Recipe for Friendship

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We read two questions and answers from The Larger Catechism (a Presbyterian church document) every morning.   It struck me that  these speak clearly about the duties and sins of friendships.  See what you think.

Q. 131.  What are the duties of equals?

A.  The duties of equals are:
          to regard the dignity and worth of each other,
          in giving honor to go one before another,
          and to rejoice in each other’s gifts and advancement as their own.

Q. 132.  What are the sins of equals?

A.  The sins of equals are, besides the neglect of the duties required,
          the undervaluing of worth,
          envying the gifts,
          grieving at the advancement or prosperity one of another,
          and usurping pre-eminence one over another.

I need constant reminders to remove the sweater of selfishness when I am with friends.  I need to learn these phrases until they become instinctive.

“You go first.”
“Tell me more.”
“What do you think?”
“I admire that about you.”

Distillation

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To distill means to separate the subtle from the coarse,
and the coarse from the subtle,
to render the fragile and breakable unbreakable,
to transform the material into the immaterial,
the physical into the spiritual
and to beautify what is in need of beautification.

~  Hieronimus Brunschwig of Strasbourg, 1512


Let my teaching drop as the rain,
My speech distill as the dew,
As the droplets on the fresh grass,
And as the showers upon the herb.

~  Deuteronomy 32:2

I was returning a book on lavender to my friend at church today.  In the car on the way, I skimmed through it and lit upon the Brunschwig quote.  Fascinated, I copied it down.  When class began, the first verse we looked at was the one above.   I love intersections of thought, don’t you?

Tiller’s Folly

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Thanks to all of you, including my husband, for the kind words on my birthday.

The fun keeps comin’!!
We’re off to see Tiller’s Folly whose music is described as
“Progressive Acoustic Roots”, a birthday gift from one set of kids.

I went to a Tiller’s Folly concert with a girlfriend
several years ago and loved them.
They are a world class band. 
One of the members used to live here,
so they make an effort to play here annually.
Celtic, bluegrass, ballads … fun, soulful, haunting, melodic music.

(sigh) They toured Scotland last year.
Scotland.  My Mecca.

Hey!
You decide.
Go here and click on lyrics/listen.

I particularly liked the Irish Ballads on Wild Bird’s Nest.



Does anyone play the fiddle out there?

For My Wife on Her Birthday

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Forty is the old age of youth;
Fifty is the youth of old age.
~ Victor Hugo

Yes, autumn is really the best of seasons:
and I’m not sure that old age isn’t the best part of life.
But of course, like Autumn, it doesn’t last.
~ C.S. Lewis

I think it was at our wedding when Carol’s father referred to her as his song of joy, which is what her name means. Now, after almost 30 years together, song of joy has grown in its meaning for me. Throughout her life she has composed many rich verses for all of us to hear and enjoy.

Most obvious is her piano playing. But she does not simply play the piano. She rarely just matches the written notes with the proper ivories and then plunk them down in some mechanical way. Rather, she reads the notes, hears the tune, and then mixes in some inexplicable magic that then reverberates through her fingers and into the piano. She gives the piano a soul, her soul, and the
music written comes to us through her mysterious touch—she breathes her life
into the music, and we are therefore compelled to sing with all of our hearts
and all of our souls to our great God.

But this scenario describes more than just her piano playing. Read Carol’s blog. Read her weekly thanksgivings. See the attached pictures and photographs. Her writings come to our eyes in signs and symbols, but the objective images she gives us are laden with more of her magic. (It’s like baptism or communion—simple sacramental signals mysteriously moving us deep within.) She casts spells on us without our permission. She forces us to love what she loves. She conjures images of truth, beauty, and goodness we cannot resist. And over and over we are caught up in the joyful song she is singing.

