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In Which I Give a Lukewarm Review

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I don’t know what I think about this book. 

It helps, I think, to explain what it is not.  Not a collection of metrical psalms, made for singing.  Not a direct correlation, verse by verse.  Laurance Wieder writes a poem for every psalm (150), shapes them into poems designed to make you see/hear them through different eyes/ears. 

The psalms are the best companions one can have in life.  They run the gambit of praise, grief, guilt, complaint; the psalmist articulates the responses of the heart to all of life.  There are many translations.  There are paraphrases.  Metrical psalms stick as close to the text as possible with meter and rhyme.   

I had arguments with myself.   One me told the other me the whole concept was wrong. / The other me retorted that Wieder did nothing illegal, immoral or indecent.  Give the man a chance. / He missed it!  / But look at this phrase. 
     
I tried reading the psalm [Bible] and then the poem.  Bad plan.  We had friends over; after dinner I read various poems that corresponded with our guests’ favorite psalms.  Their enthusiasm for his poems was dim.  Very dim.

But some of the poems surprised me and drove me back to the psalms to see where Wieder got that angle. His economy of words is admirable.  He paints with words.

Here’s an [inadequate] analogy.  I love Jane Austen.  She is the master.  One page of her writing is a feast.  But I don’t care for modern knock-offs, updated versions.  I can understand why writers would want to imitate Austen;  I don’t have a clue why any publisher would print them.

Here are two samples.  If you are curious how Wieder handles one of your favorite psalms you can read the book on Google Books.  I was completely floored to read the blurbs on the back.  Paul Auster and Tom Disch–both unfamiliar names–, Luci Shaw and R.L. Stine.  Luci Shaw, the poet, makes perfect sense.  But R.L. Stine? The author of Goosebumps?  Does that hit anyone else as…incongruous? <grin>

86       Of State

Listen, God, I need
You, hear me.
       Cheer me.
In this darkness.
Give me back
(My soul is ready
Now to leave me)
Any answer.
I don’t question
You believe me.
Teach me trust
In the returning
Promise, shame
My enemies
In public, enter
My heart in your
Book of splendors.

96     Jingle

New moon, new song:
Day short, night long.
Break sea, roar winds:
One God, more minds.
Stars blink. Suns cool.
Tongues twist. Souls rule.
Smoke’s sweet. Song doubts.
Times dance. Rain spouts.

Lose hope. Sow seed.
Cast bells. Ring true.
Not want, just need.
First frost. Late dew.

Singing Mom Who Sheds Cheerfulness

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I can still hear you being cheerful on the slightest provocation, or no provocation at all, singing as you work and shedding your cheerfulness on others.  So let us remember your life, such a life as many women of your generation shared to some extent, though not always with your special trials and rarely with your stoicism and grace.

~  Wallace Stegner writing about his mother in “Letter, Much Too Late” from Where the Bluebird Sings to the Lemonade Springs

Fine Art Friday for Moms

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Mary Cassatt.

An American often associated with French artists.
A single woman famous for depicting maternal love.
From Altoona, Pennsylvania! ♥♥

Today is a day of mingled grief and joy.
When I look at this art
my grief is not for what I lost
but for those who haven’t known
the touch of a loving mother,
the care of being bathed,
the warmth of being read a story,
the intimacy of touching mama’s face,
the security of being firmly held.

Happy Mother’s Day

Real Scottish Fiction

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The crisp onions were making a great crackling,
and on a cold night the smell was enough to
draw water out of dead teeth.

If you decided to write a romance, chances are you’d put your muscular man and breathless heroine in the highlands of Scotland.  Don’t do it.  There’s a flood of fake Scottish mumbo-jumbo on the market.  Ditto for historical fiction. 

Here’s a better idea.  Read some authentic Scottish fiction, written by a Scot.  You cannot improve on Robert Louis Stevenson’s Kidnapped; I am especially fond of John Buchan and his sister Anna, who wrote under the pen name O. Douglas. 

The mother passed the cups of tea.
She had the natural air of
dispensing life’s mercies.

If you are sweet on Stevenson, if you love Buchan, Neil Gunn (1891-1973)  is another Scottish author worth a look.  Rick Steves, the travel guru, mentioned him in a guidebook.  Gunn is called “the most important Scottish novelist of the 20th century.”

Morning Tide, a coming-of-age story set in an impoverished fishing village takes you to the shore of the sullen, relentless sea and into the cottage of the MacBeth family. 

She could get up and lift a boiling kettle from the fire
while her husband was saying grace
without destroying the moment’s harmony,
as if wisdom dwelt also in her movements.

