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.

Getting to Know Our Planet

I love nature, and I think my appreciation for it has grown during this academic year.  God uses it to speak and connect with me, to help me understand Him better.  When I realized we would be studying nature poetry as a class, I was thrilled!  This poem was not quite what I expected, but it made for an interesting read.

First, some things I enjoyed or appreciated about the text:

I really loved the similarities between Lucretius' "On the Nature of the Universe", and this poem -- even in the title.  As Lucretius reported to Venus, Hass reported the "state of the planet" to Lucretius, being careful to explain things that Lucretius might not understand, and drawing analogies from his time period.  It was clever. 

I also liked how this poet presented his work in such a way that I felt it was being thought out as I read.  Somehow, I didn't feel that this was a polished and re-polished work (although I'm sure it was), I felt like it was a list of thoughts in the order that they might occur, sometimes flowing, sometimes bouncing back and forth. 

I enjoyed Hass' way of writing in that he seemed to take the reader on a journey, from a stopped car on a rainy day to a Mexican desert, to a world of atoms, several other places, and back.  It's an artistic style I'd like to try to emulate.


Some questions I had about this text:

I had trouble with this quote:

"It must be a gift of evolution that humans
Can't sustain wonder.  We'd never have gotten up
From our knees if we could.  But soon enough
We'd have fashioned sexy little earrings from the feathers,
Highlighted our cheekbones by rubbings from the rock,
And made a spear from the sinewey wood of the tree." 

I'm not sure what Hass means by sustaining wonder, and getting up off our knees.  I think I somewhat understand the part about designing things from nature, but I'm not sure how it relates to the first three lines. 

"In the years since, we've gotten
Even better at relentless simplification, but it's taken
Until our time for it to crowd out, savagely, the rest
Of life.  No use to rail against our curiosity and greed.
They keep us awake.  And are, for all their fury
And their urgency, compatible with intelligent restraint."

I think I need some help with the above quote as well.  I have the most trouble with "relentless simplification" and "compatible with intelligent restraint."


Some problems I see in the text:

I think one of the "points" Hass is trying to get across is that we need to do something about the problems in our environment.  I agree.  However, with an evolutionary view -- which the author seems to have -- that idea isn't as motivating or rich or deep as a Creationist's view (should be).  If we all -- piano tuners, gnats, you, and me -- evolved from bacteriuem which "grew green pigment" and "somehow unmated carbon dioxide...", then nature preservation just seems like another one of the completely meaningless things we do as humans.  On the other hand, when we see nature as created and spoken into existence just like us, and when we see ourselves as charged of God to be good stewards, taking care of nature becomes much more meaningful and compelling.  As Dr. Gaulden said in class once, we, the believers, should have been doing more to take care of the environment all along. 

Some additional thoughts:

As I said earlier, I love creation.  I deeply enjoy Bible verses like, "The meadows are dressed in flocks, And valleys are covered with grain; They shout for joy and sing," and "Let the sea roar, and all that fills it, The world and those who dwell in it.  Let the rivers clap their hands, Let the mountains sing together for joy before Yahweh."  The idea of these "inanimate" things interacting with God in praise is such an uplifting and powerful one.  (I'd like to think that one day we'll see something like that happen in the next life.)  Nature points us straight to our Father in Heaven.  Perhaps instead of not wanting to ask unanswerable questions in our society, we really just don't want to ask questions that lead us to Him.


With Verdure Clad (The Creation) -- Haydn

"This is really beginning to bother me."

During our field trip to AFI, Danielle and I conversed with two women, Edna and Cheryl, in different sittings.  We talked about our hobbies, the clothes we like, our favorite foods, amongst other things that you might talk about with a new acquaintance.  At one point, a man offered to throw Edna’s cup away, and after he took it, he tapped us on the shoulder and said, “Watch this!  Watch this!”  He shot across the room towards the trash can exclaiming, “VROOM!”  I laughed for a long time, and realized that I had forgotten how rewarding it was to spend time with the mentally “handicapped”.  Throughout our conversations, I was able to relate to the play and the essay in the sense that we are all people, and as Professor Corrigan said, it might be better to put people in more specific categories rather than call them “normal” or “abnormal”.  For example, Edna and I might be “people who love the color pink,” and “people who wear costume jewelry,” and Cheryl and I fit into the category of, “people who like to watch game show bloopers,” or “people who love to laugh.”  While I enjoyed talking with the clients, at the same time I wanted to burst into tears.  Not tears of pity, necessarily – or at least, not entirely – but something else that I’m not sure how to explain.  There’s something emotionally overwhelming about encouraging people old enough to be your parents on their reading skills.  For the rest of the day at school, I felt as though I was almost in a fog. 

