Fallen Asleep

I'd like to discuss several portions of A Grief Observed by C.S. Lewis.

1. On page 5, Lewis describes what he calls "The laziness of grief."  He speaks of a feeling of complacency -- not in every area of life, his job being one exception -- but in "smaller" ways.  "What does it matter whether my cheek is rough or smooth?"  He uses the analogy of an exhausted man lying in bed shivering.  Instead of getting up to find a blanket, he continues to grow cold.  He finishes his paragraph with, in my opinion, a profound statement: "It's easy to see why the lonely become untidy, finally, dirty and disgusting." 

On page 8, Lewis is refuting the view that religion is simply a substitute for sex.  He says, "Who'd bother with substitutes when he has the thing itself?"  He says that he and his wife knew that they wanted something besides each other -- "...quite a different kind of something, a quite different kind of want.  You might as well say that when lovers have one another they will never want to read, or eat -- or breathe."

2.  The concepts Lewis presents on page 5 seem both "easy to see", as he puts it, and strangely cryptic all at once.  When I originally read the text, I think I might have lingered with this portion the longest: "Only as a dog-tired man wants an extra blanket on a cold night; he'd rather lie there shivering than get up and find one."  Upon a first reading, the sentence makes absolutely no sense.  However, it's a bold analogy, and I think attempting to understand exactly how it applies to grief can also help us to understand why it was easy for Lewis to see why the lonely become "disgusting."  I also believe that it relates to the quote on page 8 in a very important way. 
    

3.  I struggle with what to make of this analogy, but some possible interpretations come to mind.

I think of the initial feeling of shock after the loss of a loved one.  The empty feeling, light-headedness, and pain so immense you almost can't feel it.  This is the dog-tired man.  The chill is reality.  It is the surreal understanding that life, as you knew it, has ended.  It's the long tunnel of grief and sorrow waiting ahead -- for you.  The blanket is God's comfort -- yes, He can bless us with peace in that dark hour.  The blanket is also reality -- the side even less imaginable at times: the reality of the goodness, eternity, joy, love, gratuitousness of God.  It is the surreal understanding that life, as you knew it, has ended, but He is still there.  It's the green pastures waiting on the other side of the valley of the shadow of death.  It's the gentleness in the thunder's rumble, and the peaceful cleansing of the rain pelting you.  Both the chill and the blanket -- God's grace for the night -- are real.  Do we want to be warm?  Or would we rather shiver?
    I can understand the man wanting to shiver.  One feels a sense of guilt for having the slightest comfort at times.  (Lewis talks about this as well.)  The gravity of the loss becomes more important to us than the peace we can recieve, more important than anything else God might have us do for the rest of life.  This turns into a strange, backwards kind of selfishness -- one that mostly hurts ourselves.
   Or, we may want God's help and comfort.  The problem is that we can't get up.  This may be the bigger issue.  I think this also feels like fear -- fear of exherting anymore emotional energy, perhaps, but also something greater I can't explain.  But when one does get up, I think that they fall into a rest so much sweeter than if they had tried to face the pain themselves -- riding out the stormy night alone.           
 
   Why the "little things"?  Why do they seem to take up so much more energy?  I think this also has to do with the scene of the man lying in bed.  It's at night.  He's alone.  Certainly, during the day, we must impress and please others -- but at night, when we're by ourselves, it doesn't seem "worth it" anymore.  Again, it's a strange sort of selfishness I think.
  The danger is lying there.  The danger is growing cold and cynical to God, ourselves, and the world.  It's confirming the statement, "...when lovers have one another they will never want to read, or eat -- or breathe," in an odd way.  It's saying that they were more important than anything else, and there's no way to function without them.  A stanza from a Jars of Clay song says, "I have no fear of drowning, it's the breathing that's taking all this work."  Sometimes the "little things" like shaving, or brushing your teeth, or breathing say much more than the "big things" like career and academia.


