Lightning and apple blossoms

Fa-So-La-La

I love lightning bolt poetry, the kind that hits in a flash and makes the whole world brilliant for a moment. Sara Teasdale is a master of this. Her poems are usually rather short, but say worlds. Today I found a lightning bolt moment in a Christina Rossetti poem, which is rather unusual. She is more inclined to longer, more graceful poems that take you through an elegant train of thought to a perfect ending. But in An Apple Gathering, the pattern is reversed-- she starts with a lightning bolt moment, and then trails off to a slower end. Here is the first stanza, a wonder of metaphor, gentle force, and tone--

I plucked pink blossoms from mine apple tree

And wore them all that evening in my hair:

Then in due season when I went to see

I found no apples there.

-------

That is a perfect stanza. Try-- you can do nothing to improve it. She could have simply said that she tried to be attractive to someone and it didn't work, but the apple blossom metaphor conveys a breathtaking depth and subtlety and nuance that captures her emotions perfectly. Without reading the rest of the poem, you know exactly what happened and you understand the full spectrum of her thoughts and feelings. This is the essence of truly great poetry.

Where do you seek comfort?

Queen Shenaynay

"Whatever it is that you turn to for comfort, that's your god."

"How can we be so stupid as to turn to inanimate objects, which are at least as fragile as we are, for our comfort?"

-- Elder Mike Ivey, preaching from Isaiah 40

Hast thou not known?
Hast thou not heard, that the everlasting God, the Lord,
the Creator of the ends of the earth,
fainteth not, neither is weary?
There is no searching of His understanding.
He giveth power to the faint;
and to them that have no might He increaseth strength.
Even the youths shall faint and be weary,
and the young men shall utterly fall:

But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength;
they shall mount up with wings as eagles;
they shall run, and not be weary;
and they shall walk, and not faint.

Isaiah 40:28-31, KJV

For my friend Joe Black...

...whose beautiful recent post about fall and being alive has given me a whole new appreciation for the G. K. Chesterton poster in my room--






"We are to regard existence as a raid or great adventure; it is to be judged, therefore, not by what calamities it encounters, but by what flag it follows and what high town it assaults.
The most dangerous thing in the world is to be alive; one is always in danger of one's life. But anyone who shrinks from that is a traitor to the great scheme and experiment of being. "







Now that's what I call a pin-up boy.

A dream of Isaiah

Queen Shenaynay

Last night I dreamt we returned home from a vacation to find our possessions edited by burglars. I was being escorted through each room by an investigator, a kind young woman in a smart green suit, to determine exactly what had been stolen.

It was like a hateful joke that became more pointed as it progressed, for in every newly vacant spot flickered a spectre of some possession that I had held quite dear: an inherited silver tea service monogrammed with an ornate "B", a child's painting, an old crystal vase, all my CDs... the insult grew with each room inspected. But somehow I felt a deep calm.

Then I discovered my jewelry box was gone... and with it all the jewelry given to me by my parents, my husband, my children, the long-gone matriarchs of the family tree, and my collection of artisan jewelry received from a beloved, artsy friend over the course of two decades of birthdays. It was a treasure chest worth more in memories than in monetary value.

The inspector was watching me closely now, perhaps from fear that I would fall apart or even faint. "Are you going to be okay?" she asked.

"Yes," I replied quietly.

"How can you be so calm?" she asked.

And the dream ended with my answer:

"Because it won't affect the resurrection."

* * * * * * *

Thank you, Bro. Mike, for your wonderful sermon Wednesday night on Isaiah 40, and for teaching us to have an eternal perspective on temporal loss, on every worry and heartache: "It won't affect the resurrection." Wonderful, and a timely balm for my bruised and loss-weary heart.

With deepest sympathy

... to all my longsuffering loved ones.

(click to enlarge)











[Ballard Street cartoon by Jerry Van Amerongen]

Pie Are Round. Duh.

