Godly Rudeness

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Back when Chris was Christopher, and Christopher was 10, we left the mall after a successful shopping trip.  Whatever item we needed had been purchased, our errands were completed and Life Was Good.  We were both satisfied as we stepped into the sunny Saturday morning.

It was easy to find our car then: we owned the only light brown Honda Civic Wagon in town.  When I opened the door I was surprised to see a donut on my my seat, sitting on a piece of paper with two words scribbled on it: “Hi Carol!”  No one was in sight.  In our small town, gentle courtesies like this are not uncommon.  We divided the still-warm donut, rolled down the windows, and enjoyed our treat in companionable silence. 

A shadow blocked the sunlight as a deep voice said, “Excuse me? How do you get to the truck stop?”  A large man in a flannel shirt and jeans leaned against my son’s side of the car.  Within a nanosecond his head was inside the car as his hands gripped the door. 

A frisson of terror gripped me as I realized how utterly vulnerable we were.  Our car was a quarter mile from an  interstate highway, the keys dangling in the ignition.   His head was an inch away from my ten year old son.  I had no idea if a gun, a knife or his large hands would be pressed against my boy’s throat.  Even though it was a bright  sunshiny day in full view of the public, I felt threatened.

Struggling for a neutral tone, stuttering each syllable, mentally sifting the situation, I gave the man directions.   When I finished there was a pregnant pause.   Our eyes met and held.  He then repeated the directions, said, “Thank you.” and walked away. 

I let a big breath out, flicked a speck of dried sugar from my chin, started the car and drove home.  After I told my husband the story, his strong reaction of anger, directed at me!,  was astonishing.

“Why didn’t you tell him to get the h*** away from the car?”

“I didn’t want to be rude.”

“People don’t normally stick their heads inside a car, dear.  It’s more important to protect yourself and your child than to be nice. Please remember that in the future.”

I came to understand godly rudeness late in life.  When I was in high school, a classmate offered me drugs.  “Oh no…..no.  But thanks, anyway.”   When a guy made a pointed sexual remark I sweetly changed the subject to James Taylor, Seals and Croft, or some other singer.  I valued being polite and pleasing to people, i.e. not saying anything they wouldn’t like, more than my own dignity.  There is a time to be articulate, blunt, direct and firm.  Step away from the car….
 
The 1995 movie Under the Piano tells the story of an older sister Franny (Amanda Plummer) who tries to keep her autistic sister Rose (Megan Follows) out of an institution.  Franny finds Rose a job and then prepares her for any potential problems with boys.  (dialog loosely constructed from my memory)

If a boy tries to touch you,
I want you to say, “Drop dead, Frank.” 
Rose, practice saying it.
“Drop dead, Frank.” 
Say it again. 
“Drop dead, Frank.” 

She had the right idea.

Interior Space

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Interior with a Woman Playing a Virginal
Emmanuel de Witte

I am captivated by the Witold Rybczynski’s Home, A Short History of an Idea.  I just finished a chapter about the influence of the Dutch borgeois in the 1600s, illustrated by this painting.  Rybczynski obviously loves words; he frequently stops and explains etymology. 

The wonderful word, “home” which connotes a
physical “place” but also has the more abstract
sense of a “state of being,” has no equivalent in
the Latin or Slavic European languages.  German,
Danish, Swedish, Icelandic, Dutch and English all
have similar sounding words for “home,” all
derived from the Old Norse “heima.” p. 62

The Dutch loved their homes. …
“Home” meant the house, but also everything
that was in it and around it, as well as the people,
and the sense of satisfaction and contentment
that all these conveyed. You could walk out of
the house, but you always returned home. p. 62

Some background notes on the Netherlands:  The Dutch were predominantly townspeople who valued moderation, hard work, thrift and cleanliness.  Land reclaimed from the sea was valuable: the narrow lots were usually one room wide.  Windows were placed on exterior walls in order to lighten the load on the foundation pilings. 

The rooms are illuminated to emphasize their depth
and distance, as well as their physical, material
reality. It is above all this sense of interior space,
and hence of insideness, that distinguishes this
painting. Instead of being a picture of a room,
it is a picture of a home. p.70

Love You More Than

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picture taken by brother Dan

My sister-in-law Valeri started a wonderful tradition.  She ends her emails and notes with the phrase, “I love you more than _________” inserting something she really loves in the blank.