4.  I think the "evidence" for my personal interpretation of this analogy lies in where the analogy is placed in the text.  Lewis speaks of laziness, grief, and spirituality, and that is from where my ideas sprung.  The analogy itself, the surrounding material I mentioned, and the quote on page 8 all come together in my interpretation.   
5.  So is it easier to see why the lonely become "dirty and disgusting"?  I think this text provides some profound insight on seemingly inexplicable issues.  I know a girl, who, after having suffered a loss, didn't clean her room thoroughly until very recently (almost three years later), and she couldn't explain why, or even why she had the sudden urge to clean her living space.  She continued to do very well at her job and school, but the small, personal things were left undone.  A glass with tea sat molding behind a box, shoes were tossed carelessly into the closet, and baskets of laundry sat piling up for weeks -- and she didn't seem to mind!  (I won't mention the state of her car.)
   To live, going through the motions of "life" in front of others, isn't exactly living.  I think this text has helped me to better understand my friend, and perhaps have a better handle on how to help others find the blanket.  I think getting up is the first step -- but we don't even do that by ourselves.

The blanket helps us mourn, but not like those who have no hope.  If we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so God will bring with Him those who have fallen asleep in Him.         
          


                                       http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lL0041GDsqE

                                       http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OR7VOKQ0xJY

                                          http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tsdCemfick0

                                          http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JJpNC0js0u8

In the Presence of God

1. I found this story to be bewildering.
2. I thought it was interesting that the child, who seemed to be the main character, had no name in the story, even though the other characters did.
3. One of the main concepts seemed to be that everyone is a temple of the Holy Ghost, and yet almost everyone was physically described in some sort of negative way.  "Positively ugly," "skinny," "fat cheeks", undesirable odor.  And yet it wasn't all negative -- "Periwinkle eyes," "long blonde hair", "a pretty, pointed face."
4. I especially liked the part of the story where the child thinks, "We fought in the world war together.  They were under me and I saved them five times from Japanese suicide divers and Wendell said I am going to marry that kid and the other sad oh no you ain't I am and I said neither one of you is beause I will court marshall you all before you can bat an eye."  I'm not sure what she's referring to, but I can guess that she is reminiscing a time when she played with the boys.
5.  I'm not sure what the author is trying to say by placing this story in what sounds like a small, "ignorant" town. 
6.  "That must be Jew singing," Wendell said and began to tune the guitar.  The girls giggled idiotically but the child stamped her foot on the barrel.  "You big dumb ox!"  she shouted.  "You big dumb Church of God ox!"  I immediately thought of my theology class earlier today, when students were talking about Jewish culture in an ignorant way, and it irritated me so much that I started typing on my lap top in all caps about how they should all be quiet.  (Then I erased it and felt bad.)  This strangely helped me to relate to the child a little bit more. 
7.  I liked how each character seemed so "real", with both attributes and flaws. 
8.  I'm not sure what to make of the ending. 
9.  I liked the quote, "and she began to realize that she was in the presence of God."  Several times it mentions her mind "going empty" and thinking of Jesus.  Could the author be inferring that the Holy Spirit is convicting the child? 

Othello

I attended Othello at the Polk Theatre on April 1st.

Any Real Joy

I don't have an answer, but I can ask more questions. 
  Why did the child have to suffer in order for everyone else to have endless pleasure?  Why, instead of quietly leaving, did the ones who walk away from Omelas not collectively try to free or help the child?  Why did the child say, "I can be good?"  Was it because some sort of misdeed that he or she was chosen to be locked away?  It seems the child never grows any older.

  Perhaps Le Guin's father's occupation stirred her interest in other cultures, even make-believe ones.

The author seemed to interact with the reader several times.  "As you like it," she would say, as if you were the one who should decide how Omelas -- some kind of Utopia? -- should be.

There is emphasis on this kind of tinny, artificial freedom.  The horses don't wear bridles.  The children often don't wear clothes.  She suggests that people in Omelas should be free to be physically intimate with whomever they choose, for whatever reason.  I thought it was interesting that, even though she described the people of Omelas as happy, she used more physical, biological terms than she did emotional ones.  "...rapture of the flesh."

A quote that stood out to me:
"Happiness is based on a just discrimination of what is necessary, what is neither necessary nor destructive, and what is destructive."
To me, most of the behavior -- or at least the motive behind the behavior -- described in this story is destructive.  A me-centered mindset seems to plague the city.  And yet, "They know compassion.  It is the existence of the child, and their knowledge of its existence, that makes possible the nobility of architecture, the poignancy of their music, the profundity of their science.  It is because of the child that they are so gentle with children."

Omelas is a very strange name.  At first I thought it was a kind of flower.  Then I thought it might be some other word spelled backwords or rearranged, but I don't think so now.