Piano playing and writing can be closets to hide in, small fortresses from which we reveal only what we want others to know about us, hideouts where we protect ourselves from embarrassment, and puff ourselves up for attention. But when once you have met Carol face to face, when you share words audibly with her in her presence, you realize how genuine she really is. There is integrity between her piano, her computer, and her presence. And once again, her magic spell begins to pull you in, and you begin to love what she loves. You start loving authors you’ve never read or heard of before—others who conjur their own magic and manipulate you like Carol does. She draws you into her world with
ease and grace. And you look forward to talking again, soon.

Now, you have not lived with her as I have. At home, she’s a bit different than when she’s out and about. But that’s because she’s at home, letting her hair down, free to relax in the context of her family. But I have a witness—glory to
God—thank-you Jesus.  Carol is not selling you anything. She is not using
smoke and mirrors.  She’s the same Carol. Her magic is real, her life is
enticing.  She is a constant tune, a rhythmic harmony that fills our home with joy. She blesses our daily routine with song. 

I’m thankful the Lord has given her 50 years to sing. The music she is composing is becoming a living symphony for us all. 

Simple Pleasures in September

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“Come to the table” – four beautiful words

California Quail – picture snapped by Curt

Donna’s 50th Birthday Celebration over at Quiet Life
Her comments section is the funnest place to have a party.

A new year of school, more great stuff ahead.

Phrases from the prayer book:
~ Give me unselfishness in all my striving
~ Remind me again that my life, my speech, my faith is nothing without love
~Let Thy gospel call me with new sweetness
~Lord, fasten my heart…


Gavin (my grandson) with his Aunt Maddy (my DIL’s youngest sister)

What has brought you joy this month?

A Sister…And So Much More

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I took my sister Dorothy to the Boise airport yesterday.  (big sigh)

She gave me the best gift, the gift of her time.  I can count on my hands the days we’ve had together, just the two of us, since I’ve been married.  Geography has not been our friend.  We always part with the wish that we lived closer.

In order for you to understand, I need to give you a time line.  One Tuesday morning in May my mom died suddenly and unexpectedly (official reason was autoimmune disorder; also suspect was undiagnosed Addison’s disease) leaving a husband and seven kids ranging from age ten (me) to age 21 (Dorothy).  Mom’s funeral was Friday, Sunday was Mother’s Day, and the following Saturday Dorothy got married.  

The newlyweds moved into the bedroom across the hall from mine and Dorothy took upon herself all the domestic responsibilities of keeping a household functioning. She cooked, she washed, she got us headed in the right direction, all the while establishing her own marriage. We laugh now at how Ken had to put a lock on the bedroom door to keep me from migrating to their bed every night.  My father coped with this catastrophe by withdrawal.  Long unexplained absences were the norm.  Dorothy carried an enormous load on her capable shoulders.

It’s a mystery, but somehow oldest kids are wired to take care of the younger ones and youngest kids are wired to be taken care of.  At least that’s how it worked with my sister and me. 

She always had her radio tuned to the station of my needs.

The eleven year gap between our ages evaporated any potential sibling rivalry. She guided me through the maze called adolescence, provided a refuge from a strained stepmother relationship, saw to detail after detail when I got married.  She taught me Mommy 101 via telephone when I had my first son, teaching me not to be concerned with a fever alone, but to call the doctor if the fever was accompanied by another symptom.  Even now, when I’m facing a conundrum with one of my piano students, or wondering which songs to play for a difficult funeral, I call her and draw from her wisdom and experience. 

We’re quite different.  She is a perfectionist and  I tend more towards
comme ci comme ça.  She’s mechanically oriented; I’m hopeless with machines.  She looks ahead, I go with the flow.  She listens and indulges me while I process life through verbalization.

I look back on our shared misfortunes with gratitude, but also with an ache in my heart.  Who ministers to the ministers?  Who cares for the caregivers?  I can’t imagine what she went through.  Only the Lord could carry all of us through those deep waters.

For there is no friend like a sister

In calm and stormy weather;

To cheer one on the tedious way,

To fetch one if one goes astray,

To lift one if one totters down,

To strengthen whilst one stands.

