Everything’s Changed

Well hello there. I’m not sure if I should be all cavalier about dusting off the ol’ blog; act like a five month drought didn’t actually happen. But there, I just said it, and you might as well know I’m humiliated. Okay, not really. It’s a blog, guys. But I do feel a bit of loss, sad that I haven’t posted since October 19 (!).

Anyway. I thought I would get you caught up on a few things. Here’s the big stuff first:

1) I got married on December 10, and the wedding was absolutely perfect. I just have to say, my husband Robert was THE most handsome groom I have ever laid eyes on. We took a gamble on an outdoor winter wedding, and Southern California delivered her most perfect December weather. The ceremony felt sacred and momentous and almost unreal; the reception was full of our signature cocktails (the Bourbon Bear and the Red-Tailed Fox) and dancing the night away. (You can see some photos HERE)

2) I am married. This is a big change, people. BIG! And it’s good. I would not recommend merging your life with another person during your 3 week Christmas break, not to mention the utter craziness of the holidays, chock-full of family gatherings. But the wedding decorations are finally out of the living room, the gifts are (mostly) put away, and as we find our groove as the Thompsons, life is getting sweeter.

3) I am about to enter finals week of the winter quarter, which means in 2 weeks I will begin my last quarter of my master’s program. I really, really wanted to write that in all caps, or with a period after every word, but that is way too bloggy-cliche. Just know, this is a huge deal. This may be the last time I’m ever in school…and I am so ready for it!

Lift up your head, crazy

Today’s been a bit awful. Just little things going wrong, but in some ways I’m at the end of my rope and frayed edges don’t deal well with disappointment.

I’m trying to make my home a place I want to be. For a year I’ve lived in this apartment and pretended that it was a dorm room, a place to leave my stuff and cook my meals, watch Gilmore Girls and change my clothes, sleep. Finding some delicious looking bedding instead of the raggedy hand-me-downs I’m using, hanging some beautiful things on the walls, and finally having a place for everything and everything in its place will work wonders on me, I’m sure.

Anyway, this quest has been fruitless and frustrating, and a bit of a race against the clock as I try to do it all in the one week off between summer and fall quarters. I have a feeling that on Monday, when fall classes begin, someone is going to push a button and everything will be on triple speed until Christmas.

So I sat and felt sorry for myself a little bit, then I made myself an awesome grilled cheese sandwich and ate it while reading Anne Lamott’s Blue Shoe. The thing about reading Anne Lamott’s stuff is that it doesn’t make me feel any less crazy. But it does make me feel like it’s okay that life is messy and more often than not I really suck at handling whatever comes my way, and that I don’t need to hide my craziness but instead just lift up my head and take a deep breath, eat my sandwich, and try to enjoy the smell of rain in the air.

Meeting Anne Lamott

Last night, I went to CalTech to see Anne Lamott speak about her new book, Imperfect Birds.

From the minute she opened her mouth, I loved her more than I have before. She was full of wisdom and truth, had the most soothing voice, and had the grace of someone who is comfortable in her own skin. I was actually kind of surprised by how beautiful she is…I’ve sometimes imagined her with a wild-eyed look, but there was none of that.

She told us that the title of the book is from the words of the Persian mystic, Rumi: “Each has to enter the nest of the other imperfect bird.” Anne said that all we have to offer is welcome, from one imperfect bird to another, into our ragtag nest for a cuppa tea, which is just enough even when it seems impossible that could be. She also pointed out that it’s ludicrous to think of ever coming upon an imperfect bird. If we came upon a bird who was sick, or injured, or its feathers were a little tattered, the word “imperfect” would never cross our minds, Anne is sure. Rather, “we would just see the bird of it.” Oh, if only I could have such grace for myself!

A couple other favorite, unrelated quotes from the evening:

“I always underestimate the magnetism of the temptation to get outside yourself.”

“If you’re a girl over 12 years old in this country and not really mad, I think you’ve missed the boat.”

And of course, I stood in line to meet her and it was nice but mostly awkward. I mean, what do you say, when you’re being pushed through the line like a kid in the school cafeteria waiting for a scoop of mashed potatoes? Two people ahead of me, a woman commiserated with Anne about the loss of their fathers to brain cancer. The next woman said, “Thank you for giving me the permission to write shitty first drafts,” referring to one of Anne’s famous bits of writing wisdom. Then it was me. I had asked the lady opening the books for Anne to sign if a photo would be okay, and then they were pushing me around the back of the table to pose for a picture before I could even address Anne herself. I felt like Ralphie in A Christmas Story, being plopped onto Santa’s lap by overtired, underpaid elves. I managed to tell her she’s encouraged me in my writing, and encouraged me to be real. “Well, I guess tonight’s all about giving permission,” she said, and asked, “Are you writing now?” I managed to squeak out, “Yes” before I was being edged out by the next fan.