Life is harsh, difficult, but not without comfort of onions and the pleasure of practical jokes.  Twelve-year-old Hugh MacBeth is always hungry, often running, impatient with school, and coming to grips with the reality of a harsh life. 

He [the schoolmaster] was clever,
there was no doubt of that.
And he could speak seven languages.
Seven.  Ay, ay.
The old men nodded their heads.
Learning was a great thing.
They looked far beyond one another.
A great thing, learning.
A far and wonderful thing.
There was no denying that.
It was a strange thing, too.
Its strangeness excited them a little,
and its wonder.
Love of learning was in their marrow.

Gunn writes about the survival of the folk living in the fishing village.  The men leave in boats; the women wonder if they will make it back home.  Breakfast is always porridge; dinner is a question mark.  They stare death in the eye daily and yet clearly see the sweetness of life.  More Gunn here.  Particularly recommended to mothers (and fathers) of boys.

Why I Love My Sons’ Father

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I’ve mentioned before my husband’s excellence at note writing and his blessings.  Never sappy, never sentimental, sometimes funny, but always thoroughly wonderful.  While I was helping my son cook his own birthday dinner (Bolognese sauce, pasta, focaccia and green salad) Curt sat down and wrote a card.  With permission from both the giver and the recipient, here it is:

Your birthday is always a good day to take some time
   and reflect back over the years.
Remember the blunders and the blessings,
   the sins and obediences, the consequences and mercies.
In all of it, I pray you will see God’s gracious hand and relentless patience.
May you learn to be always thankful and forever fearful.
Actually, the order must go the other way.
Fear God, for He does as He pleases with you.
And thank Him, for He is pleased to do good to you.
Master these two attitudes toward God, and no other idol will master you.
I am privileged to be your father, and I am proud to have you as my son.

Always,

Dad

Our First Dance Date

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The rain was cascading in solid 500-thread-count sheets.  We scurried across the street and fumbled with the door knob, scooting into a little country church surrounded by a residential neighborhood.  A tiny antechamber led into an open room with 15-foot ceilings.  The empty wooden floor was waiting; ancient faded quilts hanging between tall, narrow windows wrapped the space.  Chilly, I left my jacket on.  

We didn’t know what to expect, except that we came to dance.  After watching the grace of two couples swing-dancing at a wedding reception, I suggested dancing classes to my husband.  This is an idea we have never once entertained in 32 years together.  Curt investigated the “dance class” scene in our small town, got the scoop and surprised me with a date to learn English country dance.  

Not exactly a class, it was a cross-generation gathering of folks who simply like to dance on Tuesday evenings.  Whole families showed up from little ones on up to Grandmas. Most folks wore casual jeans; some girls wore skirts. No breeches or empire waists.  Eyes bright with a patina of good cheer welcomed us.

The first thing our teacher did was split us up –with apologies–and paired us with experienced dancers.  We made our hands dance, tapping on our thighs to grasp the rhythm.  The feet followed as we learned sides, back to back, circular hey, a few more steps and suddenly we were doing the dances you see in Jane Austen movies.  With the music!  It wasn’t weird; it was fun. 


It turns out Tuesday Evening Folk Dancing rotates Irish Set, International/Balkan, New England Contra and English Country dancing.  Thoughts:

•  Tempo changes things.  We did the same dance to the same music but one CD was very jiggish and the other CD was joggish, if you understand joggish to mean slow and deliberate.   I thought the slower one was more intense, with potential for undercurrent. When you are jigging you don’t have time to wink at your beloved in passing.

•  Eye contact: Ay-Yi-Yi!  Our teacher emphasized how important eye contact was in English country dance.  Whew!  There is something intimidating about holding eye contact, because, I think, eye contact is intimate.  I couldn’t do it. [Remember, I wasn’t dancing with my husband.]  It made me realize how very seldom we sustain eye contact in everyday life.  

•  I never thought of elegant as a masculine adjective.  But there were a few young men–and they weren’t wispy by any means–for whom no other word would be adequate.  I felt my posture improving around them.

•  Being/feeling a fool is good for the soul.  Amidst all our striving for excellence it is a relief to be totally incompetent.  Laughter is a happy detoxification.

•  Ahem.  These folk are not overweight.  I want to hang out with them, learn from them.