Fa-So-La-La

Queenie is right. I am not very good at standardization. However, I have given it a pretty good shot. Yes, I have spent 2 hours a day at least for the past month preparing, trying to become as standard as possible.

And let me tell you, I am ready to be abnormal again!

Irony is the most sophisticated form of humor. Chopin must have been a hopeless romantic to have written those waltzes. I adore green velvet shoes. Art does not have to be lifelike to be good-- God instructed the priests to embroider blue pomegranates on their robes, when He knew good and well that pomegranates are red (He made them that way after all!). Flannery O'Connor was the most courageous writer of modern times-- so violent she offended Christians, so Christian she offended atheists. Our church needs to learn to sing the hymn 'Christ is the Treasure I Desire.'

Sorry, the un-standard part of me is trying to catch up. I've got such high levels of built-up, residual abnormality that I'm to the point of going to Target in dress-up clothes.

Hey-- that does sound like fun. Hmm...

My mind is full of The Essential Body of Knowledge for a Regulation Standardized Life. Misplaced modifiers, powers of negatives, out of scope answer choices, pronoun agreement, 90-60-30 triangles, pi, inference-- it reminds me of one of my grandfather's stories. It goes like this: Once there was an old simple farmer whose son went off to college. When the son came back after his first semester, the farmer (who was skeptical about all this high-falutin' learning) asked him what he had learned in that thar school. And the son said, "Well, I learned Pi r2" (pronounced 'pi R square'). The farmer hooted. "I told you them big city professors didn't know nothing! Why, everyone knows that pie are round!"

On Monday I was sitting in our front yard, enjoying the cool weather and gulping down as much geometry as I could in the least possible amount of time, when our twelve-year-old neighbor walked by.

"So, like, what are you doing?" quoth she.
"Studying for the PSAT-- it's day after tomorrow," quoth me.
"Wow," she said, in a reflective sort of way. "Harsh."

Girl, you are like, so totally right. It's like, I mean, go figure! What's with this anyway? Puleeese. Whatever.

Yesterday, after declaring before dinner that that was quite enough studying, thank you, and if I didn't know it by then it wasn't going to help me on the test, we had the great Turkey-Sacred Harp-Yoga fest already described, and I enjoyed a night of profound, Turkey-Sacred Harp-Yoga-induced sleep. Then today dawned. Well, actually, at the point in time that today began for me, it hadn't dawned. So scratch that. Today happened. I got up early, ate some Aunt Joy's Breakfast Casserole (miraculous stuff!) and then Great Scot took me to the Christian school where I was to take the test.

I was escorted to the room by a kindly lady in a sweater, where I read the Shakespeare's Sonnets poster until the other students came in. They were in pajamas. Yes, pajamas. The kindly lady told me it was some sort of a team week, homecoming or something, I forget, and that pajamas were the traditional attire. It was prime people-watching. You can learn a lot about people by their pajamas.

The whole experience was fascinating. I had not been in a school since my preschool days, and I found myself deeply regretting that I had to spend this fantastic opportunity for observing human nature filling in ovals. But I did manage to watch and listen quite a bit. It was all very interesting-- school, even a good school like this one, has such an effect on people. After watching and listening all morning, I think it makes people more frivolous-- physically, verbally, emotionally, intellectually. The effect of being around your peers too much, and older people not enough. Older people are a refining force, like a fuller's furnace. There was also more noise and boisterous behavior than I am used to-- I realized that I have a quiet life, in terms of the volume of sound I hear day in and day out.

A man in a nice corduroy jacket came in. He was very helpful. He made sure I knew the school address, and all the right codes, and what to fill in on the questions about my school in the part of the test where you answer such questions about yourself. He administered the test. Which is a phrase I hate, so I don't know why I used it. Administered-- it sounds so medicinal. I'll say he gave us the test, a much nicer thing to say-- it makes the whole thing sound like a gift, which is just right. Knowledge, intelligence, and the people who help you attain them are all gifts from God.