The people are described as happy, but where does the happiness come from?  They're described as joyful, but their emotions seem circumstantial.  Can that be described as joy?

What could the child represent?  It made me think of how we, including I, may "feel" very sorry for the underpriviledged -- sex slaves in third world countries, for instance, but don't do much (or anything) about it.  I think subconsioiusly we might use the warped thought process Le Guin describes: "...even if the child could be released, it would not get much good of its freedom: a little vague pleasure of warmth and food, no doubt, but little more.  It is too degraded and imbecile to know any real joy.  It has been afraid too long ever to be free of fear.  Its habits are too uncouth for it to respond to humane treatment.  Indeed, after so long it would probably be wretched without walls about it to protect it, and darkness for its eyes, and its own excrement to sit in." 

I suppose my last statement is what I walked away from this story with.  (Ba-dum-ching!)  What I still have trouble understanding is why the child has to suffer in order for everyone else not to. 

I must mention that, as a young woman, I was offended by the kind of shock-effect immorality described in the story.  It was shocking, and I really don't think that's a bad thing.  I want to be shocked.  I don't want that kind of subject matter to become normal or "not a big deal" to me.  It is certainly not that I don't think (I know) that depravity is rampant.  It's "reality", and we must face it in every day situations.  But in the time that I'm using to edify myself, should I read more about this kind of darkness?  This is something I continue to struggle with.

I look foward to our class discussions.

A Very Young Woman with Not Much to Say

What an interesting story.  Of all the literature we've read in class so far, these seems to be the most bazaar by far.  However, I do think it is accessible in many ways, and I might be making it more difficult to interpret than it actually is -- on the contrary, I might actually be "under-thinking" it.  I can't decide. 

A few connections that stood out to me:

On page 99 of the Pearson Anthology, "It so happened during those days, among so many other carnical attractions, there arrived in town the traveling show of the woman who had been changed into a spider for having disobeyed her parents.  The admission to see her was not only less than the admission to see the angel, but people were permitted to ask her all manner of questions about her absurd state and to examine her up and down so that no one would ever doubt the truth of her horror."

The use of language in these two sentences seems like it could have been drawn straight from one of the gospels.  The phrase, "It so happened during those days," is what caught my attention at first.

"On the third day..." is the beginning of the opening sentence.  They left the angel on the raft for three days.  This seems like some sort of Biblical association. 

The author's name is Gabriel. 

The angel is repulsed by the "hellish" heat from the oil lamps and sacremental candles. 



It seemed to me that irreverance and ungratefulness were evident in the human characters in this story.  Pelayo and Elisenda (what a beautiful name!) mistreated and used the angel, finally cursing him and calling their house a "hell full of angels."  It made me think of our obvious selfishness, even as believers.  We take truth for granted in so many ways, we sometimes use God like a puppet, asking Him for what we want, and forgetting to thank Him later.  It also reminded me of the verse that says we "entertain angels unaware."   

I thought this section of the story was interesting: "Nevertheless, he promised to write a letter to his bishop so that the latter would write to his primate so that the latter would write to the Supreme Pontiff in order to get the final verdict from the highest courts."  I thought it might be a stab at the Roman catholic church and its protocol. 

It's the little things I feel more comfortable grasping at this point.  The most troubling things in the story, an imperfect, sick, old angel, the meaning of all the mysticism in the story, and the main "point" I am struggling with. 

I would love to write more about this, and I will.  Unfortunately I am required to attend a rehearsal tonight that will last until very late.  I hope to continue thinking and adding to this post tomorrow.

Have You Noticed?

Recently I have been drawn to Psalm 65 which begins with "To You, stillness, praise, in Zion, O Elohim; And to You a vow is paid.  To You who hears all prayer, all flesh comes."  I kept thinking of this Scripture during the time I spent at Lake Bonny park on Sunday (I stayed there for at least 45 mintes), and during my reading of Mary Oliver's poems.  I loved the lines from Messenger,

"...Let me keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work
which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture."

Something about reading this passage outside in the grass was moving.  I thought about how God describes Himself as a shepherd, and we His sheep -- and creation, I suppose, is His pasture.  I like the concept of "learning to be astonished".  As Professor Corrigan said in class, it seems as though we're taught not to be astonished.  It's uncool in our culture to be impressed, and it's also a sign of vulnerability.  The act of conciously trying to be awed seems strange and awkward at first I suppose, but I feel it is very beneficial.    
  I had trouble with the lines,

"...a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever."