  I chose to re-read the first thirty pages of the Boys Next Door, but this time, I tried to thoughtfully read through the section on costuming, trying to imagine what the characters would look like in “real life”, and how their dress reflected their being.  I found it to be more enlightening this time, I think.  Somehow, I felt I was able to understand the characters in a different way.  I tried to picture some of the clients I met in their position, and tried to think carefully about the personal interaction and communication within the play.  I thought about the friendships I saw at AFI, the high-fives and hugs and nicknames.  It also made me want to cry. 

What I thought about most after our field trip were the individuals we met.  More than thinking about the concept of disability, I kept thinking about these people.  I think that’s important, somehow. 

What’s next?  I’m not sure.  I think the most practical thing for me to do is write letters.  I’ll have to think about it.     

Then I Am Strong

When I was in junior high and high school, my family and I attended a small charasmatic, non-demoninational church in which the pastor is a C-5 quadriplegic.  Mr. Johnson has some control over his arms and his neck, but the rest of his body is paralyzed.  He can't sweat, and hands form tight fists.  He sustained the injury through a diving accident when he was 21, and later that day, He came to know God.  Since then, he has been an active minister, and has affected my life greatly.  He says, "It's about the kids.  But it's really about anyone else we can help, too."  For years, I watched guest ministers and people of the church pray for Mr. Johnson's physical healing -- I, too, have prayed.  I could never imagine condemning this man, the church, of myself for having a lack of faith, rather, I've come to understand that through being physically "disabled", this man is in a position to help others in a way that I cannot.  I believe the same is true for the mentally disabled as well.
  I love how the author of this text talks about "life force", and a "mark" whih God puts on His creation.  This essay ties in so incredibly with other things I have been reading and listening to.  The other day my music theory professor talked about God breathing into Adam the breath of life, and how we've been passing that breath on ever since.  We're not breathing our own breath, in a sense -- it's God's breath.  This "life force" is in all of us in a unique way, enabling us to love and be loved.  The "mark" reminds me of an article I read on Monday, entitled Imprint: the Thumbprint on the Clay.The author relates being made in the image of God to a potters signature: a thumbprint.  God's way of saying, you were uniquely designed for my purpose.  What an exciting, invigorating thought.
  This essay by Dr. Fettke also makes me think of what it means to be "disabled", and the kinds of things we pray to be healed from.  I've watched videos of five to nine year olds play the Haydn concerto I'm considering learning over the summer.  Compared to them, I'm pretty disabled.  But not compared to most people.  It's all so very relative.  We pray to be healed from major infirmities like cancer, traumatic injuries, and "disability" -- paralyzation, mental retardation, brain injuries, syndromes, etc.  But aren't all "normal" people still physically and mentally flawed?  Don't they have grey hair and pimples and digestive problems and asthma and ingrown toenails?  Don't we have trouble remembering where we put our phone, don't we get nervous and speak in jumbled sentences, don't we lock ourselves out of the house?  I suppose we pray to be healed from those things too, sometimes, but do we measure our faith accordingly?  Not really.  Those are just normal problems for normal people, right?  What children we are. 

"It seems that many in the Pentecostal church have embraced this modern sense of autonomy in the notion of 'getting what one can' from God or attending church 'as long as I am satisfied or happy' with little regard for any others."  It's hard for me to think for very long about the current "modern" behavior of the Pentacostal church which Dr. Fettke describes.  My stomach feels like it's sinking and my fingertips hurt (for some reason).  But I will for just a little bit.
  This, I think, is an almost Santa-Clause view of God.  If you're good, you get presents: health, financial prosperity, happiness, etc.  There is little focus on the bloody, messy side of life that God calls us to as well.  When Paul was in prison, he didn't say, "I'm going to speak these chains away!", (do I catch a dangerous drift of transcendentalism?) he said, "I've learned to be content in all circumstances."  I'm not saying, by any means, that the mentally disabled are in a prison -- other than the one we've made for them -- but to contrast the views, "What can God do for me", and "How may I serve Him?"  We should encourage all people to ask the latter.  Each person is in a position that is right for them to be able to minister.
   Almost each time my neice visits, my mother reads to her a story by Max Lucado, and I usually listen, too.  It's about a lamb who is spotted and crippled, and when the other sheep move to a new pasture, the shepherds tell him to stay behind because he moves too slowly.  At the end of the story, the lamb stumbles upon the manger scene and gets to curl up beside baby Jesus and keep Him warm.  The very thing that made him crippled allowed him to serve his greatest purpose. 
  I like the verse, "I delight in weakness, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties.  For when I am weak, then I am strong."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3geejD5Dksk

