While wandering through the interminable cyber networking fair that is LinkedIn, I recently stumbled upon an extraordinary profile. The subject (she will remain anonymous, though I find it unlikely that she reads our humble periodical)
self-described her type of work as “LinkedIn Trainer; Social Media Marketing PR Strategy Speaker; and Social Media Club Chicago Founder,” and then listed seven bullet points that were iterations of these positions in different scenarios.
Having long been a skeptic of the worth of social media, I initially thought that she intended a satirical meaning through the copious amount of similar positions listed. Is there really a “Social Media Club?” A club existing for the sake of a metaphorical club? Yet further examination that the profile was presented with full sincerity. And, indeed, she is firmly embedded in the culture of social media: following 2,736 people, and with 8,410 followers, the play-by-play regularity of this self-described “Social Network Maven’s: tweets are what disturbed me the most. From the page I looked at, three hours was the average time between tweets, and most everything cultural and personal was covered: conversations with her daughter, Super Bowl scores, articles being read. I’m surprised we don’t get a detailed analysis of her caloric intake, or any “I’m tired of tweeting” posts, yet I didn’t have the time or interest to browse all 10,510 messages.
Such consistency begs the question, Who is reading these? Who does she assume is reading them? Is this kind of communication inviting interaction, and if so, what is the nature of this kind of interaction? One wonders at the sincerity of Twitter’s claim to be “Without a doubt the best way to share and discover what is happening right now.”
Critics of social media argue that it is making us less human by narrowing our understanding of connection with one another: connection is seen in bits and pieces, snippets of information presented apart from any real understanding of another. And though advocates respond with the claim that it is still a form of communication, the fact remains that “communication” is both a qualitative and quantitative term.
In her book Alone Together, MIT professor Sherry Turkle argues that “Under the illusion of allowing us to communicate better, social media is actually isolating us from real human interactions in a cyber reality that is a poor imitation of the real world” (quoted from The Guardian’s review). Turkle’s perspective echoes that of Wendell Berry which he voiced during a 2009 interview at the University of Wisconsin Madison: internet communities are metaphors of true community, a reality that must constantly be held in mind. The same is true of communication on Twitter: it is a metaphor for communication, present, attentive, auditory, contextual, human communication, and must be remembered as such.
The more significant question that this person’s online profile asks, however, is What is it like to be around this woman? How does one feel conversing with her? What does she like to talk about? I do not know her, and will not presume to infer her personality from her pages, yet it is obvious that her smartphone is always nearby and at the ready.
Twitter itself isn’t to blame for this kind of obsessive use, just as alcohol doesn’t necessarily lead one to alcoholism. Yet, like any addiction, the object becomes the center of the user’s life. It governs thoughts, attention, and energy in such a way that the object permeates the daily pattern of the person’s life. Social media informs the way we imagine communication with others, shaping our understanding of what conversation, connection, and relationship mean. If we are to remain human to one another, and to ourselves, we must participate in true, thoughtful, complex modes of communication that require attentiveness and effort. We must be continually reminded of the reduced form of communication that social media requires, to be in the world of Twitter yet not of it.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Monday, July 12, 2010
Ruminations on Ruminations at Oxford
The year at Oxford wasn’t what I expected it to be, and I’m OK with that. In all honesty, I don’t quite remember what I was expecting my time there to be like while preparing myself last summer, reading up on the differences between American and British English, talking with friends who had spent time at the University, buying jars of peanut butter to stow away in suitcases...just in case. We often hear people say that things we’ve yet to experience rarely meet our expectations, and I often understood failed predictions invariably as disappointed predictions. There wasn’t breathing room in my life-philosophy for surprise, or at least a conscious embrace of surprise, “surprise” defined as the flouting of what we had expected. Certainly, there is a range of pleasantness to surprises: the flat tire on my bike that greeted me a few weeks ago deserved a grimace and accompanying “ugh.” Disappointment is a real thing. However, what matters is the posture with which we approach the betrayal of our expectations, whether we choose to play along with the new direction or respond with bitter reluctance. Wallace Stevens saw life as a stream down which we ought merrily, merrily, merrily row our boats, whistling a tune as though life were but a dream in which we were whisps of smoke.
This notion of “choosing our response to life’s circumstances” tended to strike me as the kind of pitiful, embarrassing guidance you might find in a spineless self-help book. I held a philosophy that valued grief and disappointment as somehow more poignant than joy and gladness, seeing the latter two as exhibited by the slightly ignorant and/or delusional. I had unwittingly adopted a kind of scholar’s melancholy: the realest feelings are the heaviest feelings, and levity is mere flippancy in the face of the human condition. An irony of my year at philosophical Oxford is that, of all places in the world, this was the one where my imagination began to thaw as I discovered and embraced the “joyful laughter that echoes through Creation” as some theologian put it. I had not expected this, and celebrate the surprise.
CS Lewis played an integral role in this spring awakening, as though his mirth reached through heavenly spans into my life. Other’s words can do that, can reach across generations and personalities to meaningfully grace our lives. One of my tutorials was on Lewis’s writings, which meant that I was in constant , if pretend, conversation with him – my mind was always full with his thoughts, words, delightfully witty prose, and insight. A central theme I discovered in his work was his notion of a jovial reality: at its core, the universe in which we live springs from beneficence and love, that it isn’t the victim (or result) of meaningless, destructive chaos. Having matured during the height of the Modernist movement, Lewis recognized a disconcerting cultural trend that assumed the latter perception about reality, which was undoubtedly influenced by the two World Wars. This notion bothered Lewis, who had fought in WWI and lived near London during the Nazi bombing raids of WWII, for he saw it as an alarming and unreasonable turn from belief in a loving God who cares for each of his beings, flaws, virtues, and peculiarities included, yet who allows them to act of their own accord.
For Lewis, grief, disappointment, and pain were real things, and each had significant weight in his life. Yet he found a deep conviction in providence, in “the laughter of things beyond the tears of things,” as Frederick Buechner puts it. The laughter of Sarah at the news of her pregnancy, her son who she ends up naming Isaac, Hebrew for “laughter.” The laughter of the lame man made healthy near the pool called “Beautiful.” The laughter of a mangy, broke street performer when you plop your bag of loose change at his feet. The laughter when you feel the embrace of a loved one after months apart.
It seems to me that Lewis’s confidence in a joyful reality came from his belief that when we pray “Thy Kingdom come,” God’s Kingdom really does come through into our world in the midst of our loneliness and confusion and sorrow and helplessness. We often imagine God’s Kingdom coming as a shocking, publicized, international political overthrow, something that declares itself in flashing lights, yet Jesus talked about it differently, describing it as like finding a buried diamond, or as yeast working in a loaf of bread. It’s a surprise when we notice it, yet it’s happening all around us, inside and outside of church walls, through Christians and nonChristians alike. It’s happening in particulars. It isn’t happening in a way measurable by our mechanical standards, as though we could post time lines that measure incremental Kingdom-arrival like donations for building projects: Creation will always be groaning until the end of time.
Until then, God’s Kingdom – his rule, his way of doing things – is sprouting up like fresh grass through cracks in a city sidewalk. It has taken some time for this notion of God working his redeeming, restoring way into our world to sink in, probably because my imagining of his Kingdom is so influenced by stories of coercive, heartless, industrial and capital expansion that deal in abstract numbers and impersonal aims; our imaginations need re-training to recover realities of God’s character and love and joy.
While preparing to head to Oxford, I imagined that I would meet intelligent people, read and write overwhelmingly much, and learn a different culture. These things all happened, in one way or another, yet I could never have predicted the conversations I would have, what I actually would read and write and learn, how I would change. These particulars invariably surprised me. I grew thankful of the surprises, and began to trust what I had known all along, that God loves us, that he works to fill our lives with joy as we seek and honor him. It’s a continual process, marked with uncertainty, fumbling, and grace, this seeking to live in relationship with God, yet, as we do, we learn that, beyond all religious jargon and institutionally-general assertions of God’s love from churches and churchmembers alike, God knows our hearts and our stories. He knows what we need to discover life, real life, and leads us to these sustenances. Discovering the reality of this particular love is a perpetual epiphany, one that confirms in our souls the best thing: it’s good to be who we are, where we are, alive. We need reminding. A quote from “American Beauty:”
And this picture of a hot air balloon above the University:
This notion of “choosing our response to life’s circumstances” tended to strike me as the kind of pitiful, embarrassing guidance you might find in a spineless self-help book. I held a philosophy that valued grief and disappointment as somehow more poignant than joy and gladness, seeing the latter two as exhibited by the slightly ignorant and/or delusional. I had unwittingly adopted a kind of scholar’s melancholy: the realest feelings are the heaviest feelings, and levity is mere flippancy in the face of the human condition. An irony of my year at philosophical Oxford is that, of all places in the world, this was the one where my imagination began to thaw as I discovered and embraced the “joyful laughter that echoes through Creation” as some theologian put it. I had not expected this, and celebrate the surprise.
CS Lewis played an integral role in this spring awakening, as though his mirth reached through heavenly spans into my life. Other’s words can do that, can reach across generations and personalities to meaningfully grace our lives. One of my tutorials was on Lewis’s writings, which meant that I was in constant , if pretend, conversation with him – my mind was always full with his thoughts, words, delightfully witty prose, and insight. A central theme I discovered in his work was his notion of a jovial reality: at its core, the universe in which we live springs from beneficence and love, that it isn’t the victim (or result) of meaningless, destructive chaos. Having matured during the height of the Modernist movement, Lewis recognized a disconcerting cultural trend that assumed the latter perception about reality, which was undoubtedly influenced by the two World Wars. This notion bothered Lewis, who had fought in WWI and lived near London during the Nazi bombing raids of WWII, for he saw it as an alarming and unreasonable turn from belief in a loving God who cares for each of his beings, flaws, virtues, and peculiarities included, yet who allows them to act of their own accord.
For Lewis, grief, disappointment, and pain were real things, and each had significant weight in his life. Yet he found a deep conviction in providence, in “the laughter of things beyond the tears of things,” as Frederick Buechner puts it. The laughter of Sarah at the news of her pregnancy, her son who she ends up naming Isaac, Hebrew for “laughter.” The laughter of the lame man made healthy near the pool called “Beautiful.” The laughter of a mangy, broke street performer when you plop your bag of loose change at his feet. The laughter when you feel the embrace of a loved one after months apart.
It seems to me that Lewis’s confidence in a joyful reality came from his belief that when we pray “Thy Kingdom come,” God’s Kingdom really does come through into our world in the midst of our loneliness and confusion and sorrow and helplessness. We often imagine God’s Kingdom coming as a shocking, publicized, international political overthrow, something that declares itself in flashing lights, yet Jesus talked about it differently, describing it as like finding a buried diamond, or as yeast working in a loaf of bread. It’s a surprise when we notice it, yet it’s happening all around us, inside and outside of church walls, through Christians and nonChristians alike. It’s happening in particulars. It isn’t happening in a way measurable by our mechanical standards, as though we could post time lines that measure incremental Kingdom-arrival like donations for building projects: Creation will always be groaning until the end of time.
Until then, God’s Kingdom – his rule, his way of doing things – is sprouting up like fresh grass through cracks in a city sidewalk. It has taken some time for this notion of God working his redeeming, restoring way into our world to sink in, probably because my imagining of his Kingdom is so influenced by stories of coercive, heartless, industrial and capital expansion that deal in abstract numbers and impersonal aims; our imaginations need re-training to recover realities of God’s character and love and joy.