I didn't quite understand it, but it makes me think of Psalm 65 again.  "To You who hears all prayer, all flesh comes."  I've been thinking a lot about animal suffering lately, although I'm not sure why.  We read in the Bible that God knows and cares when sparrows fall, and He provides for the "young lion".  I also loved reading the section in Musical Notation about Oliver's dog deliberately watching the sunset, and coming home afterwards.  It made me laugh, but also made me think. Are animals aware of God's presence?  I've read theology books that completely dismiss this idea, but I don't know if we should do that so easily and flippantly.

"Are my boots old?  Is my coat torn?
...let me keep my mind on what matters..."

These words were very powerful to me.  This happens to me, too, sometimes.  A gradual transformation from shallow, earthly thoughts to much deeper ones.  I don't think it's necessarily that one is simply distracted from their imperfections because they are out in nature (although that could be part of it), rather I think that being close to creation brings us out of our day-to-day, detailed, harried schedules and reminds us of the world that is to come. 

I enjoyed reading the poem entitled Praying.  It reminded me of the essence of good literature, and helped me not to be so nervous about writing poetry myself. 

The Uses of Sorrow was also quite interesting.  I find it fascinating that Oliver dreamed this poem!  I thought of it today on my way home from school, and it made me think of the concept of hope and suffering that we studied in class. 

In the Six Recognitions of the Lord, many portions of the text stood out to me, but perhaps one of the most astounding one was this:

"...but in summer there is
everywhere the luminous sprawl of gifts,
the hospitality of my Lord and my
inadequate answers as I row my beautiful, temporary body
through this water-lily world."

Beautiful, temporary body.  This author sees herself -- not only in spirit -- but in flesh, as a part of God's beautiful creation.  That lifted my spirits a little, and I think it's a mindset we should have.  I also liked the idea of the hospitality of God, and our inadequate answers.  The thought stands beautifully alone. 
 
I look foward to learning Professor Corrigan's full meaning of the tension of loving both God and the Earth.  Does he mean nature?  Or does he mean all of our temporary experiences here?  I agree that there is a constant tension between appreciating our life here, and wanting to be with God forever.  Perhaps this is what he refers to, and I didn't understand. 

I visited Lake Bonny Park again today with my friend, who showed me a trail and a dock that I somehow missed on Sunday.  We encountered two large birds, one that we identified at Circle B, and another that was beautiful, but I don't know what it was.  We decided to go there on a more regular basis and bring homework.  I'm glad we've engaged with literature and nature in this way in class, and I think it's opened my eyes a little bit more. 


Here is nature poem I wrote on Sunday:

 

                                                                  E          E       P        P

                                                              E         E              P            A

  R        R                         A          L

  T        T                                L       M

      T                  I                      M

Had

To

Write

A

Nature poem

Today

With

Twenty

Lines

So

Here

Are

The

Words

I

Came

Up

With:

I like trees.

(I'm totally kidding.)

To You, Stillness, Praise

I thought it would be hard

To be still this afternoon.

I had just drank a latte,

And I was convinced

That the theobromine

Would keep me jittery

And anxious.

I lay down, and looked

Into the sky.

I saw a group of five or more birds

Flying south-east.

My heart filled with the painful, joyful longing

That I so often experience

At times when I don’t expect to. 

I was still.

I wasn’t still.

I found it a little bit easier

To pay attention

To the sound of the wind

And the birds

And the children playing

And to the ants

Crawling on my laptop. 

I noticed tiny hairs on

The edge of each blade of grass.

I wanted to touch it.

No.  I have to be still.

I lay with my eyes open,

Not worrying about tomorrow

Which I usually do today.

I lay next to the angel’s feet.

Or maybe they were sitting.

I sat up, and looked at my almost-empty

Plastic cup.

I stroked the grass like I had wanted to,

Even though I wasn’t being still.

I looked up, and saw a huge bird

Calling to another one,

And when I heard the distant answer,

It affected me. 

The bird turned to preen its feathers

And looked in my direction.
I felt uncomfortable

As I often do

When animals look me

Straight in the eye.

I saw my own shadow

Cast in the grass:

My straightened hair blowing

In the breeze.

My hair really isn’t straight at all,

But I wanted

To look trendy and cool this afternoon.