And I Mean This Frankly

The Boys Next Door had a strange affect on me this afternoon.  I was reading it outside the cafe on campus while my friend ate a snack.  I took a break, and told her that the random dialogue was making me go crazy.  I put a book on my head and started pacing back and forth, seeing how long I could go without losing my balance.  I felt as though I was going to start speaking and acting just as spontaneously as the characters in this play.  I'm not sure what that was all about.  I just finished reading it a few minutes ago, and found it difficult to begin this post.  My ideas seemed jumbled and "choppy".  They still do.
  I think the passage that struck me the most in Act II was this:
"We had this one guy named Wally something, who'd eat the chocolate part and save all the insides in a box he had.  And he'd keep the box with him all the time.  Until one day he died and one of the attendants just threw the box away.  I mean, it was all Wally owned, this box of the insides of all the chocolates he'd ever had, and they just threw it away.  They didn't even ask his family or anything.  I don't understand that.  They didn't even look to see inside.  They just threw it away."  Barry sobs.
  My thoughts are still forming about this passage.  It reminds me of the fragility and vulnerability of human beings.  A girl in class today said that, when she's dealing with someone she has a very hard time getting along with, she thinks, "They used to be a baby.  Everyone loved them and liked them."  It helps her view them in a more compassionate way.  It helps me too, and I think it's because babies are so vulnerable.  We all have hurt feelings, child-like glee, and things that are special to us and no one understands why.
  I was also struck by the scene with Barry and his father.  The way Barry curled up on the couch and cried, "Don't hurt me."  I think everybody does this, too.  This particular situation was extremely saddening to me. It makes me want to cry. 
The Boys Next Door had a strange affect on me this afternoon.  I was reading it outside the cafe on campus while my friend ate a snack.  I took a break, and told her that the random dialogue was making me go crazy.  I put a book on my head and started pacing back and forth, seeing how long I could go without losing my balance.  I felt as though I was going to start speaking and acting just as spontaneously as the characters in this play.  I'm not sure what that was all about.  I just finished reading it a few minutes ago, and found it difficult to begin this post.  My ideas seemed jumbled and "choppy".  They still do.
  I think the passage that struck me the most in Act II was this:
"We had this one guy named Wally something, who'd eat the chocolate part and save all the insides in a box he had.  And he'd keep the box with him all the time.  Until one day he died and one of the attendants just threw the box away.  I mean, it was all Wally owned, this box of the insides of all the chocolates he'd ever had, and they just threw it away.  They didn't even ask his family or anything.  I don't understand that.  They didn't even look to see inside.  They just threw it away."  Barry sobs.
  My thoughts are still forming about this passage.  It reminds me of the fragility and vulnerability of human beings.  A girl in class today said that, when she's dealing with someone she has a very hard time getting along with, she thinks, "They used to be a baby.  Everyone loved them and liked them."  It helps her view them in a more compassionate way.  It helps me too, and I think it's because babies are so vulnerable.  We all have hurt feelings, child-like glee, and things that are special to us and no one understands why.
  I was also struck by the scene with Barry and his father.  The way Barry curled up on the couch and cried, "Don't hurt me."  I think everybody does this, too.  This particular situation was extremely saddening to me.  It makes me want to cry -- I can feel it in my throat and in my stomach.  I wish I could help him.

What to Think

My theology professor, Dr. Davis, made quite a profound statement today.  He said that, if we grew up in a cancer ward where everyone displayed symptoms of radiation: hair loss, weight loss, skin discoloration, then we would probably think that was normal, and that our skin, hair, and weight wasn't.  When you live with diseased people your entire life, you think disease is normal.  He went on to say that we, along with everyone else do have a disease: sin.  We are ill, dying, disfigured. 
  If this is the case, then what's "normal"?  We are all handicapped - mentally, physically, and spiritually.  I didn't make the connection between Dr. Davis' statement and The Boys Next Door until a few moments ago, but I definitely think that it's worth pondering.
  We can't exactly look down on and jeer at people who have the same illness we do, however different the symptoms may be.  The only truly healthy man, as Dr. Davis also reminded us earlier today, is Jesus.  We're all starving for his grace and compassion.
  I think one of my favorite lines from the play was, "I've been coming to these dances for months now and I can never decide if it's the saddest place I've ever been.  Or the happiest."
  I also wasn't sure whether to "laugh or cry" throughout Act I.  Statements like, "It's a behavior pattern," "There aren't too many bunnies in the sky today", and "I called him a banana republic" made me giggle out loud.  When I remembered how frustrating it must be to live with that kind of mental disorder, (the play mentions that these men are often frustrated) I felt sad and sorry for them.  When I worked with some mentally handicapped people at my church several years ago, I was inspired and somewhat envious of their simple view of life.  They were delighted beyond words at being in the presence of a pony and brushing his tail, eating a popsicle, showing everyone a new hairbrush that was theirs.  I guess I agree with Jack.  I'm not sure what to think.
    Perhaps if I were smarter, I would.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L6_SbflSwAg