While preparing to head to Oxford, I imagined that I would meet intelligent people, read and write overwhelmingly much, and learn a different culture. These things all happened, in one way or another, yet I could never have predicted the conversations I would have, what I actually would read and write and learn, how I would change. These particulars invariably surprised me. I grew thankful of the surprises, and began to trust what I had known all along, that God loves us, that he works to fill our lives with joy as we seek and honor him. It’s a continual process, marked with uncertainty, fumbling, and grace, this seeking to live in relationship with God, yet, as we do, we learn that, beyond all religious jargon and institutionally-general assertions of God’s love from churches and churchmembers alike, God knows our hearts and our stories. He knows what we need to discover life, real life, and leads us to these sustenances. Discovering the reality of this particular love is a perpetual epiphany, one that confirms in our souls the best thing: it’s good to be who we are, where we are, alive. We need reminding. A quote from “American Beauty:”
“…That's the day I knew there was this entire life behind things and…this incredibly benevolent force, that wanted me to know there was no reason to be afraid, ever. Video's a poor excuse, I know. But it helps me remember... and I need to remember... Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it, like my heart's going to cave in.”
And this picture of a hot air balloon above the University:
Monday, May 3, 2010
Welcoming May in an Oxonian Way
After a substantial hiatus, here is something I've written about the recent past. Over the last few months, I've traveled about a handful of countries, Britain included, and plan to write on those soon. Soon, of course, is a relative term.
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May Day in Oxford has traditionally been one of its biggest festivals: local pubs remain open all night on April 30th (normally they close around 11.30), people dress in all types of folksy outfits, and the atmosphere is one of communal jollity, all culminating early the following morning when the town (at least those who wake up, or fortunately, and maybe a bit drunkenly, find their way, in time) congregates in front of Magdalen College’s chapel tower to hear the boys’ choir sing hymns to the rising sun. Afterward, Oxford students traditionally attempt to jump off of the Magdalen bridge into a branch of the Thames, though police have attempted to quell this effort in past years because numerous youth have broken legs on the riverbed – Oxford students, mind you. Whoops.
Though I opted for a few hours of sleep instead of the typically-collegiate all-night romp, I greeted the morning before sunrise and biked over to the bridge with my pajama shorts under a pair of jeans and a fleece to cover my sleep-drowsy head. The morning cold woke me enough to keep my balance on the bike, a welcome aid.
Weaving through the people sardined in front of Magdalen’s tower was a strange experience in itself: though I often hear people, and philosophers (who are people too), wonder if they have experienced something in reality or a dream, I could never honestly relate. Dreams were always weird or recognizable enough to be easily delineated from reality. However, this morning was slightly different, as I was still drowsy from rising, and the most of the people I saw were drowsy from the evening’s activities. Thankfully, I had my camera along with me, and can verify that, yes there were two girls and a guy fighting one another with blow-up rafts while sitting on the shoulders of friends and, yes that kid was weari
ng a white, three-foot hat and strumming half-hearted songs on guitar.
The choir arrived on top of the tower around 6.30, an hour after the sun had officially risen (I checked the national sunrise charts the night before to determine when I really had to wake), evidenced by the small, robed arms waving through the stone fences 44 meters (Oxford’s tallest building) above the restless and weary and merry heads. Though the morning had been mostly cloudy, the sun began peeking through blue sky at this time, and it seems that the choir director wanted to wait for this visibility for the song to start. On this morning, he gets to determine when the day begins, and it felt like we were all waiting for a new year to begin, waiting for the angelic melody to declare the day to our ready ears.
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The song the choir sang sounded similar to those I have heard at the Evensong services, those hauntingly beautiful services often sparsely attended and usually only by older members of the community that have attended from the days when their parents would bring them each evening for the daily rituals of traditional English Anglican services, who know when to kneel and when to turn and when to begin to pray: I know. I watch and follow them.
Hearing the choir sing on this morning was different in the chilling morning breeze, squeezed in the crowd of delirious and delighted and rude and hilarious strangers gathered to celebrate at an ungodly-made-Godly hour, awaiting the sun and glad at its arrival. We weren’t hearing the hymns in a silently melancholy chapel, careful not to stir, self-conscious to see if we conformed to the established rituals, isolated in our pews. People heard the Medieval Latin hymns carried clear from above the hush of the crowd, people who have heard the Christ-story so many times from Christians desperate to reach this tired, post-Christian culture that the mention of Christ sets them either to laughter, defensiveness, or exasperation. People who have stopped going to Church, or people who go to Church because it’s so embedded in their lives as a norm that they don’t think about it as Church, as meeting for worship, but as What You Do on Sunday Morning.
We listened to the hymn as humans, weary and glad and alive, united for a moment in upward-looking thankfulness that the day had arrived, and in that moment something snuck past those “watchful dragons,” as CS Lewis puts it, those criticisms or questions or hardnesses that guard the hearts of people from God’s beauty and love and risenness.
After the first hymn, Magdalen’s Dean of Divinity read a benediction during which his congregation returned to their day, to their friends, to stories from the night before, to questions of where breakfast will be had and where Mike’s shoes might be: liturgy broke the spell.
As I rode back to St. Catz on my bike, I wondered if the morning at the bridge would be significant for some of those present, or if it would merely file in line, insubstantial amongst the other happenings of May-Day eve. Recent reflection shows me that it was significant in my life, though only time shows us the experiences that endure and shape us as we gaze retrospectively through our personal and communal histories.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
The Redemption of, and in, Cohen's "Hallelujah"
The other day, my dad asked me about the meaning of a song and, loving both the song and discussing meaning, I immediately took the bait and plunged in to the discussion. "Hallelujah" by Leonard Cohen is a song that has stuck with me for quite some time and, while I often feel the lyrics and recognize it as a beautiful and heartbreaking work, I've never really taken the time to consider it in its entirety, to see how it coheres and how it can be understood as a complete work of art. What is Cohen saying through all of his imagery and allusion? What is he relating to, relating with?
Listening to the song, my dad felt that it's title didn't suit the song - at it's best being a mistake, at its worst being nearly blasphemous. And I suppose I've always seen the song as a somewhat sarcastic proclamation that "God be praised:" "Life are awful, yet God is good," as though a positive proclamation is a pouring of salt into a wound. However, if one approaches the song believing that Cohen means what he says, that there is some irony to the fact that God is good yet life so often isn't, and realizes that the Bible is a story of this irony and of God intervening into lives of brokenness and despair as people seek Him, I think the song takes on an earnestness that isn't evident at a glance, or isn't obvious to a culture that readily dismisses any hint of earnest yearning.
See what you think:
First of all, in reading or listening to the song, I think it's important to remember that Leonard Cohen has deeply Jewish convictions and writes/creates from that point of view (in his poetry he writes G-d instead of God). So the word "Hallelujah" to him means "God be praised," not "Jesus be praised" as a Christian would recognize it.
Secondly, I believe that he is writing a worship song that is very Psalm-like in the sense that it is written from the posture of a broken, confused, frightened person seeking to praise God. For him, this emptiness results from broken love, and he starts with two Old Testament stories.
The first two stanzas:
Now, I've heard there was a secret chord
That David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
It goes like this: the fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to a kitchen chair
She broke your throne and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah
David committed adultery with Bathsheba, and proceeded to write many of the Psalms from the baffled (bewildered, perplexed) brokenness that resulted from his sin:
"Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me. Do not cast me away from your presence...Deliver me from my bloodguiltiness, O God, the God of my salvation; Then my tongue will joyfully sing of Your righteousness" (Psalm 51 - the whole Psalm works to this effect).
And Samson, in a similar way, lost his anointing because of his sin with Delilah in disobeying God by telling her the secret of his strength. Afterward, realizing the disaster, he cries out to God:
"O Lord God, please remember me and please strengthen me just this time, O God, that I may at once be avenged of the Philistines for my two eyes" Samson (Judges 16.28)
Sin is simply, and impossibly complexly, separation from God, and I think everyone knows this in some way, though they might never use Christian language to express that. We're all longing for wholeness, for connection, for clarity, and these songs and cries express that - Cohen's no less than the others'.
The third stanza is a bit trickier:
You say I took the name in vain
I don't even know the name
But if I did, well really, what's it to you?
There's a blaze of light in every word
It doesn't matter which you heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah
In singing this, I think Cohen is recognizing the fact that, at some level, we're all agnostic: we never have complete certainty of who God is, of his name ("We all see through a glass darkly, as Paul puts it in 1 Corinthians 13). If we did, there wouldn't really be room for faith, or for trusting him (you haven't anything to seek if you've already found it in its entirety). He does exhibit frustration, though, at this disconnect: "What's it to you if I said your name without believing in You? You decided not to fully reveal yourself to me," and I see that as coming more from frustration than humility. However, he then says that, no matter how "holy" or "broken" our praise is, it doesn't really matter: we're simply trying to praise God, no matter "which word You heard." Ultimately all of our attempts to love God are imperfect, yet there is a "blaze of light in every one," and I interpret that as meaning that our praises of God are charged by the part of God that is in us that wants to praise himself, the image of God in us connecting with Himself. CS Lewis describes prayer as "God speaking to God" in the sense that we become conduits for his love and praise. And sin, separation from our Source, certainly inhibits that.
The last stanza is one of humility:
I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you
And even though it all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah
I think the first two lines are a kind of defense as to why Samson and David committed the adultery they did: they couldn't sense God's presence with them, and, ultimately in the wake of that sense of disconnect, "touched," or tried to recreate some semblance of that sense of connection in sleeping with the women in their stories. They didn't consciously think "I don't sense God, so I'm going to give in to temptation," yet on a spiritual level this seems to have occurred. And I think this is ultimately the motivation behind sin: trying to reconnect with God, to mend that disconnect, in ways that aren't God. And it's our struggle, while on earth, to connect with God and help others to do so while existing in the chasm between the proclamation that "God is good" yet "life isn't always great." There is a tension in living there, in recognizing how far we are from God yet imagining what life might be like in complete connection with him. Faith is responding to that might be like, living toward that and from that. It's not an easy thing to assert that life as we know it isn't all there is, that there is a true possibility for restoration and that, I think, is the very definition of hope.
And so Cohen sings from that posture "even though it all went wrong" (even though I completely messed up), "I'll stand before the Lord of Song" (a brilliant name for God) "With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah" (I became lost and hurt in my wandering - yet I only want to praise you, what I'm made to do).
So, that's how I see it. When I first listened to the song, I thought Cohen was saying "Hallelujah" with his tongue in his cheek, yet the more I think about it and listen to it, the more I see it as an earnest Psalm.
Thoughts?
(PS - more on Oxford soon... I haven't given enough time to updates!)
Listening to the song, my dad felt that it's title didn't suit the song - at it's best being a mistake, at its worst being nearly blasphemous. And I suppose I've always seen the song as a somewhat sarcastic proclamation that "God be praised:" "Life are awful, yet God is good," as though a positive proclamation is a pouring of salt into a wound. However, if one approaches the song believing that Cohen means what he says, that there is some irony to the fact that God is good yet life so often isn't, and realizes that the Bible is a story of this irony and of God intervening into lives of brokenness and despair as people seek Him, I think the song takes on an earnestness that isn't evident at a glance, or isn't obvious to a culture that readily dismisses any hint of earnest yearning.