When the helpful man read the instructions for the Math section, a girl towards the back raised her hand.

"Excuse me, but are we, like, allowed to use our calculators?"
The man grimaced and answered in the affirmative. He had already said that calculators were allowed several times.
"So, are we, like, allowed to write in our books?"
Another grimace. He had explained this too. "You can write everything out in your test booklet. Use it as scratch paper."
"So then, like, we can't use our heads?"

No need to worry, dear. You aren't anyway.

After the math section we had a short break. The helpful man read from the instructions that we could get a drink, go to the bathroom, and stretch, but we were not to talk about the test. I followed a herd of pajama'd girls to the restroom. The minute the door was shut, one of them said, "Not talk about the test? Ha!" and they proceeded to talk about it very loudly and rapidly. I gathered that they could understand each other. I couldn't-- it seems that not only is the sound at our house lower in volume, it is also significantly lower in speed and frequency.

When the break was over, we went back in and did the second half of the test. After the last oval was filled and all the tests were turned in, the other students stayed in the room until the next class. The helpful man let me go early.

So here I am, home again, home again, jiggity jog, and ready for whatever abnormality comes first to mind. Ready to forget about the test until I get my score in December. Thankful to the Lord for keeping me under His care. Thankful for all the lovely people who prayed for me. Grateful to my family for accommodating and helping me during this.

And oh-so-happy to be back in the land where pies are round.

Fa-So-La-La.... standardized?

... a funny thought.

Queen Shenaynay

But there it is, for tomorrow morning she takes the PSAT, the first standardized test she has ever taken. And then we will know, or so the presumption goes, precisely how standard her achievements are. Right.

I am not exactly a fan of achievement tests, and frankly I struggle not to resent every hour Fa-So-La-La has spent huddled in the corner with her Kaplan program preparing for this blasted thing -- hours which otherwise could have been spent on truly worthy pursuits. But even academic rebels like us must occasionally bow down and conform... acquiesce to being standardized. And so, off she goes at 7 AM to fill in little ovals with a number two lead for three hours.

It occurs to me that the advent of the PSAT and SAT on Fa-So-La-La's life calendar heralds the beginning of the end of our long, wonderful academic journey together. She deserves to do well. I have pushed and pulled and stretched her in a thousand directions, and never once has she grumbled about anything I've ever asked her to do. Truly, she has been a remarkable student, as well as a stimulating and convivial companion. Living and learning with her has made me a much better human being.

Fa-So-La-La has accepted, from the very beginning of kindergarten, that her father and I have a mandate from the Lord to train her well, and that she has a mandate from Him to obey -- and to do so with all her might, and with a cheerful heart. To learn for His glory and not her own. To climb mountains not just because they are there, but because God made them and put them there. She has wholeheartedly embraced that mandate as a responsibility before the Lord, and she has never faltered in taking it very seriously.

It's all of grace, and I am thankful for these blessings.

And I am praying that tomorrow morning, and always, the Lord will more than match her effort, and that He will withhold no good thing from her.


ps. Fa-So-La-La's friends will find this chucklesome: she is doubtless the only student taking the PSAT tomorrow whose mother is weird enough to prepare her the night before with a regimen of turkey & dressing, Sacred Harp and yoga. It's like this: I figured the dose of natural tryptophan in the turkey would be soporific for her chronic insomnia, an hour of belting out Sacred Harp with all her bestest friends singing along on a CD would transport her poor Kaplan-ified brain to a happier zone (which it did, thank you all), and yoga is... well, it's yoga. Knocks her out every time. So there you have it -- PSAT prep at the Beehive: turkey, Sacred Harp and yoga. I guess I'm a tad unusual, as mothers go.

Myrna Loy Shoes

You know it's really Fall on the morning Queen Shenaynay pitches a fit that it's just Too Far Past Labor Day to be stepping out to church in your strappy little white summer sandals, and with fervor ebarks on a mission to promptly shod all Beehive constituents in Myrna Loy shoes* and cowboy boots.