My Trouble

When I read the first few lines of this story, I sighed and thought that it was going to be perhaps the most depressing text yet. It also took a while for me to get used to its rhetoric and flow -- it seemed very choppy and disjolting, but after a little while I found that it read fairly quickly.  It was very sad, but in a different way, I suppose.  I felt like I wanted to give every character in this story a hug.  Each of them seemed vulnerable and hurt.  But hurt seems like too nice of a word.  Rather, each of them had gaping, bleeding wounds. 
  "My trouble made his real."  Sometimes when we suffer we are able to more effectively relate to others, if we allow ourselves, of course.  We are better able to look through the masks of everyone around us and see them in their vulnerability.  This story mentions faces quite a bit, I noticed.  The face of the bartender which seemed to turn into the smile of a little girl, the faces of the people on the street watching the musicians, Sonny's face tinted with worry, "the way shadows play on a face which is starting into the fire."  Someone I knew once said, "I wear so many masks in one day, that in the evening when I'm in my room all by myself, I can't remember which one is really me."
   I especially liked the scene in the nightclub:
 "Then Creole stepped forward to remind them that what they were playing was the blues.  He hit something in all of them, he hit something in me, myself, and the music tightened and deepened, apprehension began to beat the air.  Creole began to tell us what the blues were all about.  They were not about anything very new.  He and his boys up there were keeping it new, at the risk of ruin, destruction, madness, and death, in order to find new ways to make us listen.  For, while the tale of how we suffer, and how we are delighted, and how we may triumph is never new, it always must be heard.  There isn't any other tale to tell, it's the only light we've got in all this darkness."
But oh, there is another tale!  I think that's why I wanted to hug them all.  One of my classmates laughingly said about a literary character, "She needs Jesus."  My classmate was right.  (I think the author did a great job depicting a group performance.  Chamber music is also this way -- asking, answering, and discussing through instruments.) 
But I can't hug these people, because they don't exist.  I suppose I'll have to find someone who's real, and I daresay I won't have to look very far.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uN0_L-byqnc

Begin to See

This portion of the book contains so many different emotions and concepts that I am not sure where to begin.  Why is it so difficult to write about this?  It's alright once I "get something going", but the beginning is always the worst part. 
   "When I lay these questions before God I get no answer.  But a rather special sort of 'No answer.' It is not the locked door.  It is more like a silent, certainly not uncompassionate, gaze.  As though He shook His head not in refusal but waiving the question.  Like, 'Peace, child; you don't understand.'
   Can a mortal ask questions which God finds unanswerable?  Quite easily, I should think.  All nonsense questions are unanswerable.  How many hours are there in a mile?  Is yellow square or round?  Probably half the questions we ask -- half our great and theological and metaphysical problems -- are like that."
  A special sort of No Answer.  I have felt this too, and find it to be the greatest consolation.  God understands, and I don't -- not only that, but I don't need to.  He is on an infinitely greater plane, able to comprehend and see things far beyond my reasoning or imagination.  No question is perhaps more irritating to me than, "Why do bad things happen to good people?", as if there were anything but bad people.  I suppose it's not actually the question which is the problem, but our feeble and ignorant attempts to answer it fully.  Give up.  I don't mean this in a pessimistic way.  There is something wonderful about giving up in this area.  When we realize that we'll never understand, we are saying, "I trust You," and I think a great part of our faith relies on it. 
   "On the other hand, 'Knock and it shall be opened.'  But does knocking mean hammering and kicking the door like a maniac?  After all, you must have a capacity to receive, or even omnipotence can't give.  Perhaps your own passion temporarily destroys the capacity."
  I really loved this passage.  I can remember several times when I've felt this way, too.  Another part of the first verse he referred to is, "Seek, and you will find."  But when we are in the kind of state that Lewis was describing, we are not seeking at all.  We are simply looking into ourselves, seeing what we think is emptiness, and crying out in unbelief, "God isn't here!"  It reminds me of a parent patiently holding their child while they thrash about in a tantrum, or that strange sensation you get just after crying for a very long time.  There is a sense of exhaustion, but also a faint peace.  I think that is a better place to recieve God's love.    

As a comment to this video, someone ironically said, "Pity people like Kempff have to die.  It's only when they have gone that you realize how much you miss them and just how good they were."  Apparently her name was Catherine.