See what you think:
First of all, in reading or listening to the song, I think it's important to remember that Leonard Cohen has deeply Jewish convictions and writes/creates from that point of view (in his poetry he writes G-d instead of God). So the word "Hallelujah" to him means "God be praised," not "Jesus be praised" as a Christian would recognize it.
Secondly, I believe that he is writing a worship song that is very Psalm-like in the sense that it is written from the posture of a broken, confused, frightened person seeking to praise God. For him, this emptiness results from broken love, and he starts with two Old Testament stories.
The first two stanzas:
Now, I've heard there was a secret chord
That David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
It goes like this: the fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to a kitchen chair
She broke your throne and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah
David committed adultery with Bathsheba, and proceeded to write many of the Psalms from the baffled (bewildered, perplexed) brokenness that resulted from his sin:
"Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me. Do not cast me away from your presence...Deliver me from my bloodguiltiness, O God, the God of my salvation; Then my tongue will joyfully sing of Your righteousness" (Psalm 51 - the whole Psalm works to this effect).
And Samson, in a similar way, lost his anointing because of his sin with Delilah in disobeying God by telling her the secret of his strength. Afterward, realizing the disaster, he cries out to God:
"O Lord God, please remember me and please strengthen me just this time, O God, that I may at once be avenged of the Philistines for my two eyes" Samson (Judges 16.28)
Sin is simply, and impossibly complexly, separation from God, and I think everyone knows this in some way, though they might never use Christian language to express that. We're all longing for wholeness, for connection, for clarity, and these songs and cries express that - Cohen's no less than the others'.
The third stanza is a bit trickier:
You say I took the name in vain
I don't even know the name
But if I did, well really, what's it to you?
There's a blaze of light in every word
It doesn't matter which you heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah
In singing this, I think Cohen is recognizing the fact that, at some level, we're all agnostic: we never have complete certainty of who God is, of his name ("We all see through a glass darkly, as Paul puts it in 1 Corinthians 13). If we did, there wouldn't really be room for faith, or for trusting him (you haven't anything to seek if you've already found it in its entirety). He does exhibit frustration, though, at this disconnect: "What's it to you if I said your name without believing in You? You decided not to fully reveal yourself to me," and I see that as coming more from frustration than humility. However, he then says that, no matter how "holy" or "broken" our praise is, it doesn't really matter: we're simply trying to praise God, no matter "which word You heard." Ultimately all of our attempts to love God are imperfect, yet there is a "blaze of light in every one," and I interpret that as meaning that our praises of God are charged by the part of God that is in us that wants to praise himself, the image of God in us connecting with Himself. CS Lewis describes prayer as "God speaking to God" in the sense that we become conduits for his love and praise. And sin, separation from our Source, certainly inhibits that.
The last stanza is one of humility:
I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you
And even though it all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah
I think the first two lines are a kind of defense as to why Samson and David committed the adultery they did: they couldn't sense God's presence with them, and, ultimately in the wake of that sense of disconnect, "touched," or tried to recreate some semblance of that sense of connection in sleeping with the women in their stories. They didn't consciously think "I don't sense God, so I'm going to give in to temptation," yet on a spiritual level this seems to have occurred. And I think this is ultimately the motivation behind sin: trying to reconnect with God, to mend that disconnect, in ways that aren't God. And it's our struggle, while on earth, to connect with God and help others to do so while existing in the chasm between the proclamation that "God is good" yet "life isn't always great." There is a tension in living there, in recognizing how far we are from God yet imagining what life might be like in complete connection with him. Faith is responding to that might be like, living toward that and from that. It's not an easy thing to assert that life as we know it isn't all there is, that there is a true possibility for restoration and that, I think, is the very definition of hope.
And so Cohen sings from that posture "even though it all went wrong" (even though I completely messed up), "I'll stand before the Lord of Song" (a brilliant name for God) "With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah" (I became lost and hurt in my wandering - yet I only want to praise you, what I'm made to do).
So, that's how I see it. When I first listened to the song, I thought Cohen was saying "Hallelujah" with his tongue in his cheek, yet the more I think about it and listen to it, the more I see it as an earnest Psalm.
Thoughts?
(PS - more on Oxford soon... I haven't given enough time to updates!)
Sunday, January 17, 2010
It's Good to do Good
(Back in Oxford! I wrote this the other day, and plan to send it in to the Argus, IWU's newspaper, yet it will probably shortened/edited a bit. The higher-ups probably don't want me encouraging students to shrug off the yoke of their professors. Just kidding. Kind of.)
We live in a world of universal standards, and in worlds of our own self-imposed expectations that linger in our minds and intimidate around every corner. And for many of us, this is especially true regarding academics, having attended school for the past fourteen-or-so years of our lives: Is this essay, this thought good enough? How will my professor find it? Is my work amounting to anything? Studying abroad at Oxford since fall, I find that these standards of goodness have become all the more predominant in my mind, even crippling so sometimes.
Academics here are structured quite differently than they are in the States (it’s kind of fun to refer to the US as “over there”) and most everywhere else except Cambridge. These two universities, since their inceptions in 1167 and 1209 respectively, practice the tutorial system, which means that, instead of frequently attending classes with others, students meet one-on-one or two-on-one with a professor (tutor) in their subject once a week, presenting a prepared essay. There are also optional, and encouraged, lectures to attend. Other than occasional class-like seminars, students largely participate in independent study according to their major and choice of topics. That studying and writing is done mostly in isolation is both wonderful and nearly suffocating at time: the intellectual freedom is refreshing and awakening, yet the independence often makes room for impossible standards to creep in: You’re nowhere near as intelligent as the author you’re reading! That’s not a worthwhile idea – too obvious! You’re probably wasting your time trying. Of course, those specific words don’t enter my mind when I’m trying to think: they stroll in as vague senses, engulfing or subtle, that want to lounge about for a bit and distract.
I don’t think that the desire to do good work is entirely a burdening thing: we wouldn’t have some of the wonderful things in this world if people didn’t respond to that itch inside themselves: Shakespeare’s plays, the pyramids of Egypt, the Mini Cooper. Whatever you look at and think, or feel, “That’s good” was probably created by people responding to the desire to do good, things that could have been created insipidly, to extrinsic standards, yet weren’t. There was some necessity involved: Shakespeare needed to put food on the table, the Pharoah demanded they be built, the British Motor Company wanted a fuel efficient car in response to a 1956 oil shortage, yet the creation of these things within their bounds seems infused with a kind of freedom, almost a joy. Turner’s paintings. Sufjan’s music. Spongebob Squarepants (of course, these are idiosyncratic and claim no universality…).
What, then, about these standards that try to choke off what we would create, say, do? I think that that question leads to another: what makes something good? When can we rest, content, with what we have said, or written, or drawn? Being a rather awful poet, I often wonder, for those who work and think through poetry, how does one know when they are finished with a poem, when they have a sense of its completeness? When can we have any satisfaction with what we’ve done? I think a hint to an answer has to do with the inherent desire for goodness that we have that becomes entangled with others’ standards. And I think we are trained this way when it comes to creating. It’s the difference between solving a math problem and writing an essay: one is right or wrong, the other is good or not good. I’d be wrong to say that anything you create and feel good about is automatically good: we need the comment and critique of those wiser and different from us, especially those we trust. However, when it comes down to it, only we can determine if that desire in us has been satisfied.
It’s easy, incredibly so, to get lost in impossible standards here at Oxford, to grow into a habit of seeing all I write and think as inferior. And yet, I think to how this place probably started: a group of friends eager to learn about themselves and the world. They wanted to read and write and do good things. With today’s ease of publication and communication, there is so much white noise meaningless and detached from real life, especially when it comes to academia. But, in the midst of necessity (that essay is due on Thursday!), there is opportunity to do good work, to do something that means something in your actual life, which means that it will also mean something for someone else, if in a unique way for them. “Good is a social word;” writes Bert Hornback, “its Anglo-Saxon roots also gives us the words gather and together. Good includes self with others.” Listen to that desire. Go into the world and do good. It’s what we’re meant to do.
We live in a world of universal standards, and in worlds of our own self-imposed expectations that linger in our minds and intimidate around every corner. And for many of us, this is especially true regarding academics, having attended school for the past fourteen-or-so years of our lives: Is this essay, this thought good enough? How will my professor find it? Is my work amounting to anything? Studying abroad at Oxford since fall, I find that these standards of goodness have become all the more predominant in my mind, even crippling so sometimes.
Academics here are structured quite differently than they are in the States (it’s kind of fun to refer to the US as “over there”) and most everywhere else except Cambridge. These two universities, since their inceptions in 1167 and 1209 respectively, practice the tutorial system, which means that, instead of frequently attending classes with others, students meet one-on-one or two-on-one with a professor (tutor) in their subject once a week, presenting a prepared essay. There are also optional, and encouraged, lectures to attend. Other than occasional class-like seminars, students largely participate in independent study according to their major and choice of topics. That studying and writing is done mostly in isolation is both wonderful and nearly suffocating at time: the intellectual freedom is refreshing and awakening, yet the independence often makes room for impossible standards to creep in: You’re nowhere near as intelligent as the author you’re reading! That’s not a worthwhile idea – too obvious! You’re probably wasting your time trying. Of course, those specific words don’t enter my mind when I’m trying to think: they stroll in as vague senses, engulfing or subtle, that want to lounge about for a bit and distract.
I don’t think that the desire to do good work is entirely a burdening thing: we wouldn’t have some of the wonderful things in this world if people didn’t respond to that itch inside themselves: Shakespeare’s plays, the pyramids of Egypt, the Mini Cooper. Whatever you look at and think, or feel, “That’s good” was probably created by people responding to the desire to do good, things that could have been created insipidly, to extrinsic standards, yet weren’t. There was some necessity involved: Shakespeare needed to put food on the table, the Pharoah demanded they be built, the British Motor Company wanted a fuel efficient car in response to a 1956 oil shortage, yet the creation of these things within their bounds seems infused with a kind of freedom, almost a joy. Turner’s paintings. Sufjan’s music. Spongebob Squarepants (of course, these are idiosyncratic and claim no universality…).
What, then, about these standards that try to choke off what we would create, say, do? I think that that question leads to another: what makes something good? When can we rest, content, with what we have said, or written, or drawn? Being a rather awful poet, I often wonder, for those who work and think through poetry, how does one know when they are finished with a poem, when they have a sense of its completeness? When can we have any satisfaction with what we’ve done? I think a hint to an answer has to do with the inherent desire for goodness that we have that becomes entangled with others’ standards. And I think we are trained this way when it comes to creating. It’s the difference between solving a math problem and writing an essay: one is right or wrong, the other is good or not good. I’d be wrong to say that anything you create and feel good about is automatically good: we need the comment and critique of those wiser and different from us, especially those we trust. However, when it comes down to it, only we can determine if that desire in us has been satisfied.