Aaaah and ooh la la. Ain't we fine?

We feel strangely overcome by a sudden need for a Thin Man movie festival.

*As defined by Q. Shenaynay's precise system of footwear nomenclature: a) a rare class of glamour shoe, preferably those with a 1930's or 1940's aura about them, such as might qualify to adorn the feet of Myrna Loy; well-nigh extinct; b) Truly Worthy Footwear; c) an automatic purchase.


[You know you are hopeless shoe fanatic if you feel a dire need to click on the photo to enlarge. But we think it would be well worth your time.]

The Twenty-Third Post

The Beehive has been tagged in a big blog game! Firefly at Bioluminescence tags us with the following meme:

The Twenty-Third Post

Here's the game:
1. Search your blog archive.
2. Find your 23rd post.
3. Find the fifth sentence (this is meant to say something about you).
4. Post that sentence in your blog along with these instructions.
5. Tag five people to do the same.


We'll play! Virtual M&Ms to anyone who can guess which one of us authored the prize-winning sentence... and once you've made your guess you can read the post, To understand indigo, from February 2005, to check your answer. Without further ado...

"It is the glorification of emotion, of fragmented and worthless moments, often preserved in purposefully obscure language. "

Apparently this is supposed to say something about the author. I would say that it most certainly does.

We now tag Take Time To Smell the Coffee, Eclectic Bibliophile, Poor White Oprah, CM, Children and Lots of Grace, and Shades of Green... which will force rachelrachel's gang to post 23 entries fast to their new blog in order to play. Heh heh heh. If anyone can do it, they can.

What was all that about mists and mellow fruitfulness?

Fa-So-La-La

Maybe that's what Keats thought fall was about. But I prefer the following (you knew I wasn't going to agree with Keats!):

• Reading poetry or Lord of the Rings by firelight-- especially outside! Ring-wraiths take on new dimensions by an outside fire.
• Sitting and thinking.
• Watching Persuasion-- perfect.
• Cooking Macaroni and Cheese- and I don't mean the stuff in the box. The real kind.
• Staying up really, really late (on weekends only, of course!) and writing.
• Sitting outside until I shiver, just because shivering is glorious after a long summer.
• Doing something industrious. Cold air is very conducive to busy-ness.
• Listening to Nickel Creek (I know, it's always a good time to do that, but it sounds especially good in fall somehow).
• Drinking pots and pots of tea-- blackcurrant tea is amazing stuff! I'm seriously addicted...
• Reading something really and truly melodramatic. It's the only time of year when I'm in a suitable enough mood that I don't turn into the old muppet in the corner.

Tonight I did the first thing-- I sat outside after dark by our chiminea (New Mexican fireplace thingy) and read Rime of the Ancient Mariner, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Which was an experience, although by no means my favorite poem. You see, if you read that sort of poetry by firelight, you can imagine you live in that time and then it is ever-so-much-better than if you had read it under a lightbulb. Besides, any poetry is just best that way.

Next up, Macaroni and Cheese. Oh, yes, yes, yessidy yes....

Worrisome, part 2

Found in my science book:

"During the experiment, please be careful!! Do not let your face get too close to the jar, because it might crack!"

Adjectives are Noble Things

Fa-So-La-La

Being a Collection of Various Musings on the Worthy Subject of My Favorite Part of Speech.

---------------------------

I'm sure it would be very boring indeed, not to mention frustrating, to live in a world with no adjectives. Can you imagine? A world of bland factual statements, where every sentence sounded just alike, because none of the nuances and beauties of language which are provided by adjectives would be there. How horrifying. Thank the Lord for expressive speech.