Yea, Though I Walk

I found this text to be quite compelling.  I decided to read the whole thing, but I will try to limit my comments in this post to the first two chapters.  I suppose it reminded me of a kind of freewrite.  I feel as though Lewis was recording thoughts just as they came - and there are a slew of them on each page. From memories of his beloved wife to questions like "Where is God?", his thoughts wind and flow into each other in a rather "random" way, much the way you would talk to a very close friend.  Maybe not even a close friend, perhaps more like the things you think secretly to yourself, or only admit to one person.
  The first sentence was very intruiging to me.  I appreciated the way he attempted to describe the feeling of grief, comparing its symptoms to that of fear.  As I read on, my heart was pounding and I had flutterings in my stomach as well, but I think that really was fear.
  Many things stood out to me - too many to discuss in one post.  I underlined the things that I thought were novel, and put in parentheses concepts that I felt I could relate to.  Here is one which I put in parentheses:
"You never know how much you really believe anything until its truth or falsehood becomes a matter of life and death to you.  It is easy to say you believe a rope to be strong and sound as long as you are merely using it to cord a box.  But suppose you had to hang by that rope over a recipice.  Wouldn't you then first discover how much you really trusted it?"

Will we love and trust Him in the shadows like we did in the green pastures?  When the room goes pitch black is when you discover what you really believe, how much you need Him, and eventually, how much He is there.         

Walking in the shadows.  I guess that's one good way to define grief.  Things are blurry and you aren't even sure half of the time what you are thinking.  As Lewis said, he only jotted down "one thought in a hundred."  But I think it's important to remember that when the room goes dark and you're faced with your fundamental beliefs, or lack thereof, you aren't alone.  I think God is holding your hand the whole time - holding you, rather - and can guide you to a deeper understanding, which is what I think he did for C.S. Lewis.  It reminds me of Professor Corrigan's essay, Darkness, Questions, Poetry and Spiritual Hope in which he writes:

"Jesus promises, 'I will never leave you.'  The presence of God with us in the dark makes it possible for us to sit with the question of darkness without being destroyed by madness."

When is grief over?  Does it ever end?  These are some questions Lewis addresses as well.  I don't know.  But whatever the emotional outcome in this life, God's presence with us now makes today all the brighter.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rRzvE-1P9xA

Comforted Together

There were several vivid images that came to my mind while reading the Book of Joel -- so many, that I had to narrow down the list of quotes I would mention in my post.  I enjoy reading literature that is descriptive, but leaves room for the imagination as well.  Here are the images that stood out to me the most, in chronilogical order:
"What the gnawing locust has left, the swarming
locust has eaten;
And what the swarming locust has left, the
creeping locust has eaten;
And what the creeping locust has left,
the stripping locust has eaten."

The image in my mind is of these four locusts each eating part of a leaf and putting it down for the next one to come, until the last one "strips" the very last part of the leaf from its stem.  The locusts are all green, the color of new grass.  The gnawing locust is the most disturbing, although it's not a particularly frightening or unsettling image as a whole.

"Its teeth are the teeth of a lion,
And it has the fangs of a lioness."

I see two lion heads against a white background.  The first one, the male lion, I can't make out very clearly, but his head is turned to the side, facing right.  The lioness is much more detailed, and I can see her whiskers bunch together as her lips curl to reveal long fangs.  It's a gruesome snarl, but it's still not too disturbing. 


"Come, spend the night in sackcloth"

This is, perhaps, the darkest image I encountered in the text.  I envision several men wearing sackcloth, but it's a dark, grey-black color, contrary to the normal potato-sack-brown that I usually think of when I hear "sackcloth".  They are bent over, and one looks like he might be grabbing his stomach, as if something is paining him greatly.  It's night, and the background is very black.


Do not fear, O land, rejoice and be glad,
For the Lord has done great things.
Do not fear, beasts of the field,
For the pastures have turned green,
For the fig tree has borne fruit,
The fig tree and the vine have yielded in full.

This was one of my favorite images.  I believe I was influenced by the last class assignment (going outside to read to nature) when I re-read this passage today.  On Tuesday, I sat on the very edge of a lake, and all around me were patches of clover -- a green so bright I can't describe it.  The grass swayed a little bit in the wind, and the water seemed still and moving at the same time.  I thought of how the Bible says that all of creation groans together, "and suffers the pains of childbirth together..."  When I read to it about God's comfort, it was a feeling I haven't experienced before, and it's difficult to explain.  God made nature, and he made me, which means we are both part of creation, groaning together.  God tells us both not to fear -- both me and the little ducks in the water, looking right at me.  For a moment, I was soothed, and I like to think that in some figurative way, the rest of creation breathed a small sigh of relief.
   I didn't read this passage aloud on that day, but when I read it now, my mind is filled with those images - of creation being comforted.