It’s easy, incredibly so, to get lost in impossible standards here at Oxford, to grow into a habit of seeing all I write and think as inferior. And yet, I think to how this place probably started: a group of friends eager to learn about themselves and the world. They wanted to read and write and do good things. With today’s ease of publication and communication, there is so much white noise meaningless and detached from real life, especially when it comes to academia. But, in the midst of necessity (that essay is due on Thursday!), there is opportunity to do good work, to do something that means something in your actual life, which means that it will also mean something for someone else, if in a unique way for them. “Good is a social word;” writes Bert Hornback, “its Anglo-Saxon roots also gives us the words gather and together. Good includes self with others.” Listen to that desire. Go into the world and do good. It’s what we’re meant to do.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
The Girl
Forewarning: For those who have recently (and by recently I mean "In the last two months") begun to read my blog, and have recognized a particular pattern in the posts, mainly the "Studying/Living in Oxford" aspect, this post, while relating with the "Studying/Living in Oxford" aspect, will diverge to slightly more a more personal topic, that of friends. One friend in particular. One friend who is a girl in particular. So, if you'd like to hear more about Oxford specifically, I'd like to direct you to either Wikipedia or to Chao Ren's blog, the other student from Illinois Wesleyan studying at Oxford for the year. He's a jolly, warm man, and has a very big smile.
The beginning of this past week was not the highlight of my time here, for reasons I couldn't identify, analyze, and solve. Reading and writing on Shakespeare has not been overly overwhelming as of late, having found a good rhythm of reading and studying his works. It's fascinating to me how quickly one can learn a new language with diligence and patience; for those of you who have read Shakespeare, you may relate with the sense of learning how he shapes ideas, phrases, characters. It's very much a language of his own. Anyway, the work I was doing didn't necessarily contribute to my being down, "blahhness" as I sometimes refer to it in my mind, a few days ago, though I must say my mind will appreciate the rest of the coming weeks. As I mentioned to this friend the other day, the fatigue I feel isn't the same as the Stressful, Overworked Exhaustion that often accompanies the end of a semester at university back at home as much as it is the Ready to Read and Write and Think About Other Things for a While tired. It's time to rest and cross train, and a blog is certainly an aspect of that process.
So work was part of it, and I also found myself confronting a lot of inertia to overcome in bringing myself to meet with others: I love hanging out and enjoying others' presence, no doubt, yet I find myself in phases of varying desires to be around others. Coming to Oxford, I had built up much momentum in my mind and heart in preparation to form friendships with others, to risk spending time with others that might not be fun or enjoyable or easy to relate with. And others risked that on me. And I have found some very wonderful people, and they have found me, over the past two months. So many wonderful British students, as I've mentioned in previous posts, have welcomed us foreigners with genuine warmth and humor, and for that I couldn't be more grateful. For whatever reason, however, I begin to be dissuaded in my mind from spending time with others, from simply hanging out for the sake of hanging out. It could be that I'm afraid of wasting time, yet this is generally when I start to forget that, as CS Lewis writes in Letters to Malcolm, "Dance and game are frivolous, unimportant down here; for "down here" is not their natural place...Joy is the serious business of heaven."
Instead of figuring all of that out here, though, I'd rather focus on her.
Two days ago, I found myself at quite a low point, feeling as though I had been "going through the motions" of life for some time while here, not relishing what I was doing, where I was, who I was with. I felt off, wrong, crooked. BethAnne and I, according to the schedule we had planned for the week, didn't get to talk on Monday or Tuesday, and I sent her an email expressing much of this, trusting her to be one of the more caring listeners I've encountered, one who always lends a compassionate and helpful ear (or eye, in this case, since she would be reading). Though we didn't talk until Wednesday afternoon, she sent a few kind and warm text messages, letting me know of her prayers and thoughts.
Being away from her for the past two and a half months has been no easy endeavor, the difficulty of which fluctuates week to week. Since she studied abroad in Germany last semester, she's encountered the ups and downs, ins and outs, victories and defeats of studying abroad, and has helped me in ways that continue to instill peace and courage and the freedom of joy that she's learned from others pursuing Godly lives. Her enduring email messages, letters, packages (packages!), patience, and endurance (enduring endurance...yep...) in our friendship lift me in so many ways, and I know it's no easy task for her being apart, either (being in scenic, historic, renown Bloomington-Normal Illinois at the moment). She makes me laugh more than anyone I know. She's an incredibly genuine, hopeful, witful, lovely girl, and I'm often astounded
This message feels like a shout-out to her, and I'm OK with that. One of the Proverbs in The Message translation (the translation I probably know best, for better or worse) goes "Don't draw attention to yourself; let others do that for you," and she isn't one to live, serve, love ostentatiously. So, draw attention to her I will, so that others will know a bit of her loveliness too.
Wednesday morning, I opted, at her suggestion, to rest from studies for a bit to read the Bible, pray, and write (about things other than Shakespeare and such) for a bit, and it was what my soul needed at the time: Rest. Strenghtening. Alignment. When we talked later that day, she helped me to process some of the stuff that had built up on my heart, helping to restore me to a certain levity and breathing-easyness. And she later quick to point out that it was not her that helped me out, that it was God's effect (sometimes I wonder why one of his names in the Bible isn't The Great Untangler, yet Prince of Peace does well to that end), and she's right: we prayed, we talked, we listened. And she helped me in that direction. And she does. I know my life is different because of her being woven into it, and I become aware of that the more I learn her and the more she learns me.
In his song "The Dress Looks Nice on You," Sufjan Stevens sings of his listener, "I can see a lot of life in you/ I can see a lot of bright in you," and this well describes what I see in her, and what I see in those I love, in those who love me. I really could go on about all the things I appreciate in her, and will (away from this blog...), yet want those who know me, who are reading this (I assume it's all people I know, unless I've suddenly become Really Famous), that your thoughts, and prayers (if you pray), and notes and letters and emails and smiles and jokes all help me along, all become "twigs" in this raft I'm building as I continue on down this life-river, as a good friend of mine puts it, and I hope to impart some twigs to you as well. We've each something to toss one another, even if it's simply a good hug.
And sometimes that's all we want.
The beginning of this past week was not the highlight of my time here, for reasons I couldn't identify, analyze, and solve. Reading and writing on Shakespeare has not been overly overwhelming as of late, having found a good rhythm of reading and studying his works. It's fascinating to me how quickly one can learn a new language with diligence and patience; for those of you who have read Shakespeare, you may relate with the sense of learning how he shapes ideas, phrases, characters. It's very much a language of his own. Anyway, the work I was doing didn't necessarily contribute to my being down, "blahhness" as I sometimes refer to it in my mind, a few days ago, though I must say my mind will appreciate the rest of the coming weeks. As I mentioned to this friend the other day, the fatigue I feel isn't the same as the Stressful, Overworked Exhaustion that often accompanies the end of a semester at university back at home as much as it is the Ready to Read and Write and Think About Other Things for a While tired. It's time to rest and cross train, and a blog is certainly an aspect of that process.
So work was part of it, and I also found myself confronting a lot of inertia to overcome in bringing myself to meet with others: I love hanging out and enjoying others' presence, no doubt, yet I find myself in phases of varying desires to be around others. Coming to Oxford, I had built up much momentum in my mind and heart in preparation to form friendships with others, to risk spending time with others that might not be fun or enjoyable or easy to relate with. And others risked that on me. And I have found some very wonderful people, and they have found me, over the past two months. So many wonderful British students, as I've mentioned in previous posts, have welcomed us foreigners with genuine warmth and humor, and for that I couldn't be more grateful. For whatever reason, however, I begin to be dissuaded in my mind from spending time with others, from simply hanging out for the sake of hanging out. It could be that I'm afraid of wasting time, yet this is generally when I start to forget that, as CS Lewis writes in Letters to Malcolm, "Dance and game are frivolous, unimportant down here; for "down here" is not their natural place...Joy is the serious business of heaven."
Instead of figuring all of that out here, though, I'd rather focus on her.
Two days ago, I found myself at quite a low point, feeling as though I had been "going through the motions" of life for some time while here, not relishing what I was doing, where I was, who I was with. I felt off, wrong, crooked. BethAnne and I, according to the schedule we had planned for the week, didn't get to talk on Monday or Tuesday, and I sent her an email expressing much of this, trusting her to be one of the more caring listeners I've encountered, one who always lends a compassionate and helpful ear (or eye, in this case, since she would be reading). Though we didn't talk until Wednesday afternoon, she sent a few kind and warm text messages, letting me know of her prayers and thoughts.
Being away from her for the past two and a half months has been no easy endeavor, the difficulty of which fluctuates week to week. Since she studied abroad in Germany last semester, she's encountered the ups and downs, ins and outs, victories and defeats of studying abroad, and has helped me in ways that continue to instill peace and courage and the freedom of joy that she's learned from others pursuing Godly lives. Her enduring email messages, letters, packages (packages!), patience, and endurance (enduring endurance...yep...) in our friendship lift me in so many ways, and I know it's no easy task for her being apart, either (being in scenic, historic, renown Bloomington-Normal Illinois at the moment). She makes me laugh more than anyone I know. She's an incredibly genuine, hopeful, witful, lovely girl, and I'm often astounded
This message feels like a shout-out to her, and I'm OK with that. One of the Proverbs in The Message translation (the translation I probably know best, for better or worse) goes "Don't draw attention to yourself; let others do that for you," and she isn't one to live, serve, love ostentatiously. So, draw attention to her I will, so that others will know a bit of her loveliness too.
Wednesday morning, I opted, at her suggestion, to rest from studies for a bit to read the Bible, pray, and write (about things other than Shakespeare and such) for a bit, and it was what my soul needed at the time: Rest. Strenghtening. Alignment. When we talked later that day, she helped me to process some of the stuff that had built up on my heart, helping to restore me to a certain levity and breathing-easyness. And she later quick to point out that it was not her that helped me out, that it was God's effect (sometimes I wonder why one of his names in the Bible isn't The Great Untangler, yet Prince of Peace does well to that end), and she's right: we prayed, we talked, we listened. And she helped me in that direction. And she does. I know my life is different because of her being woven into it, and I become aware of that the more I learn her and the more she learns me.
In his song "The Dress Looks Nice on You," Sufjan Stevens sings of his listener, "I can see a lot of life in you/ I can see a lot of bright in you," and this well describes what I see in her, and what I see in those I love, in those who love me. I really could go on about all the things I appreciate in her, and will (away from this blog...), yet want those who know me, who are reading this (I assume it's all people I know, unless I've suddenly become Really Famous), that your thoughts, and prayers (if you pray), and notes and letters and emails and smiles and jokes all help me along, all become "twigs" in this raft I'm building as I continue on down this life-river, as a good friend of mine puts it, and I hope to impart some twigs to you as well. We've each something to toss one another, even if it's simply a good hug.
And sometimes that's all we want.
Monday, November 23, 2009
To Cheese or Not to Cheese, Is It Really a Question?
Ben Franklin, in his delightfully witty Poor Richard's Almanac writes that "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy." And, becoming more immersed in English culture, I'm realizing the verity of this claim. However, I would suggest one small yet crucial amendment to his assertion: "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy, yet beer is nowhere near as wonderful as cheese." Other than peanut butter and jelly (jam, for the Brits) sandwiches, eating most any type of cheese brings me comfort and happiness in ways that never cease to amaze. To be sure, I don't appreciate all of them: bleu, swiss, gorgonzola, and sometimes parmesan are simply too much for this American palette. Yet, gift me with a slice of cheddar, or colby jack, or brie, or mozzarella on a cracker (Triscuit's roasted garlic, especially, if you were wondering) with a dollop of dijon mustard and, like giving a dog a good back scratch, you've made a friend for life.