I love you more than frost on the rosemary bush.

Love you more than a bowl of beef stew on a crisp Thursday evening.

Love you more than the Oregon coast.

Love you more than marinated, grilled lamb.

Love you more than rich, smooth Merlot,

Love you more than surprise mashed potatoes,

I love you more than fresh air after a good rain shower,

Love you more than all the leftovers from Thanksgiving,

I’ve extended this to other loved ones. It’s our little game…

Love you more than rain on my roof while I’m drifting off,

Love you more than fresh tulips from Imnaha,

I love you more than contra dancing,

Love you more than being caught up,

Love you more than the poetry of Donne,

Love you more than the gloaming,

Preparing for Advent

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I’m getting excited about the upcoming Advent season.  However, translating that enthusiasm into action takes concerted effort.  So I’m thinking about the preparations that have/can/should be done.  If you know me, you know that means, “Do I have a book about it?”  As a matter of fact, I do.  I didn’t have  Christmas Spirit last year, but ordered it ahead for this year.  (Amazon has 50 used copies, starting at 50 cents.)  Our morning poetry selections will come from this book.



When my sister visited, she strongly recommended this CD.  I put that on my yourmusic.com queue, and got it in the mail a few weeks ago.  I was pleasantly surprised at the number of sacred texts she put to music.  It has a typical Windham Hill sound; it’s soothing background music.  Christmas music must have its own post – I’d love to share my favorites and hear yours.



Christmas stamps are usually available by the end of October.  Here’s a look at the upcoming ones.  Which one do you like?  I think the knits look cheesy, and am wavering between the Madonna and the Polar Lights. 

Ever since my garage sale find I’ve been waiting for the first Sunday of Advent to get these dishes out for use during the season. 


It makes sense to look for gifts now and spread the expenses across a few months.  Last year with a wedding a week before Christmas, we did a “gift card” Christmas.  I have to admit, the ease and escape from shopping was absolutely wonderful from my perspective.  But it doesn’t seem right to do that this year. I love to find a great “family” gift for our siblings that I can order online. 

I’ve already chosen my “bread and butter” gift for this year.  I have lots of canning jars pining away in my garage cabinets, and a large Costco-sized bag of baking cocoa.  I’m going to make cooked fudge topping and give it to the neighbors and families at church.  One Saturday of incredible smells in my kitchen should do it.

It’s funny: I hate when the retail stories “hurry” the holiday displays, but I don’t mind thinking about Advent in October in the comfort of my own home.  The music is both the best and worst aspect of Advent.  The tinny “I Saw Mama Kissing Santa Claus” is the biggest reason I avoid shopping during December.  But at home, with a candle and a cup of tea, I love the great music of the season.  More on music soon.

Are you thinking about this stuff yet?  Any suggestions?

A Different Perspective on Ivanhoe

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Whenever I think about Ivanhoe, I think of my nephew Will.  Will has many credentials: he knows every country and capital in the world; he’s read every issue of National Geographic, he’s a great rugby player, he’s been to 85% of theart museums in the world; he speaks Farsi, and he’s taken a solo trip to Iran.  Some day Will will give me a guided tour through the best museums in NYC.  That Art History degree needs to be used occasionally. But I digress.

Will voluntarily picked up Ivanhoe and read it when he was in the fifth grade.  And he understood it!! Move over, Will.  Whenever I think of IvanhoeI now think of this review, written by my friend JT (Btolly‘s daughter) for a collegeclass.  I begged her to let me post it.  She graciously agreed, sweet girl!

While I don’t share her scorn for this book, her ferocity is entertaining.

Here is a book with a weak hero, a dead boring plot line and enough smarm to cover all other literary works of the 19th century. What was Sir Walter Scott thinking? Listen to the eloquence: “Alas, fair Rowena,”returned De Bracey “you are in the presence of your captive, not your jailer.” One might just as well read a Harlequin Romance and get the same story. It is sickening to the stomach.

The whole book is a grease slick for the characters to ooze through with continual dialogs of unimaginative, unoriginal, doe-eyed, pansy-pantsed love speeches. Scott’s desperate attempts to save this “classic” is to throw in the ever controversial anti-semitism twist. But, alas, it works too well. Rebecca far outshines Rowena as a woman of substance, not fluff. If Ivanhoe was at all a real man’s man, he would go for tying the knot around Rebecca and not his lance.

