of a doorbell prompts Algernon to declare that “only creditors and aunts ring in that Wagnerian manner.” Happiness elicits “o frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” and a chortling of joy. Even animals speak well in the England of my imagination. “I like your clothes awfully, old chap,” remarks Rat to Mole. “I’m going to get a black velvet smoking suit myself some day, as soon as I can afford it.” How could I not fall in love with a land where the likes of Lord Peter, Albert Campion, and Bertie Wooster abound? I know intellectually that such a land is impossible, and there is a reason these men are fictional characters. Yet there is something deep inside me that fully expects to step off the plane in London and be greeted by a “what ho!” from an unassuming well dressed man with particularly polished speech.

the rain it raineth every day

English weather suffers from a very bad case of indecisiveness. One moment there is the most satisfying, full downpour and you think that perhaps you shall go out and run in it, but by the time you've gotten your shoes on it has changed to a spineless sprinkle. Then it weeps awhile, big inconclusive drips that won't let you need to open your umbrella but still manage to get you very damp. And then suddenly the sun is shining with great vigor, making a damp warmth creep through your clothes. Finally, you think to yourself, it's made up its mind. You shake your umbrella of its pearly drops and get ready to enjoy the bright blue sky washed clean by rain- and suddenly it is raining again.

This makes for a curious phenomenon- umbrella traffic jams. Walking down Cornmarket Street in Oxford, you see hundreds of umbrellas vying for space on the sidewalk. You have to move your umbrella sideways or raise it up above the crowds in order not to be guilty of umbrella-space hogging. Sometimes you accidentally swipe someone else's Burberry parasol, and then it is imperative to avoid eye contact lest you find yourself withering under the disdainful look of a British yuppy. There doesn't seem to be much of an etiquette for umbrella traffic; it is each man or woman for themselves as they protect themselves from the elements. This is when you realize that sometimes, being gracious and magnanimous simply won't do. You have as much right to stay dry as the next British person, even if you are a foreigner and (worse) an American. Being chivalrous in your umbrella-wielding will not be enough to convince your fellow pedestrian that perhaps the Yanks aren't that bad after all.

It is at this point that I come to my senses, realize I do not really need an umbrella anyhow, and allow myself to be exposed to the whims of the British skies.

Know Your Onion!

Oh, Oxford. Home to Lord Peter and Harriet Vane. Keeper of Academia over the centuries. Alma mater of Lewis Carroll. 

How do I fit in here? I gave up on Lord Peter a long time ago. I have been unfaithful to Academia many times over. I will never write anything as brilliant as Lewis Carroll. 

Perhaps the real question is this: "will I, won't I, will I, won't I, won't I join the dance?" I've been having a hard time joining the mad dance that is Wheaton in England 2008. But there is still time. Time to talk of many things- of shoes and traveling and sealing wax, of cabbages and Shakespeare.

they say home is where the heart is, right? well, I want to go home. trying to live with your heart stretched thin is no fun.

Do you know where these roots go?

The breakfasts at our hotel here in London are glorious. They actually fill me up for a good four hours, which is nothing short of miraculous. First you choose from fried or scrambled eggs and bacon or sausage. Then they bring you a large amount of toast and good English tea. I even put cream in my tea here- it cuts the bitter edge the of the almost overbrewed blackness. As if this were not enough, there is a table laden with mandarin orange and grapefruit segments, yoghurt, weetabix and cereal to choose from. And sometimes, if you get there early enough, there are even croissant. The yoghurt here is so much better than American yoghurt- so smooth and creamy, and not too sweet. Mmmm.

It's amazing how a good breakfast can put everything into perspective. At least for awhile. 

truth we are all abiding in your will

It is storming right now- a glorious, satisfying storm with thunder and lightning and great sheets of rain pouring down. This is the best time to feel either lonely or loved, I think. Either you can be alone and a part of the storm in your solitude or with someone you love and completely sheltered from the elements by the affection of the other person. Perhaps there is some happy medium- being with a person in a storm and wrapped in their cherishing and yet still letting your soul be out in the rain and lightning. 

With that said, whenever it storms like this something in my soul compels me to go out into the wildness and join in the liquid dance, with the thunder as the beat. 

Good day sunshine

Life is Very Good right now. And also frustrating. But mostly Very Good. It is quite incredible to me how a single person can turn life into an entirely new (entirely wonderful) experience. Things that were previously neutral or normal are suddenly filled with meaning, and daily tasks that used to be mundane are epic endeavors to be conquered because I have to face them alone. 

Speaking of epic endeavors, these blasted papers I have to write are quickly becoming nothing less. I "work" on them all the time, and yet nothing ever quite seems to get done. Whoever thought leaving papers off until the summer was a good idea, anyhow? 

"I can tell there's somethin' going on...

...hours seem to disappear." 

I finally potted the herbs we bought four days ago. It was wonderful to pull them out of their little plastic containers and have their distinctive fragrances waft up to me as I loosened their roots. Our porch looks so domestic now, with the row of terra cotta pots full of herbs. Next we need to actually work on the garden rather than just talking about it. 

Also, my new favorite thing is standing on one leg like a stork, with the other crooked up resting above my knee.  