Almost needless to say, stumbling upon this shop in Oxford's Covered Market quite literally caused my mouth to drop open, stopping in my tracks in the midst of scurrying shoppers clamoring for the wares of the place, any doubts I had about Divine intervention immediately evaporated:
The first time I stopped by the Oxford Cheese Company, I didn't try, or buy, any of their offererings, for I was struck mute and dumb by its magnificence. However, returning last friday with renewed focus I set out to buy a wedge of brie for a dinner with a few friends. After the coureous cheesier (like chocolatier? What is the name of the profession for one who harvests cheese? A dairyer? A derrier?) selected a wedge well-suited for four diners, forgiving my inability to convert pounds into grams, I asked to try a few samples from the other blocks. The applewood-smoked gouda was absolutely astounding. The chili-laced cheddar was eternally exquisite...and firey! I wanted to stay until I had sampled each chunk (except the aforementioned displeasing flavors) yet also did not want to outstay my welcome, or take the opportunity for delight from others, no doubt lingering in the shadows ogling the blocks, waiting to muster the courage to step into the exposing flourescent light and take part in the mystery that is eating cheese.
That night, we enjoyed our brie, our gouda, with french baguettes, sliced granny smith apples, red and white wine, pieces of nitrite-loaded ham, and Americana folk music, stories, laughs, and smiles. It was a night to remember, mixed with both European and American culture, and we were all better for it, not in the least because of that dairy delight.
Almost needless to say, stumbling upon this shop in Oxford's Covered Market quite literally caused my mouth to drop open, stopping in my tracks in the midst of scurrying shoppers clamoring for the wares of the place, any doubts I had about Divine intervention immediately evaporated:
The first time I stopped by the Oxford Cheese Company, I didn't try, or buy, any of their offererings, for I was struck mute and dumb by its magnificence. However, returning last friday with renewed focus I set out to buy a wedge of brie for a dinner with a few friends. After the coureous cheesier (like chocolatier? What is the name of the profession for one who harvests cheese? A dairyer? A derrier?) selected a wedge well-suited for four diners, forgiving my inability to convert pounds into grams, I asked to try a few samples from the other blocks. The applewood-smoked gouda was absolutely astounding. The chili-laced cheddar was eternally exquisite...and firey! I wanted to stay until I had sampled each chunk (except the aforementioned displeasing flavors) yet also did not want to outstay my welcome, or take the opportunity for delight from others, no doubt lingering in the shadows ogling the blocks, waiting to muster the courage to step into the exposing flourescent light and take part in the mystery that is eating cheese.
That night, we enjoyed our brie, our gouda, with french baguettes, sliced granny smith apples, red and white wine, pieces of nitrite-loaded ham, and Americana folk music, stories, laughs, and smiles. It was a night to remember, mixed with both European and American culture, and we were all better for it, not in the least because of that dairy delight.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Oxford, Constantly Causing Me To List
Today marks my fourtieth day in England which means it's time for the much-anticipated "Things I Miss/ Don't Miss/ Am Neutral About" List! Many things are different over here in the UK, especially the people (instead of saying "That blew my mind" when seeing fireworks the other night, a British friend of mine said "That twisted my melon!" Definitely earned the laughs he got for that one), yet I'd like to take a look at the non-human differences over here. May it first be said that I do miss people from home: family, friends from Glen Ellyn and from IWU, yet don't want to attempt a thorough message for all of them - by the time I finished I'd probably be back in town for Christmas break. So, here's what I've recognized thus far:
Things I Miss:
- Free Printing (each page costs 10 pence, about 16 cents, to print here, which severely reduces the opportunity to create a collage of all my favorite footballers', authors', and friends' faces on my dorm room ceiling)
- My Dad's Mini Cooper (the fact that I see, on average, six a day doesn't assuage this
pining - it makes me feel more like Tantalus from Greek mythology, forever reaching for that which he can't grasp. I suppose I could steal one...)
- a Real Kitchen with a Real Dishwasher and People Who Regularly Clean Their Dishes (the kitchen in our dorm fits about three people max, and seems perpetually dirty, despite the select few who find some kind of satisfaction in cleaning dishes. I mean, I'm not bitter...
- My Room at Home (in many ways, it's a small sanctuary for me. This deserves a post sometime soon, too)
- Warren (the name of my road bike at home. He's resting in the garage right now.)
- Fall in the Midwest (being my favorite time of year, it pains me slightly to think that I'm missing the turning of the leaves, the Halloween decorations, the brisk breezes, the unique, Ray Bradburyian atmosphere of the Midwest during this time of year. It's wonderful to be alive during the fall.)
- Free-ish Laundry (I include the "ish" because I know it costs my family money when I do laundry at home. I don't see that cost, though...mua ha ha).
Things I Don't Miss
- Traditional Tea Kettles (despite my penchant for the Antique, I've never come across a per-capita electric tea kettle possession like I have here. What an invention! What a reason to wake up in the morning! Westernized efficiency combined with the leisurely delight of a good cup of peppermint tea. Mm-mm)
- The "Non-Guy Fawkes Day Celebrating" Aspect of American Culture (I went to fireworks the other night for this holiday, which were comparable to those we see on the Fourth of July. To end the event, however, they burn a thirty-foot-tall wooden effigy of Guy Fawkes, to celebrate his capture in the midst of the Gunpowder Plot over four hundred years ago. They burn. An effigy. What?!)
- American Roads (there are many cobblestone streets here, another small delight, and one thing I've noticed about them: the lane markers and street signals all seem hand-painted, each a bit wobbly and more detailed than the mechanized stenciling of the streets in the US. The streets feel a bit more personalized here, and sometimes I choose to walk on the sidewalk for that reason)
- American-style Stress (people seem much less hurried and harried over here, they seem to breathe and laugh easier than back home and, surprisingly, I find that students at Oxford, while they take their academics quite seriously, easily turn from their studies to spend time with friends in pubs or wherever else. They are committed, yet not obsessed. I'm sure there are some out there I haven't yet met, though...)
- My Grizzly Man Beard (this month, I planned to do No-Shave November, an endeavor that ended epically last night after a week and a day of growth. It became too itchy and distracting and was hindering my self-esteem. I felt like a caveman, though perhaps someday I'll try to grow a true Mountain-Man patch. The good news, however, is that if my beard were to have grown for a month at the same pace it did this past week, I'd be able to wear it as a coat after a month, thus saving money on winter clothing.)
Things I am Neutral About
- Good Granola Cereal (as described in a recent post, I found some great granola that comes with dried raspberries and pieces of yoghurt. Yum!)
- Literature (though I love my book collection, I'm not sure Oxford can be beat for reading selection and atmosphere...)
- Guitar (though I could use a capo, a benevolent British friend of mine, seeing my in my guitarless agony, offered to lend me his for the term. A Godsend! Now I'm one step further to fulfilling my dream of becoming an Irish street musician.)
- Cool People (though friends aren't interchangeable, and as I mentioned, I do miss those in the States, I've met some truly wonderful, heartening, and fun people here - another reason I'm glad to be here for the year.)
That's it for now, though I'm sure I'll amend this list as the year goes on and I'm continually more aware of differences between here and there.
Things I Miss:
- Free Printing (each page costs 10 pence, about 16 cents, to print here, which severely reduces the opportunity to create a collage of all my favorite footballers', authors', and friends' faces on my dorm room ceiling)
- My Dad's Mini Cooper (the fact that I see, on average, six a day doesn't assuage this
pining - it makes me feel more like Tantalus from Greek mythology, forever reaching for that which he can't grasp. I suppose I could steal one...)- a Real Kitchen with a Real Dishwasher and People Who Regularly Clean Their Dishes (the kitchen in our dorm fits about three people max, and seems perpetually dirty, despite the select few who find some kind of satisfaction in cleaning dishes. I mean, I'm not bitter...
- My Room at Home (in many ways, it's a small sanctuary for me. This deserves a post sometime soon, too)
- Warren (the name of my road bike at home. He's resting in the garage right now.)
- Fall in the Midwest (being my favorite time of year, it pains me slightly to think that I'm missing the turning of the leaves, the Halloween decorations, the brisk breezes, the unique, Ray Bradburyian atmosphere of the Midwest during this time of year. It's wonderful to be alive during the fall.)
- Free-ish Laundry (I include the "ish" because I know it costs my family money when I do laundry at home. I don't see that cost, though...mua ha ha).
Things I Don't Miss
- Traditional Tea Kettles (despite my penchant for the Antique, I've never come across a per-capita electric tea kettle possession like I have here. What an invention! What a reason to wake up in the morning! Westernized efficiency combined with the leisurely delight of a good cup of peppermint tea. Mm-mm)
- The "Non-Guy Fawkes Day Celebrating" Aspect of American Culture (I went to fireworks the other night for this holiday, which were comparable to those we see on the Fourth of July. To end the event, however, they burn a thirty-foot-tall wooden effigy of Guy Fawkes, to celebrate his capture in the midst of the Gunpowder Plot over four hundred years ago. They burn. An effigy. What?!)
- American Roads (there are many cobblestone streets here, another small delight, and one thing I've noticed about them: the lane markers and street signals all seem hand-painted, each a bit wobbly and more detailed than the mechanized stenciling of the streets in the US. The streets feel a bit more personalized here, and sometimes I choose to walk on the sidewalk for that reason)
- American-style Stress (people seem much less hurried and harried over here, they seem to breathe and laugh easier than back home and, surprisingly, I find that students at Oxford, while they take their academics quite seriously, easily turn from their studies to spend time with friends in pubs or wherever else. They are committed, yet not obsessed. I'm sure there are some out there I haven't yet met, though...)
- My Grizzly Man Beard (this month, I planned to do No-Shave November, an endeavor that ended epically last night after a week and a day of growth. It became too itchy and distracting and was hindering my self-esteem. I felt like a caveman, though perhaps someday I'll try to grow a true Mountain-Man patch. The good news, however, is that if my beard were to have grown for a month at the same pace it did this past week, I'd be able to wear it as a coat after a month, thus saving money on winter clothing.)
Things I am Neutral About
- Good Granola Cereal (as described in a recent post, I found some great granola that comes with dried raspberries and pieces of yoghurt. Yum!)
- Literature (though I love my book collection, I'm not sure Oxford can be beat for reading selection and atmosphere...)
- Guitar (though I could use a capo, a benevolent British friend of mine, seeing my in my guitarless agony, offered to lend me his for the term. A Godsend! Now I'm one step further to fulfilling my dream of becoming an Irish street musician.)
- Cool People (though friends aren't interchangeable, and as I mentioned, I do miss those in the States, I've met some truly wonderful, heartening, and fun people here - another reason I'm glad to be here for the year.)
That's it for now, though I'm sure I'll amend this list as the year goes on and I'm continually more aware of differences between here and there.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Exploring Before Dark at Regent's Park
Last weekend, I visited London with a few friends also studying at Oxford through the same study abroad program (Butler’s IFSA). As it turns out, the train ride from Oxford to London isn’t much of a journey, only about an hour or so and the sun was out, which tends to make everything, well, sunnier. Trains are a wonderful travel, no matter the scenery: they’re quiet, smooth, safe – a good place to talk with others or be quiet and think about whatever it is your mind drifts to when you give it the chance to wander. Trains in the UK, and Europe, are especially great, though that assertion might be partly due to the fact that my basis of comparison is the Metra that travels to and fro Chicago. Oh, Metra, some days I want to curse you, some days I want to give you a hug.