I had wanted to say something to move her, to give my words as a gift to her to bless her back for the blessing she’s been to me. But it seemed like nothing could touch her, every word we said slid off of her shoulders. Have you ever seen those quarter games at an arcade, where there’s mechanical shelves full of coins, and you drop a quarter in a slot, aiming the chute to a place on the shelf where the quarters are about to be pushed off into the receptacle at the bottom. I wanted to be the one to drop some words in the slot and move all those other words off a shelf in her heart so she could collect all the treasure we were bringing to her.

Instead, I walked away in a daze, clutching my tattered copy of Traveling Mercies that now bore her signature in loopy letters on the inside cover.

Crushing on Pascal

I read a little bit about Blaise Pascal (1623-62) recently for my Spiritual Traditions and Practices class. I kind of have a crush on him! Such a Renaissance man, this guy knew his stuff in mathematics, science, philosophy, and religion. I bet he could also play an instrument and ride a horse and build a fire. I just love this piece that he wrote (my favorite parts on the random Latin phrases); apparently an account of his profound conversion experience:

In the year of Grace, 1654,

On Monday, 23rd of November…

From about half past ten in the evening until about half past twelve,

FIRE

God of Abraham, God of Isaac, God of Jacob,

not of the philosophers and scholars.

Certitude. Certitude. Feeling. Joy. Peace.

God of Jesus Christ

Eum meum et Deum vestrum.

["Thy God shall be my God"]

Forgetfulness of the world and of everything, except God.

He is to be found only by the ways taught in the Gospel.

Greatness of the human soul.

“Righteous Father, the world hath not known Thee, but I have known Thee.”

Joy, joy, joy, tears of joy.

I have separated myself from Him

Derelinquerunt me fontem aquae vivae.

["They have forsaken Me, the fountain of living waters"]

“My God, wilt Thou leave me?”

Let me not be separated from Him eternally.

“This is the eternal life, that they might know Thee, the only true God, and the one whom Thou has sent, Jesus Christ.”

Jesus Christ.

Jesus Christ.

I have separated myself from Him: I have fled from Him, denied Him,

crucified Him.

Let me never be separated from Him.

We keep hold of Him only by the ways taught in the Gospel.

Renunciation, total and sweet.

Total submission to Jesus Christ and to my director.

Eternally in joy for a day’s training on earth.

Non obliviscar sermones tuos.

["I will not forget Thy words"]

Amen.

Match?

Recently I’ve had a strong urge to read Little Women again, to determine whether Jo and Professor Bhaer really were right for each other…

Busted

In his book Mediated, Thomas de Zengotita discussed the postmodern world of media saturation that we live in, pointing out that we are “immersed in options, surrounded by representations–and driven by it all to unprecedented levels of self-consciousness.” Transitioning from a chapter on childhood to one about adolescence, the author observes that childhood emerged as a category in the 16th or 17th century because kids in the higher classes were able to take a few years to “learn to be adults” before joining the workforce. But in the middle of last century, this other category emerged: adolescence. The teenager. De Zengotita theorizes that the the more elaborate popular culture becomes, the more images and ideas we have to wade through, the longer it takes to complete the process of becoming an adult. He finishes the chapter with this whammy:

If you’re in your mid-twenties, even pushing thirty and you’re not married, or coupled up in a serious way, and you’re still hanging with your crew, and you still spend serious time playing video games—then I don’t have to tell you how long adolescence can last. People used to get married in their teens and became grandparents at forty. So what’s taking us so long to grow up? Well, there is so much more to absorb…but there are also so many different ways to be, so many different lifestyles, so many different versions of the world. Haunted by the possibility of buyer’s remorse, we dawdle on the brink, trying this, trying that. Options.

Thomas de Zengotita,

Mediated: How the Media Shapes Your World and the Way You Live in It

Yikes, I feel like de Zengotita just read my mail. Except for the video games part. But dude, I feel like I only recently convinced myself (with a little help from my friends, of course) that mid-twenties is not that old, and I’m actually not quite a candidate for spinster-hood yet. Then you’ve got de Zengotita calling me out! Maybe this is why I feel slightly perturbed when my group of late 20s, early 30s friends can go out for a late drink on a weeknight because none of them have jobs that require an early start the next morning…

Peace and Pools of Gold

My friend Peter gave me a slim little volume of poetry for Christmas, 101 Great American Poems. I’ve picked it up several times in the past month and read a few selections at random. Some are familiar, like Frost’s “The Road Not Taken” or Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” Some I wish were familiar, like Whitman’s stuff–how did I go through 18 years of public education without exposure to Whitman? I loved his poem “Miracles.” Anyway, I’ve stumbled across a few gems, and I read one last night that I just had to share. It’s by Sara Teasdale, and the last stanza just kills me.