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A single well-placed adjective can turn a matter-of-fact statement into a marvel of the English language, as Jane Austen's tight yet descriptive prose proves. She never uses a word too much or too little, and the adjectives are few and far between, yet when she uses them she is sure to pick the right ones. Do you remember the description of Mrs. Musgrove as being 'full of fat sighings?' That sentence can not be improved upon, and the worth of it is all in the deceptively simple adjective 'fat.' Adjectives are such powerful things that an excessive use of them, or a reliance on the 'fancy' ones, is almost as 'unsafe' as Captain Benwicks's love of poetry. :-)

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As lovely as adjectives are when well-used, they are misused frequently and ruinously by all sorts of writers. I am convinced that most errors of style in writing are the result of the conscious and unnatural use of adjectives which the writer supposes to be 'fine.' He is writing along when all of a sudden he realizes that he is supposed to be Writing Literature. He grows self-conscious and begins to force Artsy, Startling, and Original Metaphors upon the poor unsuspecting piece of paper. He is convinced that the odd straining sound that results is the sign of Genuine, Fresh Writing, with lots of Raw Force and Energy and all such as that.

In reality, prose written like this sounds as if the very paper was indignant with the perpetrator of the crime, the author. And it is a crime-- he has committed the crime of Great Art. Art is only great by coincidence, by a happy combination of skill, thought, and chance; no amount of force can make it so if it is not naturally. Art is not a cow to be driven through a gate; it is a genuinely humble outpouring of the beauty inside, and no artist consciously trying to make his words great will ever actually accomplish it.

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Adjectives are the most neglected part of speech in our world. People love nouns. They love verbs. They even love turning nouns into verbs (hence a whole new breed of horrid words such as enthuse). But adjectives are sadly neglected. Your average person, trying to find a word to describe how something is or what he is feeling, relapses into a nonsensical string of 'awesome,' 'cool' or in a dire case of severe emotion, 'whatever.' (You know, as in, "Wow, church today was like so awesome and we were all like crying and it was like, really...wow. Whatever.") Or when they sit down to write something, they are so unused to adjectives as an integral and necessary part of speech that they use them pompously and uncomfortably (as I discussed above). I have actually seen a writing curriculum that advocated having children write a strictly factual paragraph, and then 'dress it up' with adjectives! What better way to teach that expressing your feelings is optional than to treat adjectives as an afterthought? What better way to discourage praising the Lord and his creation? There are dismal implications in ignoring adjectives. Our God is an expressive God, and our religion one of sharing ourselves with Him and others through expression. Adjectives are vital! Use them! Love them! They deserve it!

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Happy Birthday to Spuddy Buddy's Buddy!

Spuddy Buddy says...

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY GOOD BUDDY GRAHAM,

WHO IS 16 TODAY!

True Love

by Wislawa Szymborska


True love. Is it normal,
is it serious, is it practical?
What does the world get from two people
who exist in a world of their own?

Placed on the same pedestal for no good reason,
drawn randomly from millions, but convinced
it had to happen this way -- in reward for what?
For nothing.
The light descends from nowhere.
Why on these two and not on others?
Doesn't this outrage justice? Yes it does.
Doesn't it disrupt our painstakingly erected principles,
and cast the moral from the peak? Yes on both accounts.

Look at the happy couple.
Couldn't they at least try to hide it,
fake a little depression for their friends' sake!
Listen to them laughing -- it's an insult.
The language they use-- deceptively clear.
And their little celebrations, rituals,
the elaborate mutual routines--
it's obviously a plot behind the human race's back!

It's hard even to guess how far things might go
if people start to follow their example.
What could religion and poetry count on?
What would be remembered? What renounced?
Who'd want to stay within bounds?

True love. Is it really necessary?
Tact and common sense tell us to pass over it in silence,
like a scandal in Life's highest circles.
Perfectly good children are born without its help.
It couldn't populate the planet in a million years,
it comes along so rarely.

Let the people who never find true love
keep saying that there's no such thing.

Their faith will make it easier for them to live and die.

Spuddy Buddy learns to ice skate