The two friends I was with, Anna and Danielle, arrived in London around 1:00 in the afternoon, with exploring on our mind. Our stomachs weren’t grumbling too loudly, since they both bought bagels from a scrumptious, small sandwich shop (The Alternative Tuck Shop – which will earn itself a post very soon) and I packed trusty comfort food: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and a granola bar. My failsafe. My solid rock in the uncertainty of this new land. We made our way to the Tube, our destination the Camden Market in the north of England. Upon arriving there, after a stroll through the borough, I was ready to leave. The area must have possessed the highest concentration of street vendors, of food and t-shirt and questionable paraphernalia, of anywhere on earth, Calcutta included. Sensory overload. Olfactory overload.
After wandering about for a good while, we miraculously found a burrito stand attended by a cheerful, heartwarming Irishman, who made us impeccably fresh and well-balanced (is it presumptuous to assume that you, too, are easily irritated at Chipotle’s probably-intentional disproportionate amount of rice-to-meat?) chicken and steak burritos. Score one for team us! A friend of Danielle’s, Grant, who is studying abroad at King’s College in London, met up with us shortly before our delicious discovery, and vowed to guide us to Regent’s Park as the sun’s descent further approached the horizon.
I had been to Regent’s Park while in London upon first arriving in England, yet only while jogging through, not absorbing the wonderful blending of natural growth and human cultivation of its gardens. The Queen’s Garden was our goal, because of its roses that were slowly dying to the impending winter. When we arrived at the gates, I was worn. Traveling, constantly making logistical decisions, accounting for others’ desires, remembering to keep your wallet in your front pocket, checking your surroundings around every turn, remembering directions, pulling off and donning more layers, working within time constraints, makes me tired pretty quickly. Though it had only been six or seven hours, by the time we arrived at the gates of the Queen’s Garden, I was ready to sit and be still and quiet, to fade into the background for a little while, and watch and listen. And, thankfully, that’s what I got to do.
Look at a few of the flowers I found:
It was good to sit on the park bench there, watching a French couple walking alongside one another, the father pushing a stroller cradling a fleece-swaddled napping baby, seeing a dad chase his toddling son through the garden, them both giggling at one another, hearing Danielle’s and Grant’s conversation drift from the bench a little ways away. There’s something restoring that comes from simply listening, seeing, trying to do no more, and no less. The roses were beautiful, and partly because they weren’t in their prime. Many of them were faded, wilted, calling it quits for the season. Yet there were a few that rewarded the patient explorer, full and vibrant, seeming to take one last stretch in the fading sunlight. I smiled in return.
The two friends I was with, Anna and Danielle, arrived in London around 1:00 in the afternoon, with exploring on our mind. Our stomachs weren’t grumbling too loudly, since they both bought bagels from a scrumptious, small sandwich shop (The Alternative Tuck Shop – which will earn itself a post very soon) and I packed trusty comfort food: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and a granola bar. My failsafe. My solid rock in the uncertainty of this new land. We made our way to the Tube, our destination the Camden Market in the north of England. Upon arriving there, after a stroll through the borough, I was ready to leave. The area must have possessed the highest concentration of street vendors, of food and t-shirt and questionable paraphernalia, of anywhere on earth, Calcutta included. Sensory overload. Olfactory overload.
After wandering about for a good while, we miraculously found a burrito stand attended by a cheerful, heartwarming Irishman, who made us impeccably fresh and well-balanced (is it presumptuous to assume that you, too, are easily irritated at Chipotle’s probably-intentional disproportionate amount of rice-to-meat?) chicken and steak burritos. Score one for team us! A friend of Danielle’s, Grant, who is studying abroad at King’s College in London, met up with us shortly before our delicious discovery, and vowed to guide us to Regent’s Park as the sun’s descent further approached the horizon.
I had been to Regent’s Park while in London upon first arriving in England, yet only while jogging through, not absorbing the wonderful blending of natural growth and human cultivation of its gardens. The Queen’s Garden was our goal, because of its roses that were slowly dying to the impending winter. When we arrived at the gates, I was worn. Traveling, constantly making logistical decisions, accounting for others’ desires, remembering to keep your wallet in your front pocket, checking your surroundings around every turn, remembering directions, pulling off and donning more layers, working within time constraints, makes me tired pretty quickly. Though it had only been six or seven hours, by the time we arrived at the gates of the Queen’s Garden, I was ready to sit and be still and quiet, to fade into the background for a little while, and watch and listen. And, thankfully, that’s what I got to do.
Look at a few of the flowers I found:
It was good to sit on the park bench there, watching a French couple walking alongside one another, the father pushing a stroller cradling a fleece-swaddled napping baby, seeing a dad chase his toddling son through the garden, them both giggling at one another, hearing Danielle’s and Grant’s conversation drift from the bench a little ways away. There’s something restoring that comes from simply listening, seeing, trying to do no more, and no less. The roses were beautiful, and partly because they weren’t in their prime. Many of them were faded, wilted, calling it quits for the season. Yet there were a few that rewarded the patient explorer, full and vibrant, seeming to take one last stretch in the fading sunlight. I smiled in return.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Not Gonna Lie, This Library is Hip
A smallish study break seems a good idea at this point in the day, after having finished one of the three Shakespeare plays lined up for my tutorial on Friday. I was asked to read Henry IV parts one and deux, as well as Henry V, to then write an essay to discuss. Shakespeare, like Classical music or Spongebob Squarepants, seems an acquired taste, for his plays don't always strike one as profound, enjoyable, or even comprehensible at times, which can be surprising given his enduring popularity. Yet, I'm beginning to move beyond all of the predispositions built up over the years of having heard others talk about him and his works, and feel that I'm starting to experience his works for myself, with the help of others, of course. Oxford seems as good a place as any for that to happen.
A lot of this Shakespeare reading occurs in the St. Catherine's library, usually in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that line the upper level walls. The architecture at this college is unusually modern given the general look of Oxford, yet it is a neat contrast with the much older buildings. There is a lot of natural light in the library, certainly designed with that in mind (in a Frank Lloyd Wright-esque way, no doubt), and the place is tomb quiet. Probably the most quiet place on campus, other than the chapel. Oh wait - St. Catherine's doesn't have a chapel (from the website: "The College is one of the few undergraduate colleges in Oxford without its own chapel, which adds to the inclusive and diverse feel of the place," a sentence loaded with implications of views on Christianity...). Sometimes when I'm bored, or restless, I wander about looking at all of the incredible literature sections. It's hard not to be wooed by Oxford's libraries, and I've seen some amazing ones already. Pictures to come.
Anyway, I enjoy coming here in the morning after a solid breakfast, especially if the sun is out. Since one wall of windows faces east and the other west, I tend to switch places after lunch if I return to read or write, like a snow buttercup flower. It's a cozy place, with nooks and crannies, and quite conducive to pondering things, or looking out the window, or spying on the librarians, each of which I may or may not participate in on a daily basis. A fun thing that happened the other day at the Catz library:
An 1866 version of Shakespeare's first folio from 1623, found, hiding in a bookshelf corner!
A lot of this Shakespeare reading occurs in the St. Catherine's library, usually in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that line the upper level walls. The architecture at this college is unusually modern given the general look of Oxford, yet it is a neat contrast with the much older buildings. There is a lot of natural light in the library, certainly designed with that in mind (in a Frank Lloyd Wright-esque way, no doubt), and the place is tomb quiet. Probably the most quiet place on campus, other than the chapel. Oh wait - St. Catherine's doesn't have a chapel (from the website: "The College is one of the few undergraduate colleges in Oxford without its own chapel, which adds to the inclusive and diverse feel of the place," a sentence loaded with implications of views on Christianity...). Sometimes when I'm bored, or restless, I wander about looking at all of the incredible literature sections. It's hard not to be wooed by Oxford's libraries, and I've seen some amazing ones already. Pictures to come.
Anyway, I enjoy coming here in the morning after a solid breakfast, especially if the sun is out. Since one wall of windows faces east and the other west, I tend to switch places after lunch if I return to read or write, like a snow buttercup flower. It's a cozy place, with nooks and crannies, and quite conducive to pondering things, or looking out the window, or spying on the librarians, each of which I may or may not participate in on a daily basis. A fun thing that happened the other day at the Catz library:
An 1866 version of Shakespeare's first folio from 1623, found, hiding in a bookshelf corner!
Monday, October 26, 2009
Quirky People Coming Home to Roost
An aspect of Oxford that I’ve grown to love as I’ve noticed it is the quiet quaintness of this place. The stores, the streets, the proximity of places – there are so many nooks to explore and corners to turn, all of which creates a curious and quietly alive atmosphere. Students, no doubt, contribute to this, what does one call it?, quirkiness. I talked with a friend at dinner last night who told me about a friend of his who, when asked his favorite place in the town said the Ashmolean Museum, where he “can spend hours.” A museum! Not a club, not asleep in his bed, not the dining hall. I’ve noticed that students here seem OK with their peculiarities, more so than students in the States. They aren’t self-conscious when they talk about enjoying reading or writing, or going to plays, and they don’t say it in a pretentious, self-satisfied way. Granted, I have talked with a total of ten British students, and am sure that those with pompous tendencies abound, and students here are still students, with their complaints and stresses and uncertainties about themselves and the future. They are still people. Yet, the community encourages quirkiness, curious individuality, and I like that students go about that in quiet ways.
While walking through University Parks a few days ago, I came upon this curious mound of leaves and sticks beneath a few maples:
A human-sized nest, it seemed to me. Immediately curious, I read the sign planted in the ground nearby, explaining that the creation was the art project of a University student learning about birds’ nest-making processes. So what did she do? Made a nest! Why not? I imagine her walking lightly through a nearby forest, tweed bag in hand, listening to the crowing of birds and crinkling of leaves and sticks underfoot, wearing leather boots and black tights and a grey jumper, a very British outfit, eyes open for medium-sized twigs. She probably spent an afternoon searching, and another afternoon building, smiling at incredulous passersby, sometimes explaining herself to the bolder ones who ask her intentions. I imagine she’s worked on projects before and has moved beyond the defensive posture of one feeling ridiculed by others to a quiet confidence in the joy of her endeavor. And I imagine there are many students like that here, who live into the intellectual and creative freedom offered through the tutorial system, possibly realizing that life itself is about that kind of freedom, to pursue joys and questions and others.
I haven’t yet found a good enough word to express the flavor of life here, and will keep searching for a way. For now, quiet-quirkiness will have to suffice.
While walking through University Parks a few days ago, I came upon this curious mound of leaves and sticks beneath a few maples:
A human-sized nest, it seemed to me. Immediately curious, I read the sign planted in the ground nearby, explaining that the creation was the art project of a University student learning about birds’ nest-making processes. So what did she do? Made a nest! Why not? I imagine her walking lightly through a nearby forest, tweed bag in hand, listening to the crowing of birds and crinkling of leaves and sticks underfoot, wearing leather boots and black tights and a grey jumper, a very British outfit, eyes open for medium-sized twigs. She probably spent an afternoon searching, and another afternoon building, smiling at incredulous passersby, sometimes explaining herself to the bolder ones who ask her intentions. I imagine she’s worked on projects before and has moved beyond the defensive posture of one feeling ridiculed by others to a quiet confidence in the joy of her endeavor. And I imagine there are many students like that here, who live into the intellectual and creative freedom offered through the tutorial system, possibly realizing that life itself is about that kind of freedom, to pursue joys and questions and others.