Ivanhoe, whose real name is Wilfred, spends most of his time brooding in the forest with a fat friar, ordering his good friend “the fool” around. Gird your loins and defend your country, man! Go save your King! Scott should be shouting this from the highest parapet, but instead he locks his love-tortured heroine there. Just when you think it couldn’t possibly get any worse, the villain gets slain. This of course is to ensure the happy ending; the return of the king andthe blessed marriage of two ridiculous dunces.      ~ JT

 

Scotland in the Spring

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Delight yourself in the Lord;
And He will give you the desires of your heart.
~ from Psalm 37

On St. Patrick’s day just ten months ago I wrote

It is a dream of mine to see Iona some day,
to stand on these grounds
and to thank God for his faithful servants.

I don’t know how to write the next words….
My husband and I are going to Scotland next spring.


Edinburgh Castle

We’ve been given a gift of a trip to the
destination of our choosing.
Reservations have been made.

Why Scotland?

Scotland sings to me.

I can only blame the books.
They – I couldn’t say which ones specifically –
breathed into my soul a love
for all things Scottish,
a yearning to see the rugged Highlands,
a kinship with a people.


St. Giles Cathedral, Edinburgh

So I’m starting the journey of planning.
Experienced travelers tell me
this can be as fun as the trip itself.

Of course, I’m planning where to go.
But right now I’m planning what to read before we leave.

My pile of books includes the Life of St. Columba,
Jane Porter’s Scottish Chiefs
Scottish Heroes, Tales of Covenanters
RLS
Burns’ poems
George MacDonald
John Muir
John Buchan and O. Douglas.

Any suggestions out there?

Rise, Caledonia, let your voices ring

In this Highland Cathedral of our God and King.

Whom, joy and liberty, to all, will bring.

Come; let your heart, with love and courage, sing

Child Prodigies

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When I read Poiema’s review in March, this book went on my list of books to be read.  In the distant country of my childhood, I played the cello; a lingering fondness for that instrument permeates my soul.  The fact that the author was also a cello player made me eager to read his work.

About a third of the way through the book I had convinced myself that I really didn’t need to keep this book.  I’m still undecided; I loved parts about music intersecting with life, the grown up child prodigy teaching a young child prodigy.  The back story of the trial for the murder of a Buddhist monk didn’t interest me. There are, however, some passages too wonderful to escape my journal. 

[Maestro’s instructions] That is the way to approach your music.  Every piece, every time you play it, is unique and irreplaceable.  Your should open your ears and heart to every phrase, every note and squeeze every drop of beauty you can from it. Take nothing for granted!

[Reminiscent of Robert Greenberg’s Frame of Silence]  This immediately made me think of the kind of silence I used to love, the instant before I would start a piece and the audience would quiet down to absolute stillness.  I always held the bow over the strings for a few seconds too long, just to relish that incredible vacuum, when a hall filled with hundreds of people could become so quiet.  No one ever, ever sneezed, coughed or budged until I offered release with the first note.

Bach, there can be no doubt, brought classical music to perfection. He expressed his musical ideas with devastating precision and understatement.  Each piece is like a finely cut diamond: clear, simple and almost mathematical in appearance, but underneath the surface what complexity and structural integrity! The possibilities for interpretation are limitless; just as there are countless ways to project light through a diamond, no two performances of Bach can be the same because each musician’s unique personality has its own spectrum of feelings that can be conveyed freely through Bach’s inventions. 
When I was very young one of the reasons I was able to hear a piece of music and then play it right back without having to look at a score was that for me each musical phrase had not so much a color or flavor as a texture…

The whole subject of child prodigies fascinates me.  So many prodigies seem very close to prodigals, not in the sense of extravagant waste, but in the sense of being  far away, socially and metaphorically.  During the time that I read The Soloist, I previewed the movie Hilary and Jackie (too dicey to recommend, although the music was gorgeous), about the life of the du Pré sisters, particularly the tormented and fragmented life of the cellist Jacqueline du Pré.  This book and that movie both left me feeling sad: sad for the weight of great giftedness and sad for the lack of appropriate parenting of the children with such gifts.