I heard from the trees a great parade

It is summer. Alleluia. 

So far, this summer has meant: spending time with wonderful people. being prompted to grow by someone with deep insight into my life. learning to love my roommates more and more. enjoying my parent's love and support. reading wonderful poetry and literature. struggling with my sinfulness. cooking good food. deciding to be grateful for work rather than resent it. being ok with letting those i love see my weakness. 

Joy. It's been about joy. So much so that my heart seems to be expanding moment by moment, which hurts and yet is glorious at the same time. It is wonderful to me how God works- mixing pain and joy together so inextricably that we should not know one without the other. I would have it no other way. 

poetry is infinitely better than studying

O sweet spontaneous
earth how often have
the
doting

    fingers of
purient philosophers pinched
and
poked

thee
, has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
thy

beauty       . how
often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy knees
squeezing and

buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
gods
(but
true

to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rhythmic
lover

   thou answerest

them only with

     spring)

e.e. cummings

we'll hold the hands of sinners

It's amazing to me how swiftly I can move from despair to joy. Three days ago, I did not see much hope on the horizon. Today, the sun is shining and it is hard to even remember what I was upset about. I suppose that's what friends and sleep and God will do for you. And having specific people walk alongside you and love you through it all. 

Today's title is from an Eisley song, in honor of having seen them on Friday. I had forgotten how much I enjoy their music. 

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner. 

cut out all the ropes and let me fall

Sometimes, I am not sure I can put one foot in front of the next. Sometimes, I think that I should stop letting words come out of my mouth. Sometimes, I do not trust any part of my person.

If sometime is now, how am I to step out into the day and all that it brings?

time and all you gave

There is nothing quite like a paper to help one procrastinate. I suddenly think of brilliant ways to change my facebook profile, or remember the people I was supposed to call two weeks ago. Duties that don't usually bother me suddenly prick my conscience. Our dishes are clean, I've held myself back from changing my profile picture three times, and I actually wrote my professor after all this time. Oh, the irony. 

With that said, I am actually enjoying this paper. I think the problem is that it's not due until tomorrow at midnight, so I feel like I have plenty of time. However, if I want to do fun things like go to CPO dinner and the play tomorrow night, I need to get this thing done today. Yet another irony- I will work harder to be able to spend time with friends than I will to simply get a good grade. 

I am afraid I am a very bad student. 

What might have been lost...

"This is not the sound of a new man or crispy realization."

Isn't that phrase delicious? "crispy realization." Good job, Justin Vernon. I wish I had winters like yours.

...

I find myself, once again, unsettled by art. There is something about entering into another world through theatre or movies or books or music that leaves you with a deep emptiness. There's that sense of losing something unreal when you exit the fabricated world. The wonder of what you would be were the illusion you saw through art your actuality. You are confronted with an alternate reality, and whether it be close or ever so distant from yours, it shakes you. It takes from you even as it gives.

Right now, if I were asked to define Art, I would say it was the gift of the Other that enters into and in some way shakes your everyday life. 

One for sorrow/ Two for joy

I am memorizing a poem for my Auden class right now that is simply wonderful.

...

Beloved, we are always in the wrong, 

Handling so clumsily our stupid lives,

Suffering too little or too long,

Too careful even in our selfish loves: 

The decorative manias we obey

Die in grimaces round us every day,

Yet through their tohu-bohu comes a voice

Which utters an absurd command: Rejoice. 

Rejoice. What talent for the makeshift thought

A living corpus out of odds and ends? 

What pedagogic patience taught

Pre-occupied and savage elements 

To dance into a segregated charm?

Who showed the whirlwind how to be an arm,

And gardened from the wilderness of space

The sensual properties of one dear face? 

...

(tohu-bohu is evidently the Hebrew for "formless and void")

These are but two stanzas from Auden's "In Sickness and in Health." I love that notion of "gardening from the wilderness of space"- it evokes such wonderful images.  This is such a lovely way to think about creation. 

Also, there is something strangely comforting about thinking that God has spoken the command for joy into the "tohu bohu" of our lives. 

That's when I spoke a word/ to have them trace your face for me in pollen...

It is an intriguing feeling to know that I am writing into a sort of nothingness. There is no guarantee that anyone will read what I write, and yet I am still sending it out into the void, presumably hoping someone will find it. 

 "how should I presume?"

 Is it not a presumption to write about oneself and sent it out into the world, hoping it will be found and cherished- or at least appreciated? 

"Do I dare disturb the universe?"

Of course, it says something that I posted this site on my facebook page. I know people rarely bother to follow those links in the "about me" section to their destinations. And yet, perhaps someone will be curious, and end up here. Who knows.

A Brightness Unobscured

When I was in high school, I used to be terrified of being mediocre. I embraced this quote- "We must have richness of soul"- as embodying my desire to not sink into a flat, monochrome existence. "Richness of soul"- does that not sound like a desirable trait? It seems to imply lush colors and bright eyes and imagination. Suddenly, when I savor the way a word fits into a poem or the luxurious interplay of flavors in a good meal, it has a different meaning. It all plays into the search for an abundant soul.