I haven’t yet found a good enough word to express the flavor of life here, and will keep searching for a way. For now, quiet-quirkiness will have to suffice.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
The Sweet Ride
So, the thought of a study-abroad-life-blog has overwhelmed me a bit over the past two weeks since I last updated. Perhaps it's the amount of reading and writing I do daily at this academic hub, or all of the things I think about during the day that might be worth writing about but also might be a waste of time, or perhaps it's the idea of a blog, of publishing unedited blurbs from my life for anyone to read that makes me feel a bit discouraged. Needless to say, I have an odd aversion to consistently updating others with my life via an online journal. Yet I still want to document things, to take pictures and make lists and explore little wonderings and wanderings.
I was walking around town the other day when a thought hit me, an idea that fits this conundrum and provides me an avenue for expression and documentation and space to write. So, I'll try it for a bit, though not strictly. Taking from Amy Krouse Rosenthal's style, and sticking to my initial desire set in the first post of the trip, I propose to explore small things and ordinary things and lovely things, one or so at a time.
The Sweet Ride
Let's talk about bikes. Let's talk about the joy of living is significantly augmented with the gift of bike. Let's talk about how good it feels to hop on the pedals on a brisk, sunny, breezy fall day, scarf wrapped and helmet buckled (as dad would have it), heading to the park to read and write, on the left side of the road because it's England, on the one-foot-wide green path designated for bikers and encroached upon by bus drivers. Let's talk about how I wandered around Oxford for three hours one afternoon in search of a used bike, to no avail, and eventually settled upon this magical machine after returning to the bike store twice because they prepared the wrong bike for me:
Let's talk about how awesome it is to attach a bungee cord to the package-carrier on the back to hold necessities such as a water bottle and jacket, or small woodland creature. Let's talk about how good it feels to pass someone who doesn't need to be somewhere as badly as you do, so you stand up on the pedals and pump and smile to yourself as you pass them, and imagine yourself sticking a wheel in their spokes to further insult their lack of vigor which makes you laugh to yourself because that's so uncharacteristic of you.
Though this bike isn't nearly as sleek as the hot rod I have at home, it provides swift access to the downtown area of Oxford, rides quietly, smoothly, and confidently. His name is Spencer, and he is a reliable friend in a territory becoming, with his help, more familiar each day.
I was walking around town the other day when a thought hit me, an idea that fits this conundrum and provides me an avenue for expression and documentation and space to write. So, I'll try it for a bit, though not strictly. Taking from Amy Krouse Rosenthal's style, and sticking to my initial desire set in the first post of the trip, I propose to explore small things and ordinary things and lovely things, one or so at a time.
The Sweet Ride
Let's talk about bikes. Let's talk about the joy of living is significantly augmented with the gift of bike. Let's talk about how good it feels to hop on the pedals on a brisk, sunny, breezy fall day, scarf wrapped and helmet buckled (as dad would have it), heading to the park to read and write, on the left side of the road because it's England, on the one-foot-wide green path designated for bikers and encroached upon by bus drivers. Let's talk about how I wandered around Oxford for three hours one afternoon in search of a used bike, to no avail, and eventually settled upon this magical machine after returning to the bike store twice because they prepared the wrong bike for me:
Let's talk about how awesome it is to attach a bungee cord to the package-carrier on the back to hold necessities such as a water bottle and jacket, or small woodland creature. Let's talk about how good it feels to pass someone who doesn't need to be somewhere as badly as you do, so you stand up on the pedals and pump and smile to yourself as you pass them, and imagine yourself sticking a wheel in their spokes to further insult their lack of vigor which makes you laugh to yourself because that's so uncharacteristic of you.Though this bike isn't nearly as sleek as the hot rod I have at home, it provides swift access to the downtown area of Oxford, rides quietly, smoothly, and confidently. His name is Spencer, and he is a reliable friend in a territory becoming, with his help, more familiar each day.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
826? More Like Great26!
Two summers ago, while in Sandwich, Illinois, I came upon a book in a used bookstore after eating a sandwich with a few friends from high school – an annual outing. My heart leapt when the book’s binding registered on the ever-growing wish list in my mind and, as sometimes happens, I sensed a certain providence in the discovery, a sense that I was meant to find that work then and there. A friend of mine recommended Dave Eggers’s achingly sincere, enjoyable, and tragic autobiography A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius some time before the convergence, planting the seed that would prepare my receipt of the book. While an affecting, inspiring, book that reached me on many levels, what is even more interesting is where the book has helped point me.
Researching an author post-read is a healthy activity for any curious reader (right?), and I found myself wanting to know more about Eggers and his life, what he might be up to after releasing such an earnest and noteworthy work, if he was basking in the glow of its success, swimming in pools of gold coins like Scrooge McDuck, or continuing living as an ordinary individual who happens to possess a singular literary talent. Helping start a publishing house, McSweeney’s, that gives ardent, sometimes undistinguished writers a chance at a novel, or inclusion in the quarterly publication, Eggers also began a writing center in San Francisco. His idea was to create a tutoring center in conjunction with the publishing house: with the many talented and encouraging authors loitering around together in a building, why not, in their spare time, extend a pen-ink-stained hand to students in the area? Thus, 826 Valencia was conceived, a child bursting with creative energy the heart to help, quickly wandering to almost every major city in the US, Chicago included.
With the recession in full swing, I knew, this past February, chances were slim that I’d land a lucrative, conveniently scheduled three-month job while home from college on summer break. Living at home has its benefits: free food, my own room, and a bathroom. Oh, and a family that cares for me. Though our well-being does not depend upon my income, thank goodness (that would mean far less used books to buy), I felt a nagging voice in the back of my head: “You need to do something during summer. I know you’re a human being, not a human doing, but that is not an excuse for avoiding involvement.” I knew a bit about 826 Chicago: the storefront, ambiguously called “The Boring Store,” was spy-themed. Plus. It was located in Wicker Park. Plus. It was an 826. Plus. So, with determination and not a little uncertainty, I fashioned a résumé, set up an interview for February 21 and waited.
The interview went semi-awkwardly, on my part, yet they saw something in me, perhaps it was the eagerness with which I answered their inquiries, or the glint in my eye, and I was asked onboard as a summer intern. Right on! Instead of write a “a day in the life of an 826 Chicago summer intern,” I’ll proceed more in the spirit of the community there, by using various objects associated with or belonging to the center to elucidate the experience, with one admonition: to better sense the vibrant and delightful atmosphere there, a visit is necessary. The trip is worth an afternoon.
The Cast-Iron Mechanical Cash Register
Located on Milwaukee Avenue in Wicker Park, the exterior of 826 sports an ostentatious sign signaling “The Boring Store,” with ironically superfluous captions, technical jargon, and product descriptions that mostly say “we don’t take ourselves too seriously.” Inside, one finds oneself amidst rearview sunglasses, posters of international secret intelligence insignias, faux security cameras, and a fake-mustache-trying-on station. The cash register at the cle
rk desk, at first look, seems rather out of place: a big, cast-iron mechanical register no doubt from the turn of the century. However, after more perusal of the store, you realize what holds everything together, the undercover, antiquated, literary (there is a shelf of McSweeney’s-published works) atmosphere – the playful tongue-in-cheekness of the place and the people. And it works. All of the proceeds, the staff are quick to share, help fund the writing center at 826.
A Sunday Afternoon Hotdog Meal
Walk through a doorway next to the register, and you find yourself in the workshop area of 826, a big, open room that feels like a classroom with splashes of color, humor, and enthusiasm. Staff members and volunteers run creative workshops and drop-in tutoring for first grade through high school students year round, free of charge. During the summer usually two or three workshops are held per day, with such titles as, “Travel the World Through Chocolate,” “Once Upon a Time Again: Using Improv to Create a Fairytale Parody,” and “Mystery Mail: Surprising Serials!” (the latter of which I happened to have taught!).
A requisite of the workshops (volunteers submit proposals) is that students receive a tangible representation of their work afterward, usually a booklet compiling the writings of all the attendees. Every year or so, 826 National, the umbrella organization, accepts submissions from the 826s for an official publication. 826 Chicago recently made a book, A Sunday Afternoon Hotdog Meal, a collection of elementary-aged students’ essays concerning all things Chicago: where one should visit, must-see destinations, and where to find the best Chicago-style hotdogs.
White MacBook Laptops
Pardon the break from the single-object description imposed upon the latter half of this essay, for their was not one MacBook employed within 826, no, generally five to six were up and fashionably running at any given moment. The staff members joked that 826 was a prime spot for a Mac commercial with such a uniform technological and aesthetic preference. However, they are not a superficial bunch. Working long hours, constantly helping one another and walking to the Jewel around the corner for sandwich parts, joking with students to elicit their engagement, and somehow finding the energy for patience and wit – they are a lovely and persevering bunch. Much of the encouraging, spontaneous atmosphere of the place, no doubt the only way to foster creativity, is owed to their heartening personalities, and the students are better for it.
There you have it! The place is great, wonderful even. It’s a place where imaginations are urged to wake up, funny bones tickled by oversized feathers, and hearts are encouraged to feel. And the joy is a contagious thing.
(Note: The picture included is of me (on the right) a few of the interns, and a handful of students after a play-writing workshop. Fun! This piece is also pending publication for the Glen Ellyn Bookstore's online journal.)
Researching an author post-read is a healthy activity for any curious reader (right?), and I found myself wanting to know more about Eggers and his life, what he might be up to after releasing such an earnest and noteworthy work, if he was basking in the glow of its success, swimming in pools of gold coins like Scrooge McDuck, or continuing living as an ordinary individual who happens to possess a singular literary talent. Helping start a publishing house, McSweeney’s, that gives ardent, sometimes undistinguished writers a chance at a novel, or inclusion in the quarterly publication, Eggers also began a writing center in San Francisco. His idea was to create a tutoring center in conjunction with the publishing house: with the many talented and encouraging authors loitering around together in a building, why not, in their spare time, extend a pen-ink-stained hand to students in the area? Thus, 826 Valencia was conceived, a child bursting with creative energy the heart to help, quickly wandering to almost every major city in the US, Chicago included.
With the recession in full swing, I knew, this past February, chances were slim that I’d land a lucrative, conveniently scheduled three-month job while home from college on summer break. Living at home has its benefits: free food, my own room, and a bathroom. Oh, and a family that cares for me. Though our well-being does not depend upon my income, thank goodness (that would mean far less used books to buy), I felt a nagging voice in the back of my head: “You need to do something during summer. I know you’re a human being, not a human doing, but that is not an excuse for avoiding involvement.” I knew a bit about 826 Chicago: the storefront, ambiguously called “The Boring Store,” was spy-themed. Plus. It was located in Wicker Park. Plus. It was an 826. Plus. So, with determination and not a little uncertainty, I fashioned a résumé, set up an interview for February 21 and waited.
The interview went semi-awkwardly, on my part, yet they saw something in me, perhaps it was the eagerness with which I answered their inquiries, or the glint in my eye, and I was asked onboard as a summer intern. Right on! Instead of write a “a day in the life of an 826 Chicago summer intern,” I’ll proceed more in the spirit of the community there, by using various objects associated with or belonging to the center to elucidate the experience, with one admonition: to better sense the vibrant and delightful atmosphere there, a visit is necessary. The trip is worth an afternoon.
