Words to think with

The semester has dwindled to a sliver of its former self, the way an ice cube shrinks when you pour water over it in the sink, and I am just watching and waiting now for the last few weeks to melt away. And I'm studying, of course. And rehearsing. And writing papers. And memorizing lines. And planning summer projects. And summer trips. And summer work. And next semester's classes. And vacillating, all the while, between bleary-eyed complaints about the workload and moments of utter wonder that I am allowed to eat and drink and breathe history, literature, philosophy, music; that I have lived through the hardest winter in living memory to see a spring which is the loveliest in history, as every spring is; that I love and am loved by a woman who is fair and seemly and wise beyond my highest hopes; that I continue to wake up every morning to find that someone else has been up before me scrubbing the sky and pulling up the sun and pouring dew on the grass—in short, that I keep on living in God's good earth under God's bright heaven. This must be the way a sprout feels when it wakes up from hibernation in its seedpod to find itself planted in rich soil with clean air swirling around it and the sun beaming down overhead.

Meanwhile, time slips away from me and it's early morning and I should try going to bed. I oughtn't to be blogging at all, except that I was studying late and broke policy and bought a coke and now I'm awake on caffeine. I'll rue it tomorrow.

I heard a lecture this morning about modern women who are writing—Annie Dillard and Toni Morrison and people like that. It was a good lecture from start to finish, but this simple quote stood out to me. It comes from Toni Morrison, whom I've not read. It returns to the question of ownership, which I've pondered before, but Morrison makes it more personal that Steinbeck did:

Freeing yourself was one thing; claiming ownership of that freed self was another.

Words to think with, words to live by...

Letting Go of the Kite

The show that I've been a part of for the last few months, Little Women, had its last performance today. Endings are harder than beginnings. Beginnings can creep up on you unawares so that you're in the middle of things almost before you know they've started, but there's no getting around endings.

No, it is over now, the theater empty and the sets dismantled. They are gone, the characters that lived here. They are dead; no, not dead, but shut away, locked in memories of long nights and brilliant evenings. We shall not meet them thus again, not the way they were here, so alive that they kindled the stage with fire and burnt the air with passion. We were permitted a while to share their joys and sorrows, their loves and dreams; we lived with them in a dream, returning to their world day after day till it became a second life, a second home. Now at length the last curtain has fallen, and our time here has come to an end. Hence we know them as dreams only. We look forward now to new days and new dreams. But we shall keep the friends we made here. We shall keep the memories we made here. We shall keep the lives we lived here. As dreams they shall remain, a fire within us, through all our days of plenty.

As the days pass I will probably post more about the show itself. I already have some stuff written down, and we got plenty of photos from rehearsals, behind-the-scenes, and performances. (Most of the photo credits, by the way, including the one above, do not belong to me. They're all thanks to various friends in the audience and backstage.)

New Photoblog!

Not only have I moved my old Blogger photoblog to a new host, I've also figured out how to put a feed from the new blog in my sidebar! You can visit my new blog at de Lumine, and the slideshow on the right should get updated automatically when I post a new photo.

Christmas Break

It's been a few days now since the end of my semester. Finals week was--well, it was finals week. I think I finished well; at least, I'm fairly satisfied, and definitely done. I finished Wednesday and moved home Thursday last week. Since then I've done Christmas shopping, gone to the Nutcracker ballet, rehearsed with my church worship team for Christmas Eve service, put up decorations in the house, helped my sister make our tree the "best tree in the year," baked cookies, made gingerbread, listened to the first part of the Messiah, and listened to various other less classical Christmas music (like Bing Crosby).

So you will understand when I say that I'm enjoying being home, and it's nice not having the stress of schoolwork, but things don't feel like they've slowed down much yet! I'm beginning to wonder if I made too many plans for break (whether articulated or not). I probably did; I tend to be overambitious, especially with time. There are certain things, however, that I really do want to do over break. Beyond the non-negotiables like seeing family and celebrating Christmas, I have three things I want to do every day for the next few weeks:

• Pray. And set aside specific time for devotions. I let this slide as the school semester wore on, and I need to start doing it again.
• Write. Something--anything. It can be weaving a poem or collecting notes for a story or even rattling off a blog post, but I want to write regularly this break.
• Read. And if I read nothing else, read The Brothers Karamazov. This is a challenge that I'm doing with one of my friends from school: the whole book during break. He read Brothers a few years ago and loved it; this will be my first time. The plan is that we'll read 30-40 pages a day and discuss. So far, I've read... none. Heh.