   ~  Christina Rosetti

Photo: surprise visitor!

What Saturday Brought

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Saturday brought….a gathering of my kids, more pesto production, a celebration of a century (my DIL’s mom’s 50th birthday Sunday and my upcoming 50th birthday), fresh apple cider, a build your own burrito feast, many hugs, kind words, smiles and good wishes.  It brought a huge surprise!  I walked into the kitchen and my oldest sister (and surrogate mom) from Chicago was waiting to give me a hug.  I loved to have her enter my world, meet my friends, love my people.  Her birthday was yesterday. 

Saturday also brought a PaperBackSwap book in the mail, The Philosopher in the Kitchen by Jean-Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, and, with it, this quote.  It provided a hearty laugh.  I give it to you with apologies to my thin readers.

But for women it [thinness] is a frightful misfortune;
for to them beauty is more than life itself,
and beauty consists above all in roundness of form
and gracefully curving lines. 

 

Stuck on Steinbeck

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I have a teeny-tiny obsessive compulsive streak that occasionally comes out in my reading.  I find an author that either I really like or I’m really intrigued by and I keep reading until I’ve read all his/her works.  This happened back in the eighties with Michener and Uris.  Those were long days. And even longer nights.

I honestly don’t believe I’d read more than an excerpt  of Steinbeck when a neighbor who enjoyed book talks placed East of Eden in my hand and said, “Carol, you need to read this.”  We’ve heard that sentence before, haven’t we?  And the rebel in me heartily resists unless the source is well known and trusted. (Never mind that often I’m the one placing books in others’ hands with those words.  Never mind, I said.)

I have a shelf in which I keep borrowed books so they don’t get co-mingled with my own collection.  This shelf was getting thick and so, after a year, I picked up East of Eden and started in.  And suddenly I couldn’t put it down.  That modern re-telling of Cain and Abel was painful, raw, provocative and beautiful all at once. 

Since our library has several Steinbeck books on tape, I listened to The Grapes of Wrath another disturbing but compelling book.  It provided context for the limited knowledge I have about life in America in the Thirties. Next, I listened to The Pearl a parable of sorts. 

Cannery Row is a narrative which knits the yarn of short vignettes into a whole piece. Many of the chapters could stand alone as examples of fine writing to study.  We see a slice of the lives of Doc, a marine biologist; Dora, a madam; Mack and his buddies, general drifters; and Lee Chong, the owner of a grocery store.  They are collected together in a sketchy neighborhood of abandoned canneries.

The opening sentence can compete with the best of opening sentences: “Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise; a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream.”

Steinbeck’s similes and metaphors are stunning:

Why did his mind pick its way as delicately as a cat through cactus?

…casting about in Hazel’s mind was like wandering alone in a deserted museum.  Hazel’s mind was choked with uncatalogued exhibits.  He never forgot anything but he never bothered to arrange his memories.  Everything was thrown together like fishing tackle in the bottom of a rowboat, hooks and sinkers and lines and lures and gaffs all snarled up.

He was such a wonder, Gay was–the little mechanic of God, the St. Francis of all things that turn and twist and explode,
the St. Francis of coils and armatures and geats.

No one has studied the psychology of a dying party.  It may be raging, howling, boiling, and then a fever sets in and a little silence and then quickly quickly it is gone, the guests go home or go to sleep or wander away to some other affair and they leave a dead body.

Doc awakened very slowly and clumsily like a fat man getting out of a swimming pool. His mind broke the surface and fell back several times.

Next up is John Steinbeck’s trip across America in Travels with Charley.

Modern Fiction and Verse

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Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch

Dr. Grant’s best of Modern Fiction and Verse.