Now, I don’t really care all that much.

Pianists are supposed to pride themselves

On their ability to notice

And express subtle nuances. 

Beethoven liked trees better than people, so he said.

And while I can’t say the same,

I really do like them.

Haydn was inspired by nature

To write the only lyrics from an oratorio

That have ever made me cry.

“In leafy arches twine the shady groves,

O’er lofty hills

Majestic forests wave,

Majestic

Forests

Wave.” 

I thought I was strange and ungrateful

To feel bored and locked-up

In a sound-proof room

With strange carpet

And a shiny baby grand.

But then I saw others

Open the blinds,

Stare out of the window,

At the trees and flowers,

And sit there not practicing

For quite a while.

Pay attention

To the wind,

And the quivering grass

And the notes

And the furry little dog.

I thought it would be hard

To stay still this afternoon,

But the theobromine

Has not had the affect

I was afraid of.

I’m content to sit here

With this shriveled yellow flower,

And even with the ants

Who haven’t bothered me

Much.

I’m content not to worry about what to say

Or how much time I’ve spent.

Content with the sparkling trees behind me

And my un-cool chipping nail polish.

I’m happy

Just to be

Right here.

Color in the Forest

The field trip to Circle B Bar Reserve was both edifying and refreshing.  I enjoyed being outside in the cool, overcast weather very much.  I loved seeing and identifying the birds that roam around my own pasture, and learning about some species I wasn't familiar with.  Learning about non-native plant species was also interesting, and made me think about the different kinds of grass I've seen in Hardee County that I had no idea were invasive.  It's something I would like to research more.
  My favorite part of the trip was when Professor Corrigan told us to observe nature while paying attention to all of our senses.  I focused mostly on, "What do I hear?"  Often I think of the outdoors as being very quiet, or even silent, but as I sat conciously listening, I noticed that there were many sounds.  The blowing through the plants and trees was the first one I noticed.  Then I heard several different bird calls.  They blended together in a sort of lull.  It reminded me of a piece by Debussy called The Little Shepherd for several reasons.  I tried to focus for a little while on what I saw.  I found this to be a little more difficult.  I remembered what one of the hosts said about seeing color in the forest.  She said she didn't only see green, but she saw blue-green, yellow-green, purple-green, and so on.  (It reminded me of the art of "looking" before sketching or painting, and trying hard to know a subject very well before reproducing it.)  The leaves on this tree were longer, thin, and a sort of yellow-green.  I also saw beautiful purple flowers in the water.  I made eye contact with a coot for a while.  I saw tiny true-blue flowers smiling up from the clover and grass.  (Almost every time I see a wild blue flower, I think of when a lady in a flower shop tried to convince me that blue flowers don't exist.  Of course they do.  Violets are blue -- doesn't everybody know that?)  I felt cold and a little uncomfortable in the weather while I was sitting still.  I tried to discern smells, but I don't have a very strong sense of smell.  I mostly smelled my own perfume, and started to wish I hadn't worn it.  The cool, fresh air felt nice to breath, though. 
  It was fun pulling the invasive species of grass from the ground.  It reminds me of the kind of work I did in my previous church with Mr. Johnson, and working in my grandparent's blueberry patch.  It wasn't foreign to me. 
  Throughout the trip, I kept in mind Professor Corrigan's Notes on Nature and Poetry as Spiritual Practices.  I thorougly enjoyed this short reading, and it made me smile to notice that the Holy Spirit has shown me some of these concepts already.  Some things I was reminded of was the art of "learning to calm down, and actually calm down," and "learning to slow down, and actually slow down."  I actually noticed that during the evening while I was at home, I burned a candle and methodically worked through my music theory homework, a nice contrast from my usual "harried homework state".  I wondered if it had anything to do with conciously calming down earlier in the day.
  I did not enjoy the rereading of the poem so much yesterday.  In fact, I felt a bit uneasy as we listened.  I hope to explain this more fully in a following post.  However, I found the act of reading outside to be very thought-provoking, and, I think, could be very rewarding.  Lately I've been thinking of sitting outside the cafe on campus as "reading outside", but I'd like to find some more "woodsy" places to sit and read -- perhaps at my own pasture.  I had never thought of it before. 
  Overall, the trip was exciting and motivating, and I look foward to studying some different kinds of nature poetry in class.