Those are the main things. My to-do list is much longer than that, but I won't mind so much if I don't get to the rest of it. I don't think those three will be unmanageable so long as I stick to them daily; perhaps, too, having them written down will help.

Meeting Jenny

The cafeteria at my school likes to employ people from the surrounding community. As a result, you get to meet people in the cafeteria that you don't see elsewhere around campus. Since we are across the street from a seminary, and since the church on campus has a lot of international ties, the surrounding community can produce a lot of interesting people.

One of the ladies who works at the cafeteria is from Africa. She's not especially tall, and her slight build makes her seem smaller than she is, but she's noticeable because she's so friendly. She always smiles and says hello when I walk by. Still, until a couple days ago we had never talked more than to pass the time of day.

This week I got to know her a little more. I came up to the cafeteria one afternoon, when no one was there, and we talked over the counter for a while while she made pizzas. Speaking in a rich African accent, she told me that she and her husband have been here for several years while he has been studying at the seminary. Both their children were born here. Although her husband has visited Africa a few times since they left, neither she nor their children have been back, and it was clear that she was missing her country. It's not that she hasn't made a place for herself here, but when she talked, Africa was home. She worries, too, about her children growing up away from their heritage.

She was curious about my accent, especially when she found out I had never been outside the US. She said I sounded as if I'd just come back from Europe (which I took as a high compliment). It surprised her even more since I've been living in Tennessee most of my life. I explained that neither of my parents are from Tennessee, and that I'm careful about my English. And watch a lot of British movies. I made the comment that English is a goodly heritage which I try to preserve. She was pleased at that. She said it was encouraging to her, because she's trying to do something similar for her children: to teach them their heritage and keep them involved in their native culture while living away from home.

We talked about our Thanksgivings, and she told how her family spent theirs. Her culture has no Thanksgiving tradition of its own. Since she and her family are in the US, they decided to celebrate the holiday, but in their own fashion. So they got together with a group of friends, mostly foreign students in the area, and had a party and made "gaught" for dinner.

At that point I lost her. My puzzlement must have been evident in my face, so she repeated the word a couple of times. I still couldn't make it out.

"I don't think I've heard of that," I said dubiously. It sounded rather like "God," but that didn't seem right. I know Christians are meant to take the communion seriously and all, but surely this fellowship of believers didn't eat God for Thanksgiving dinner.

"You haven't had gaught before?" she asked. I was flummoxed.

Finally her co-worker (who is from Jamaica) came over and joined the conversation. "You've never heard of goat?" he asked with some surprise.

Oh! I felt foolish. "Well, yes," I said, trying to cover my ignorance, "but never as a meal."

They were surprised. How could someone have never had goat? I must try it some time. She said that it's not hard to find. They get their goat from a local farmer who goes to the little church on campus, which is their church as well as mine while I'm here. She said they have goat three or four times a year. I asked what it tastes like; she said it was very similar to lamb. Which makes sense, I guess.

Then she asked me if I'd be interested in joining them for a goat dinner sometime. Of course I said yes. So perhaps one of these days I'll be able to tell you for sure what it tastes like. I'll keep you posted.

An All Hallows' Eve Tale

Once upon a time—a time not so unlike our own—there lived a man who, like all men, was a traveler. This man loved a maiden, as many men do; and the maiden loved him in return, which is more than many men can say. Nor was she an ordinary maiden, though she was a commoner, for she was as fair as autumn and as faithful as the seasons. But there are other powers in the world than Love, and not all are powers for good. So it was that the man and maiden were parted, and both were laid under binding spells that they might not go and seek one another. They remained many days in duress; but upon All Hallows' Eve Day, the man broke the spells that bound him and set forth upon a journey to find the maiden again. Twice a hundred miles he traveled, through misty mountains and over dark rivers, until he came to a town in the midst of a forest.

That was a strange place, for the town lay upon the borders of Elfland, and heavy were the enchantments that held it there. No time passed in those shadowy marches between our world and the other, but each morning dawned upon the same day, so that the folk grew no older, and the land did not decay. The force of the spells about the town was such that it was often hidden from human sight; at such times, any who found it would find only empty buildings and whispering streets. Indeed, only a few days in the year could that town be found by mortals; but All Hallows' Eve Day is of all days the most potent.