"Let the weak say, 'I am a mighty man!'"

I absolutely love this verse.  I see an elderly man with a long beard, missing some teeth, raising a thin, feeble hand with a pointed finger and proclaiming, "I am a mighty man!"  He smiles that very real smile that exeplifies, not just happiness, but a supernatural strength and hope.     

The Field is Ruined

It was difficult to distance myself from the meaning of this Book, and focus on which passages were most pleasing to my ear.  Land becoming desolate certainly doesn't "sound" nice in one way, but when I tried listening to the rythm of the syllables and the beauty of the words themselves, I began to appreciate certain passages. 

The field is ruined,
The land mourns;
For the grain is ruined,
The new wine dries up,
Fresh oil fails.
Be ashamed, O farmers,
Wail, O vinedressers,
For the wheat and the barley,
Because the harvest field is destroyed.

I like the rythmic difference between the first, third, and fourth lines and the second and fifth lines.  I also like the sound of the words "fresh oil", "land," "harvest," and especially "vinedresser."  Something about the sound of the last line is very sobering.  "Because the harvest field is destroyed."  The word "destroyed" followed by a peiod -- a pause -- seems significant.  I like the personification of the land, which "mourns", and the wheat and barley, which the farmers should "mourn for."  This portion of the text seems to flow from and to other passages very well, and yet it powerfully stands alone.

Another favorite of mine is:

Put in the sickle, for the harvest is ripe
Come, tread, for the wine press is full;
The vats overflow, for their wickedness is great.

I like the words "sickle", "ripe", "tread," "wine press", and "vats."  This passage brings purple to my mind, and I like its rythm as a whole.       

I also liked:

And in that day
The mountains will drip with sweet wine,
And the hills will flow with milk,
And all the brooks of Judah will flow with water;
And a spring will go out from the House of the LORD
To the valley of Shittim.

The phrase "in that day" are chilling for some reason.  I love the idea of mountains dipping with wine and hills flowing with milk, which doesn't technically happen.  The words "drip", "hills", "flow," "milk", "brooks", "spring", and "valley" stand out to me as well.  I like the phrase, "...a spring will go out."  I like the way the words feel in my mouth as I'm saying them. 

I think this is an interesting and somehow delightful way of reading, especially the Bible.  Perhaps remembering (that's another one of my favorite words) the way words sound and feel could help us retain more Scripture in our minds.           

Violets aren't Blue

Roses can be red, but violets aren’t blue.  They’re purple, don’t you agree?
It’s dangerous to say
That things aren’t the way
They are, for the sake of poetry.
Roses can be red, but they can also be pink,
Orange, yellow, or white.
But do you think if I asked you
To answer me true
On the color of violets, you might?
Hydrangeas are blue, delphinium are blue,
But why don’t we say that instead?
I guess “violets are blue”
Sounds better to you
To suit the phrase, “Roses are red.”

                                              http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8BsBbtp4gW4

Dead Bees

Lately I've been thinking about the superficial mindset of the current culture, and myself.  It was only fitting that I should blog in response to Robert Hass' A Story About the Body.  The first things I noticed about this work were the most blatant: "[He]...had watched her for a week...and he thought he was in love with her."  The author talks about how this man seemed to love the way this Japanese artist moved her body, her artwork, and how she "looked at him directly when she made amused and considered answers to his questions."  When he learns that she has had a double mastectomy and is no longer anatomically "normal", "The radiance that he had carried around in his belly and chest cavity -- like music -- withered very quickly, and he made himself look at her when he said, 'I'm sorry, I don't think I could.'"  How very sad, I thought.  This woman obviously endured something horrific in needing this procedure to be done -- cancer, perhaps -- and this man is rejecting her for something she cannot change, and probably something that she had to do to keep from dying.  As a young woman, I was about to have a "hay day", ranting about superficial men, and that, "This is one of the highest forms of degradation!"  It certainly is, but before I could go further, I thought about my own culture.  By "culture", I don't mean the culture of the world and the mass media (which is obviously corrupt), but the culture that surrounds me at school.  I'm offended at the man in this story, but how many times do I not say anything when girls talk about the physical stature of young men in a degrading way?  It seems terrible for a man not to be with a woman because she has lost both of her breasts, but not so bad for young women to reject young men because they are too thin, too short, too pale.
      How important is physical attraction in romantic love?  This is a very complicated question, and not one that I am mature enough to answer in full.  I don't think appearance should be at the top of our priority list in evaluating a man or woman, and when I think about it, it seems quite superficial to hold any sort of physical malady against them at all.  What if you marry a goregeous person, and later they acquire permanent burns and scarring in some sort of accident?  Would you leave them because they have lost their allure?  Would it not be wiser to think about character when you're deciding whether to jump into love?  (I don't think you fall.)  Not only would this produce a bond that is stronger and much more "real", but I think when you get to know someone's character, you eventually see them as you percieve them to be.  I have known people who I didn't think were particularly striking when we met, but when I knew them better, I noticed "small" things about them that eventually made them seem very beautiful to me.
     Although the behavior of this man seems, and is, very wrong, I daresay this kind of mindset is perfectly normal for both genders, especially my age.  We seek the handsome, beautiful people who will make us feel "radiant" and get butterflies, and not necessarily the ones we will love, or the ones who will love us.  We seek rose petals, but when we dig deeper, we often find it wasn't what it appeared to be.    