1. Oxford Book of English Verse, Arthur Quiller-Couch (partially read)

2. The Lord of the Rings, J.R.R. Tolkien

3. The Father Brown Stories, G.K. Chesterton

4. Witch Wood, John Buchan

5. The Four Quartets, T.S. Eliot

6. The Space Trilogy, C.S. Lewis

7. A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

8. The Four Men, Hilaire Belloc

9. Penhally, Caroline Gordon

10. Collected Stories, William Faulkner

11. The Wizzard of Oz, L.Frank Baum

12. Charlotte’s Web, E.B. White

13. Scaramouche, Rafael Sabatini

14. The Name of the Rose, Umberto Eco

15. Kristen Lavransdatter, Sigrid Undset

16. Love in the Ruins, Walker Percy

17. The Velvet Horn, Andrew Lytle

18. The Footsteps at the Lock, Ronald Knox

19. The Weekend Wodehouse, P.G. Wodehouse

20. Falling, Colin Thubron

21. Little House on the Prairie, Laura Ingles Wilder

22. The Anubis Gates, Tim Powers

23. Song of the Lark, Willa Cather

24. Possession, A.S. Byatt

25. At Home in Mitford, Jan Karon

I’ve read
I plan to read

Questions that arise:

1.  Where, oh where, is Wendell Berry?
2.  Really, where is Wendell Berry?
3.  Who else is missing, in your humble opinion?
4.  Which ones have you never heard of? (Colin Thubron and A.S. Byatt for me)
5.  Of the books on this list which would be your favorite?
6.  Don’t you just love talking about books?

Nauseous

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Muzak was bad enough.  The baby-food music for adult ears was sickening, revolting, disgusting. One couldn’t shop, be examined by a doctor, or pay bills without the snaky seductive noise [I refuse to call it music] hissing from high corners. 

But, lo, Muzak is gone. 

In its place is the ubiquitous television hanging from the ceiling. 

It’s in WalMart.  It’s at the bank.  It’s at the grocery store.  It’s at the dentist, the doctor’s, the emergency room waiting room, the emergency exam rooms, the airport, the restaurant, the train station, the club.  We are a people sedated by CNN and the weather channel.  I don’t think even Neil Postman could have imagined this.

Yesterday I went to my bank where I know and am known by the “personal bankers”.  As Karen was working through multiple transactions the flickering images from the television annoyed me to no end. 

“I’ve always wondered about something,” I began. “That TV must also double for a surveillance system, right?” 

Karen said, “No.  It’s just there to entertain the customers.”

“You’re kidding!  Even when I’m bringing in a merchant deposit, I’m never in here for more than ten minutes.  Are you saying people can’t go that long without something to distract them?”

Karen nodded in disgusted agreement.  “The bank pays $50 to the cable company every month to give our customers something to watch.”

Is it any wonder?

That we have stopped thinking?
That we don’t pray?
That we have problems focusing? 
That serenity is missing from our lives? 
That we’ve lost any concept of quiet?   
That beauty is disappearing from our culture?
That we are isolated from our neighbors?
That discussions about ideas are almost nonexistent?
That we don’t wonder?
That we don’t ponder?

At home, our TV stays off except for a rare program or movie.  It angers me that I cannot buy soap or pick up an artichoke in peace.  It sickens me to watch our culture go through mental and spiritual chemotherapy with no termination in sight except for the death of our souls.

Television has become, so to speak,
the background radiation
of the social and
intellectual universe,
the all-but-imperceptible residue
of the electronic big
bang of a century past,
so familiar and so thoroughly integrated
with American
culture that we no longer hear
its faint hissing in the background or see the
flickering grey light.
This, in turn, means that its epistemology goes largely
unnoticed.
And the peek-a-boo world it has constructed
around us no longer
seems even strange.

There is no more disturbing consequence
of the electronic and graphic
revolution
than this: that the world as given to us through television
seems
natural, not bizarre. For the loss of the sense of the
strange is a sign of
adjustment,
and the extent to which we have adjusted
is a measure of the
extent to which we have changed.

Neil Postman Amusing Ourselves to Death