In that town, under the veil of enchantments, the maiden was hidden. Resting as it did on the border, the town had become a meeting-place for the worlds, and men named it Fairhaven, for within its walls humans and elves alike found refuge. Through its streets passed lords, ladies, peasants, pickpockets, fairies, elves, merchants, craftsmen, swordsmen, scholars, knights-errant, stranded seafarers, traveling jugglers, wandering minstrels, and others so many that the tale of them would last seven days in the telling. Among these the maiden took her place, living by her music upon the streets, and waiting for her love.

The man stopped before the gates of Fairhaven. The guards that keep the gates looked him up and down and muttered amongst themselves, for they let none pass that have not the welcome of the town's governors; and the man was a stranger. So he stood without the gates, gazing with wonder into that elfish place. Hard it seemed to have come to the gates of Faerie and be denied entrance; and harder still, for the man knew that the maiden had passed through those gates; and now only a single wall lay betwixt them; yet it was an impassable wall. Still he was patient, and waited for something to happen; and, as usually happens, something did.

For, by some way of magic, the maiden had learned of his coming. When she knew that he was without the gates, she ran thither as swiftly as her legs would bear her. And there in the doorway of the elfin city those two long parted met again, and in the twilight between Earth and Faerie the man found the end of his journey, and the maiden the end of her waiting. After a time she led him through the gates, for she had a word of passage from the governors of the town, and once within she became his guide through all the wonders of that place. The sights that she showed him there, musicians and players, merchants and craftsmen, jousts and processions, and more beside, must be left for another writing, for there is not space nor skill here to describe them. Through all these things she led him; and all that day he did not leave her side.

Yet, when the day ended, and All Hallows' Eve had passed, the enchantments that had bound the man once more summoned him away. All Saints' Day was come; the day of wonder was gone, and the man returned whence he had come. Once more the man and the maiden were separated: she went again to the town of Fairhaven to await his return; and he was borne back to a far-off land of thick and dreary enchantments. Yet even there, at times, the memory of Faerie, and of her who waits, returns to him in waking dreams. And it may be that they shall not remain thus parted: for there be other days in the year with potency against dreary enchantments; and there be other powers in the world besides those that strive with Love.

(I, Owen Locksley, son of Sir Reginald Locksley, servant of the Crown, do attest to the truth of this tale. Yet it may be that some find the story dark, and think the right shape of things hidden by the telling, and the facts obscured in webs of words. For those that make such complaint I say merely that this account is true to the utmost, as far as it goes; and for a clearer telling of the facts, they must wait for some other day. For tales take long in the weaving, even such tales as be reworkings of things already past; and a knight's son has scant time for tale-weaving.)

In medias res

Wherever you begin something, there will always be something else that comes before it. This seems especially true of a blog. You live your life, meeting people and learning things and doing things, developing a catalogue of plots and subplots along the way—and then suddenly you decide to start a blog, right smack-dab in the middle of all those storylines before any of them are finished and without giving a reader any chance to catch up. The situation looks something like this: life life life life blog! life life life. And there's no other way to do it. A blog of necessity begins in medias res—which means, as I conveniently learned in freshman humanities, in the middle of things. That's not a bad place to start a story. It lets you jump in on the action and catch up on the backstory later. It's rather like dropping you down on a path feet-first and running. As far as this blog goes, I might fill in bits that have gone before; I might not. Actually, it's quite probable that I'll post thoughts and poems sporadically and leave the narrative bits out.

I have blogged before: in a joint-project family blog, of which I am still a part and at which I still intend to post. More and more in the last few months, however, I've been thinking that I need a place to put down loose thoughts: ideas which aren't fleshed out enough to be finished projects, but are well worth saving; perhaps worth sharing, too. I also sometimes need a place to journal where I'm comfortable posting more random me-related stuff than I would on the family blog. (Not gratuitous personal details, mind you, but remarks upon little things that happen. And big things too, sometimes.) I also hope that having my own blog will stimulate me to write more. I like to think of myself as someone who writes, but for some reason I have a problem with the whole "writing" bit of being a writer. Having my own special place on the internet beckoning me to fill it with words might help. So: here I am, in the middle of things—but writing about them now. At least, that's the idea. If you want to read along, I'd be more than happy to have company along the way!