                                               http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1trE3ms3AGo

Mr. Gradus et le Vent

         The grass looked lush and bright green in the late afternoon light.  It sparkled, swirled, and danced in the breeze that engulfed the French country side.  The sky was a deep blue -- that interesting hue just before it bursts into a million other colors with the sunset -- and speckled with stratus clouds.  He was slightly built, just above average height.  He walked with his head held high, his eyes fixed ahead of him, but not really looking at anything.  His stride was neither too long nor too short, as if he had planned each step perfectly in advance.  He strode past the wooden fence that had long needed to be repaired, and past the giant oak tree that rested just beside the dirt road that he walked every day after his shop closed.  He took out his pocket watch and glanced nervously at the time, as he had done just a few moments before.  He was not late for anything in particular, but he enjoyed arriving home at the same time each day.  After speaking with a frustrating customer about the pricing of a tea set, he closed the shop at almost six minutes after five.  On his way out, he saw that one of the china bowls had fallen behind the shelf and shattered.  It must have happened while he was in the office in the back of the shop - why hadn't Anton noticed and told him about it, or better yet, cleaned it up himself?  He sighed, and after he had finished sweeping it up, he was a full twenty minutes behind schedule.  Now the wind picked up and swirled around him, threatening to pull off his hat.  He placed his pale hand on top of his head and walked a little faster.  The wind was beginning to form tiny twisters in the sand, throwing dirt on his new brown suit – the latest turn of the century fashion.  He dusted the grains off of his coat, and reached for his pocket watch again.  A sudden chilly gust approached him unexpectedly, grabbed his hat, and tossed it to the ground. 
         “Oh, for…” he bent down quickly, but the hat had skipped just out of his reach.  He chased it all the way back to the oak tree where he thought he had cornered it, but it flew in another direction just as suddenly as before.  It spun on its side off of the road, and the wind carried it across a rolling field, teasing him to run after it again.  He stepped carefully over a broken fence post and jogged over to the hat in even strides.  Each time he came close, it skipped away, and once it flew just over his head, barely grazing his tousled brown hair.  He clenched his fists and watched helplessly.  Further and further away the wind blew it, and he had almost given up when it became lodged between two branches of a small tree.  He walked slowly over, quietly, as if he didn’t want the hat to hear him coming.  He reached out carefully, gripped the brim, and quickly put it back on his head.  A laugh escaped his lips.  It was a pleasant laugh, not loud or jarring.  He immediately pursed his lips and gazed back in the direction of the road, which he could not see from where he was standing, and stood for a moment with his hand firmly on top of his hat.  He glanced at his pocket watch, let out a sigh, and decided that today it would be more beneficial to walk cross-country to his home, rather than trying to go back to the road. 
             He set out again, this time a little unevenly as he tromped over fallen branches and small hills.  He approached a patch of orange poppies and stepped over them, all the time being careful to keep his hat, although the wind had died down.  The sky was beginning to turn a sort of grey-purple, and the leaves on the trees resembled tiny emeralds, although he didn’t notice it.  He sighed again at the sight of an especially large hill, and doubted his reasoning to walk across the field.  He fumbled once as he tried to climb it, and almost tripped again as he came to the top.  He straightened his coat, fixed his eyes ahead of him, and paused. 
          Enormous clouds had collected in front of the sun – its last light piercing through them in full, majestic rays.  The sky behind it was washed in deep blue, violet, pink, and golden-orange.  He stood still.  It was as close as he had ever felt to a sunset, so close it almost seemed as if he were a part of it.  “Shhh…” the wind said as it embraced him, causing the grass around him to dance at his feet.  He slowly took his hand off of his hat.  A flock of geese flew across the horizon, and disappeared.  His breathing slowed.  He could see his house in the distance.  He started down, and stopped again, gazing at the clouds.  Off his hat came again.  He reached, this time so vigorously that he fell on his stomach, and caught the brim between two fingers.  He laughed again.  He saw something bright out of the corner of his eye.  Another patch of poppies seemed as if they were dancing with the wind, seemed alive with laughter themselves.  He reached over and picked one for his wife.  He stood up, let out a different kind of sigh, and turned back to get a few more poppies.  He was holding a full bouquet as the wind picked up and urged him on. 
        He walked down the hill in jagged strides as it chased after him.  He quickened his pace, jogged a little, and eventually ran, dropping a few flowers on the ground.  The whole world swirled around him in a blur of green, pink, orange, and blue until he reached his doorstep.  He touched the doorknob, and looked behind him.  The wind was at its peak, the part of the sky he could see had almost gone dark, he noticed.  He smiled, opened the door determinedly, and caught a glimpse of the dancing trees just before it slammed shut.                          