I’ve always admired and respected Yo-Yo Ma, who has a short appearance in the second chapter of The Soloist.  In contrast to most prodigies, Mr. Ma’s life seems very balanced.   He is passionate about music, but his life evidences an integrity and wholeness that many performers lack.

Baskets of Books

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This is an incomplete gathering of books I’ve received for free!! (sorta)
since I joined PaperBackSwap in July.
Color me tickled pink.

If this was your blog, I’d want to see close ups.
So here they are!

 
Some of these are for school, but a lot are for pleasure edification (cough, cough).
After Kristin Lavransdatter, I want to read more Sigrid Unset.
(See The Axe above?)
My son compels me to read Dorothy Sayer’s mysteries.
He won’t let up until I’ve read them all.

Here’s the deal.
You need to list 9 books that you are willing to mail when
a member requests one of them. You have five days to mail a book
after it has been requested.
After you’ve listed 9 books, you get 3 “gift” credits.
 [Soon it will be list 10 books, get 2 credits.]

A credit = a free book.
You find a book you’d like, request it, and the member
who posted that book sends it to you for free. Yippee!!

Essentially, you are getting a book for the price of postage
to mail the book that got you the credit. (~ $2.13).
You are clearing off your shelves of books you don’t need to keep
and getting books you want to read.

“Organization is the key to life,”
says my dear SIL Valeri. 
I have a cupboard in the garage dedicated to books
I’m selling or swapping so they don’t get
co-mingled with my collection.

Kristin, who referred me to PBS, gave good advice:
the key to PBS is the Wish List.
There are 180 books on my Wish List right now.
When a title enters the system and I’m first in line,
I get first dibs at ordering it.

So now, when I read delicious blogs and delectable
book lists, I scoot over to PBS and enter those
titles on my wish list.

When our pastor told us about a Dostoevsky
short story (White Nights) which is required reading
for his daughters, I put it on my Wish List.
Now it’s in the mail to me.  Ha!

I laughed out loud after I’d ordered a book (unknowingly)
from Cindy at Dominion Family.  She sent me a message
asking, “Are you Magistra?”
and threw in another book from Grant’s list. Ha, Ha!

And sneaky Carmon found my PBS Wish List
and sent me a book for my birthday from that list! Ha, Ha, Ha!!

This basket of books is my firewood for the winter;
fuel for my mind, stacked up, pressed down
and overflowing.

I Wonder As It Wanders

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Now that I’m 50, I had my first “senior moment”…

I walked out of the box store with my cart full of groceries.  After starting down the wrong section of the parking lot, I corrected my course.  While pushing the cart, I remembered when my sister Margo was still driving but dealing with effects of a brain tumor.  She lost her short term memory and had several episodes of walking around parking lots looking for her car.  I imagined how frustrating that would be.

A tall vehicle was blocking the view of my parking space, but I was startled to see a car pull into that space.  Huh?  My little old Subaru was parked in the slanted space directly in front of my original parking spot, the car now oriented opposite of all the cars around it. 

Immediately a grin came to my face and I started scanning the parking lot for one of my young friends who I assumed moved my car as a prank.  Certain names even came to mind!  On the third swivel of my head a hand went out of a window across the way and a woman yelled a greeting.  She bounded out of her truck and came over with a knowing look. 

“Your car wasn’t in gear and tried to run me over!  I was walking past it and it just bumped into me.  I thought jerk! — but when I looked for the jerk driver, the car was empty.  I started pushing my cart against the car to keep it from going farther but I was losing.  I yelled to a guy and he helped me push the car back.  He finally got in the car and engaged the emergency brake.  That’s why your car is in a different space.”

She wasn’t the least bit belligerent; I apologized up one side and thanked her down the other.   Yikes!  I have never done that before in my life.  That I’m aware of…. 

Trying to balance my reaction between a casual laugh and shrug and morbid “what ifs” – there was only one direction to go.  Thankfulness.  I’m thankful that a little toddler didn’t wander in front of the car; thankful that I didn’t need to leave notes on the late model car(s) in the next row; thankful that I was disabused of my notion that a practical joke had been played on me; thankful for the reminder that there are, ahem, gaps in my routine.

Thy mercies are new every afternoon.
Great is Thy faithfulness.