Peace

Peace flows into me

As the tide to the pool by the shore;

It is mine forevermore,

It will not ebb like the sea.

I am the pool of blue

That worships the vivid sky;

My hopes were heaven-high,

They are all fulfilled in you.

I am the pool of gold

When sunset burns and dies–

You are my deepening skies;

Give me your stars to hold.

Immortal Love = Impossible?

In his book, Turn My Mourning into Dancing, Henri Nouwen tells a “fairy tale” about a lonely man who lives in a big city and eats in the same restaurant every night.  One day a rose appears on his usual table, and after that the man is comforted by the rose’s presence each evening. After several weeks, however, the man dares to touch the rose and discovers that it is plastic. He becomes angry, depressed, and lonelier than before. Then Nouwen writes this:

We are not made to love immortal things. Only what is irreplaceable, unique, and mortal can touch our deepest human sensitivities and be a source of hope and consolation. God only became lovable when he became mortal.

Woah. That is quite a statement! Is Nouwen suggesting it was impossible to love God before the Incarnation?  That the Old Testament, pre-Jesus command to Love the LORD your God with all your heart, soul, strength, and mind was an impossible ideal?

Just read this and had to post it.  What do you think? Discuss!

The Great Divorce: Read It.

I just finished reading The Great Divorce by C.S. Lewis.  I feel like such a ridiculous cliche raving about how much I love C.S. Lewis, but there it is.  (And at least I’m not so ridiculous as to call him “Jack” – who does that?)  I remember that the first time I read the book, it was just after I graduated high school.  Hmm.  I only remembered snippets, and mostly those that are oft-quoted elsewhere.  So I was pleasantly surprised when, on my second reading, I was blown away by this book.  I seriously was writing down like page-long quotes.  The Great Divorce stirs the intellect, the imagination, and the soul – please read it, and know that it’s best read in a couple of large chunks.  Don’t worry if you have to re-read some of the weighty paragraphs…everyone does.  If they say they don’t, they’re either lying or not actually understanding the information.  Or they’ve got some Good Will Hunting thing going on.

Shall I leave you with a sampling?

For the intellect, a conversation between the narrator and the Spirit of George MacDonald on the impending death of Pity:

“What some people say on Earth is that the final loss of one soul gives the lie to all the joy of those who are saved.”

“Ye see it does not.”

“I feel in a way that it ought to.”

“That sounds very merciful: but see what lurks behind it.”

“What?”

“The demand of the loveless and the self-imprisoned that they should be allowed to blackmail the universe: that till they consent to be happy (on their own terms) no one else shall taste joy: that theirs should be the final power; that Hell should be able to veto Heaven.”

“I don’t know what I want, Sir.”

“Son, son, it must be one way or the other. Either the day must come when joy prevails and all the makers of misery are no longer able to infect it: or else for ever and ever the makers of misery can destroy in others the happiness they reject for themselves. I know it has a grand sound to say ye’ll accept no salvation which leaves even one creature in the dark outside. But watch that sophistry or ye’ll make a Dog in a Manger the tyrant of the universe.”

For the soul:

The Happy Trinity is her home: nothing can trouble her joy./ She is the bird that evades every net: the wild deer that leaps every pitfall./ Like the mother bird to its chickens or a shield to the arm’d knight: so is the Lord to her mind, in His unchanging lucidity./ […] He fills her brim-full with immensity of life: he leads her to see the world’s desire.

For the imagination:

For a moment there was silence under the cedar trees and then – pad, pad, pad – it was broken.  Two velvet-footed lions came bouncing into the open space, their eyes fixed upon each other, and started playing some solemn romp.  Their manes looked as though they had just been dipped in the river whose noise I could hear close at hand, though the tree hid it.  Not greatly liking my company, I moved away to find that river, and after passing some thick flowering bushes, I succeed.

Quotable Friday Vol. 32 (Monday Edition)

Ask for the Morning Star and take (thrown in)

your earthy love…

C.S. Lewis, “Five Sonnets”

Oh man, how much does that one line make you want to read C.S. Lewis’s book of poetry (aptly titled Poems)?  I’m re-reading The Great Divorce right now.  The last time I read it I was fresh out of high school…I’m interested to see how I react to it this time around, being 7 years older and with much more life experience to speak of.

It’s weird: as much as I love C.S. Lewis, I kind of can’t stand the thought of books written about his work.  I mean, yawnsville, right?  Case in point: The Way Into Narnia, A Reader’s Guide.  Seriously?  I think that robs the reader the experience of discovering the land of Narnia on her own; it’s like writing a book on how to enjoy your birthday or something.  I’d so much rather figure it out alonethan have someone spoonfeed me his opinions of what C.S. Lewis meant in the third paragraph of the fourth chapter of The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, you know?