                                   http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vhQg2voYl9k&feature=related
The scenario for this story was based entirely on this piece.  I envision this scene with the music in the background.  The paragraph breaks occur when there is a slight break in the music, and the very last notes resemble a slamming door.

How I Wonder Who You Are

For this assignment, I immediately chose to write about Twinkle, although I wasn't sure why at first.  I mentioned earlier that some of her idiosyncrasies remind me of myself, so I have a sort of common ground with this character, I suppose.  It also occured to me that I feel sorry for Twinkle in some ways.  If she were a real person, I would say that she is much deeper than she protrays herself to be.

She is twenty-seven years old, of Indian descent (her parents live in Calcutta), a former English major now pursuing a masters in studying an Irish poet, and although the story says Sanjeev thinks she is pretty, the way the characters interact with her make me think she's very beautiful.     

One of the first things I noticed about her was her childlike ways.  The author makes this rather obvious, describing her young face, which "had not grown out of its girlhood, the eyes untroubled, the pleasing features unfirmed..." and sponteneous antics, "She dragged him to a tiny bookshop on St. Mark's Place, where she browsed for nearly an hour, and when they left she insisted that they dance a tango on the sidewalk in front of strangers."  But I also noticed the childishness in the way that she spoke.
"It's pretty."
"But I do nothing all day except sit at my desk."
"Each day is like a treasure hunt.  I'm serious."
"I will, I promise."
"No, silly Sanj."
"I hate you."
"Who cares?"

She wears bright colors, "a yellow chenile sweater", "...her salwaar kameez, which was the shade of persimmon...", and demonstrates creativity in accessorizing, "the little string of white rose petals she had coiled cleverly around her head..." which leads the reader to believe even more that she has a bright and whimsical personality. 

But is Twinkle really childish?  I noticed some other things in the story that made me ponder. 
While she and Sanjeev are arguing, she often ignores things he says that could be taken as offensive "digs."
"'Clearly the scheme has succeeded in your case.'  She disregarded him, shaking the little plastic dome so that the snow swirled over the manger."
She often appears "placid" or "strangely at peace" when it would be understandable for her to be upset.
"'Now, look.  I will tolerate, for a while, your little biblical menagerie in the living room, but...I refuse to have this...displayed in our home.'  Twinkle stared at him, placidly exhaling, the smoke emerging in two thin blue streams from her nostrils.  She rolled up the poster slowly..."
It would have been very childlike to fight back with harsh words and whining, but instead she either doesn't say anything, or informs Sanjeev calmly about what she's going to do.
However, the story also mentions the two bickering about unimportant things, like high heels.  At this point Twinkle protests, but in a non-threatening, non-offensive way.

Instead of displaying immaturity, could it be that Twinkle's spontenaity, her flitting this way and that (like leaving the house for three hours and buying scented candels instead of cleaning), and giggly nature is some sort of subconcious mask?  I mentioned before that I thought Twinkle was searching for more than trinkets, and I still think so.

She appears to be a very affectionate toward Sanjeev.  The story mentions that she squeezes Sanjeev's elbow or knee often.  I think she wants to be loved.  She was reading Sonnets in the bathtub when Sanjeev approached her to tell her about his decision regarding the statue (when she later cried into his shirt).  While this may be considered a "normal" thing for someone studying literature to do, I think that that particular text is relevant to the story, and her character.
Also in this scene, Twinkle "lost it".  She threw on her bathrobe and acted as though she was going to leave, with a face mask and all, and seemed uncontrollably emotional for a moment.  She even told Sanjeev she hated him.  I'm not sure how to interpret this, but her quick recovery still makes me think she isn't so childish as she seems. 

A quote that stood out to me was this: "Why do you care so much about what other people think?"  I don't think Twinkle cares much about what other people think, which is interesting, because everyone seems to be attracted to her.  I think she would like to be herself, but I'm not sure she knows exactly who that is.          

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