•  The Way We Dance    


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Sing Me to Heaven. Setting by Daniel E. Gawthrop. Text by Jane Griner

In my heart’s sequestered chambers lie truths stripped of poets’ gloss
Words alone are vain and vacant, and my heart is mute
In response to aching silence, memory summons half-heard voices
And my soul finds primal eloquence, and wraps me in song

If you would comfort me, sing me a lullaby
If you would win my heart, sing me a love song
If you would mourn me and bring me to God,
sing me a requiem, sing me to Heaven

Touch in me all love and passion, pain and sorrow
Touch in me grief and comfort, love and passion, pain and pleasure
Sing me a lullaby, a love song, a requiem
Love me, comfort me, bring me to God
Sing me a love song, sing me to Heaven

(Thank you, Brenda.)

To Be the Provider, the Giver

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Collin, this morning, after a solo turkey hunt

Sometimes my reading life and my living life perfectly coincide.  At lunch I was browsing through Neil Gunn’s novel, Morning Tide.  I’m quite sure you have heard neither of Neil Gunn nor this title.  However, if you lived in Scotland, Gunn would be a familiar author.  In this-coming-of age tale, twelve-year old Hugh MacBeth is reckoning how he can help the family while his father is away fishing and his mother is ill.  I can say with certainty that my sons have all experienced a moment like this.  

But if he got this fish now and Bill and himself set rabbit-snares tonight, it might be something. A great desire came upon him to provide for the house.  To hunt and kill, to bring food home, and fire.  His eyes glistened, but in their light there was also something of awe.  Life could hold nothing more supreme than that.  To be the provider, the giver.  The importance of it made him quiver.  He saw in a flash deep into man’s estate.  The glory, the power, and the self-restraint that smiles thanks shyly away.  To be able to do that…and then for his father to come home, to learn about it, and–to look at him for a moment with his quiet man’s look.  Nothing on earth could beat that.

Wedding Journal

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I love a good wedding.  Our dear Jackie married Zack; it was a day of soaring highlights, re-connections and robust celebration .  Zack and Jackie, ahem!, met in my Shurley Grammar class.  They spent another year with me studying Shakespeare.  Here is a journal of my reflections.

::  The attendants were all related to the bride and groom.  There were more guys than gals, so the procession included the seating of the mothers and grandmothers.  It was wonderful to have all the close family included in the official beginning of the wedding.

::   You know music is important to me.  The entire family/wedding party came down the aisle to Non Nobis Domine (Not to us, O Lord, but to Your Name give the glory) from Henry V. If you listen to the link, the bride made her entrance around 2:35 where the orchestral fanfare builds.  I watched–through a cataract of tears–my people (son, daughter-in-law, grandsons, dear friends) process past me.  I will never listen to Non Nobis again without thinking of a radiant bride smiling at the man she loves.

::  Black Chocolate Wranglers.  There are benefits to marrying a cowboy.

::   It was a large wedding, ~ 500 guests.  The bride’s family emptied their barn and made it suitable for a celebration.  (look at the picture below…coming out of my husband’s ear is a chandelier made out of wagon wheels) Family and friends pitched in to set up, decorate, cook food, iron tablecloths, pull weeds, serge fabric, and park cars.  It was such a joy to be able to help a family who are normally the helpers. 

 


Papa (Curt) and Preston

::  My role in this wedding was to bribe our exhausted grandson to be quiet with M & Ms.  My husband coached my attempts in a whisper.  Not so fast!  Give him another one.  Wait a little longer.  See if he wants water.  He’s going to throw up, he’s had so many.  After we got him in a sugar coma, he fell asleep on Papa’s shoulder in two seconds.  Yay!  We achieved our goal.

::  Generational blessing.  Every decade in life was represented in the room full of guests.  Grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles: extended family were abundant.  Babies, babies everywhere!  There were easily thirty pregnant moms and fifty babes in arms.  Have I said what a blessing it is to be part of a community that loves and values children?

People and realms of every tongue
dwell on his love with sweetest song;
and infant voices shall proclaim
their early blessings on his name.

::   I glanced to the back and saw Carson, Johann, and Jamie standing–bouncing, rocking–with babes in arms and Leah next to them standing with her arms resting on her pregnant belly.  All these kids were in my classes.  They spent endless hours playing flashlight tag, snowboarding, eating pizza and talking about life.  Now they live hundreds of miles apart.  A sob of gratitude bubbled up.  Look at them! 

::   My son’s toast to the bride and groom, paraphrased:  “Let’s go back twelve years to my mom’s grammar class. That was when you and me met Jackie and Jessie (you and I, I correct him from the audience…500 people roar).  You didn’t care much about Shakespeare, but taking my mom’s class meant more time around Jackie the following year.  After that you both went in different directions, but eventually two couples got married from that class.  So Mom, you thought you were teaching us Shakespeare, but in fact you were doing premarital counseling! …