The Cast-Iron Mechanical Cash Register
Located on Milwaukee Avenue in Wicker Park, the exterior of 826 sports an ostentatious sign signaling “The Boring Store,” with ironically superfluous captions, technical jargon, and product descriptions that mostly say “we don’t take ourselves too seriously.” Inside, one finds oneself amidst rearview sunglasses, posters of international secret intelligence insignias, faux security cameras, and a fake-mustache-trying-on station. The cash register at the cle
rk desk, at first look, seems rather out of place: a big, cast-iron mechanical register no doubt from the turn of the century. However, after more perusal of the store, you realize what holds everything together, the undercover, antiquated, literary (there is a shelf of McSweeney’s-published works) atmosphere – the playful tongue-in-cheekness of the place and the people. And it works. All of the proceeds, the staff are quick to share, help fund the writing center at 826.A Sunday Afternoon Hotdog Meal
Walk through a doorway next to the register, and you find yourself in the workshop area of 826, a big, open room that feels like a classroom with splashes of color, humor, and enthusiasm. Staff members and volunteers run creative workshops and drop-in tutoring for first grade through high school students year round, free of charge. During the summer usually two or three workshops are held per day, with such titles as, “Travel the World Through Chocolate,” “Once Upon a Time Again: Using Improv to Create a Fairytale Parody,” and “Mystery Mail: Surprising Serials!” (the latter of which I happened to have taught!).
A requisite of the workshops (volunteers submit proposals) is that students receive a tangible representation of their work afterward, usually a booklet compiling the writings of all the attendees. Every year or so, 826 National, the umbrella organization, accepts submissions from the 826s for an official publication. 826 Chicago recently made a book, A Sunday Afternoon Hotdog Meal, a collection of elementary-aged students’ essays concerning all things Chicago: where one should visit, must-see destinations, and where to find the best Chicago-style hotdogs.
White MacBook Laptops
Pardon the break from the single-object description imposed upon the latter half of this essay, for their was not one MacBook employed within 826, no, generally five to six were up and fashionably running at any given moment. The staff members joked that 826 was a prime spot for a Mac commercial with such a uniform technological and aesthetic preference. However, they are not a superficial bunch. Working long hours, constantly helping one another and walking to the Jewel around the corner for sandwich parts, joking with students to elicit their engagement, and somehow finding the energy for patience and wit – they are a lovely and persevering bunch. Much of the encouraging, spontaneous atmosphere of the place, no doubt the only way to foster creativity, is owed to their heartening personalities, and the students are better for it.
There you have it! The place is great, wonderful even. It’s a place where imaginations are urged to wake up, funny bones tickled by oversized feathers, and hearts are encouraged to feel. And the joy is a contagious thing.
(Note: The picture included is of me (on the right) a few of the interns, and a handful of students after a play-writing workshop. Fun! This piece is also pending publication for the Glen Ellyn Bookstore's online journal.)
Saturday, October 10, 2009
We're Not In Kansas Anymore, and the Colors are Beautiful
Day 11
Today’s breakfast consists of:
- a lightly-toasted egg-and-cheese sandwich on wheat (sandwich at 8:30am? Of course!
- a bowl of a granola-y cereal I found at the grocer downtown that has chunks of yogurt and raspberry and happiness.
- Claritin (not much nutritional value, to my knowledge), a Vitamin C (more nutritional value) and a pink multi-vitamin (the mother lode of nutritional value.)
- Sunlight streaming through the blinds of the floor to ceiling window in my half of our en-suite room.
- Bon Iver’s “Blood Bank EP,” through headphones (Justin Vernon wasn’t able to make it over this morning)
- A lovely email from a lovely girl back home, a significant girl in my life,
a life-giving girl.
I really couldn’t have concocted a better morning. Since arriving at Oxford, at England for that matter, finding a sense of home hasn’t been easy and the first coupe days here felt, at times, gut-wrenchingly strange and awkward, much like freshmen year at high school all over again. I forget how it is to walk into a dining hall seeing 96% unrecognized faces, no friend-anchor insight to grab a seat next to. Socializing here is an interesting thing: the central place of socialization at St. Catherine’s is the JCR (Junior Commons Room), which boasts a big-screen TV, pool tables, a fire place (that’s never been used, I was told), comfy chairs, and, last but not least, the college bar. At night, students, after finishing dinner and their day’s work, congregate at the JCR simply to hang out and have a drink. This certainly isn’t a strange occurrence – people in the States drink alcohol and meet with one another, sometimes at the same time. Yet, this is certainly not how I’m used to meeting others. I’ll generally meet people I know and then head somewhere.
This past week at Oxford has felt very much like the first week of freshman year at IWU, not a little bit because they pair visiting students with the freshmen here for orientation-type activities. The same element of meeting people, of figuring out how to live and work and play here, of wandering around knowing peoples’ names but not their favorite thing to read or what their real laugh sounds like, is consistent with the beginning of college. In many ways it does feel like I’m carving out a new life in unknown territory, yet now that I have a home-base to return to, a little nook that feels like me with its maps and familiar books and peaceful pictures, the half of my suite (I have to say half because my roommate gets the other half, our spaces divided by a curtain), the territory feels a bit more known. And I would say this is true for many things here.
London was very overwhelming in that sense. While I met some lovely American students who knew the town well and shared significant similarities with me, I still felt like a stranger wandering in a strange land, without a landmark in sight except for the touristy-ones. My map was not yet well-worn, and much less memorized, coupled with the navigation of relating with new people I was placed alongside. I tend to be an incremental person, wanting to slowly appreciate and explore and learn things, and the constant dousing of newness wore on me, this past week at Oxford too.
Yet, and yet, each day continues and I feel more myself, more connected with this place and the people here. Two days ago, I had some free time in the morning, a rare sunny morning at that, and I left St. Catherine’s small-ish campus in search of a quiet bench to read and pray. After ten minutes of walking down a trafficky (pedestrian and automotive) road, past towering, ancient-stone and curiously welcoming Oxford colleges, about to turn around, I happened upon Oxford University Parks, a collection of sports greens on the outskirts of town. By myself, I strolled across the fields, a lone park bench near some small trees (I wish I knew what type). When I reached it, I sat, and breathed, and looked around at the loveliness surrounding me: students in the distance walking to and fro class, the empty soccer pitches resting, waiting for the next games, an older couple sitting on a similar bench a few hundred yards away, the city center not too far off in the distance as indicated by the handful of steeples reaching toward the sky. I wasn’t distracted by a sense of having to meet people, or of having to appreciate where I was because of Oxford being Oxford. I was simply, and peacefully, there, looking around and seeing.
Sitting on the bench, reading a CS Lewis book, Letters to Malcolm, I felt a true sense of belonging here, in the midst of its newness to me (oldness to itself). This place will certainly come to me in increments, as will the friendships and the learning, and the less I feel pressure to absorb it all, the more I am able to. It’s good to be here. It’s good to be here for a while.
Today’s breakfast consists of:
- a lightly-toasted egg-and-cheese sandwich on wheat (sandwich at 8:30am? Of course!
- a bowl of a granola-y cereal I found at the grocer downtown that has chunks of yogurt and raspberry and happiness.
- Claritin (not much nutritional value, to my knowledge), a Vitamin C (more nutritional value) and a pink multi-vitamin (the mother lode of nutritional value.)
- Sunlight streaming through the blinds of the floor to ceiling window in my half of our en-suite room.
- Bon Iver’s “Blood Bank EP,” through headphones (Justin Vernon wasn’t able to make it over this morning)
- A lovely email from a lovely girl back home, a significant girl in my life,
a life-giving girl.I really couldn’t have concocted a better morning. Since arriving at Oxford, at England for that matter, finding a sense of home hasn’t been easy and the first coupe days here felt, at times, gut-wrenchingly strange and awkward, much like freshmen year at high school all over again. I forget how it is to walk into a dining hall seeing 96% unrecognized faces, no friend-anchor insight to grab a seat next to. Socializing here is an interesting thing: the central place of socialization at St. Catherine’s is the JCR (Junior Commons Room), which boasts a big-screen TV, pool tables, a fire place (that’s never been used, I was told), comfy chairs, and, last but not least, the college bar. At night, students, after finishing dinner and their day’s work, congregate at the JCR simply to hang out and have a drink. This certainly isn’t a strange occurrence – people in the States drink alcohol and meet with one another, sometimes at the same time. Yet, this is certainly not how I’m used to meeting others. I’ll generally meet people I know and then head somewhere.
This past week at Oxford has felt very much like the first week of freshman year at IWU, not a little bit because they pair visiting students with the freshmen here for orientation-type activities. The same element of meeting people, of figuring out how to live and work and play here, of wandering around knowing peoples’ names but not their favorite thing to read or what their real laugh sounds like, is consistent with the beginning of college. In many ways it does feel like I’m carving out a new life in unknown territory, yet now that I have a home-base to return to, a little nook that feels like me with its maps and familiar books and peaceful pictures, the half of my suite (I have to say half because my roommate gets the other half, our spaces divided by a curtain), the territory feels a bit more known. And I would say this is true for many things here.
London was very overwhelming in that sense. While I met some lovely American students who knew the town well and shared significant similarities with me, I still felt like a stranger wandering in a strange land, without a landmark in sight except for the touristy-ones. My map was not yet well-worn, and much less memorized, coupled with the navigation of relating with new people I was placed alongside. I tend to be an incremental person, wanting to slowly appreciate and explore and learn things, and the constant dousing of newness wore on me, this past week at Oxford too.
Yet, and yet, each day continues and I feel more myself, more connected with this place and the people here. Two days ago, I had some free time in the morning, a rare sunny morning at that, and I left St. Catherine’s small-ish campus in search of a quiet bench to read and pray. After ten minutes of walking down a trafficky (pedestrian and automotive) road, past towering, ancient-stone and curiously welcoming Oxford colleges, about to turn around, I happened upon Oxford University Parks, a collection of sports greens on the outskirts of town. By myself, I strolled across the fields, a lone park bench near some small trees (I wish I knew what type). When I reached it, I sat, and breathed, and looked around at the loveliness surrounding me: students in the distance walking to and fro class, the empty soccer pitches resting, waiting for the next games, an older couple sitting on a similar bench a few hundred yards away, the city center not too far off in the distance as indicated by the handful of steeples reaching toward the sky. I wasn’t distracted by a sense of having to meet people, or of having to appreciate where I was because of Oxford being Oxford. I was simply, and peacefully, there, looking around and seeing.
Sitting on the bench, reading a CS Lewis book, Letters to Malcolm, I felt a true sense of belonging here, in the midst of its newness to me (oldness to itself). This place will certainly come to me in increments, as will the friendships and the learning, and the less I feel pressure to absorb it all, the more I am able to. It’s good to be here. It’s good to be here for a while.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Away He Go
It’s an unsettling thing to live in a country different from one’s own, to intentionally place oneself in a wholly unfamiliar context and see what happens – what changes, what grows, what is challenged, what becomes quiet, what remains about and within oneself. Having spent only four days in London thus far, days spent largely with other United Statesians, I already sense some of the subtle contrasts of US culture and that of the UK. Before beginning that twiggy branch of thought, though, I’ll posit a “statement of purpose” for the writings to follow in the coming year, a request also asked for by Oxford in its study abroad application, in all its philosophical ambiguity:
The strangest thing for me right now is a sense of being out of rhythm, physically (eating differently, not exercising on the same schedule), mentally (not writing and reading on my own, to the extent I did over the summer), relationally (meeting new people constantly, being away from my family, from BethAnne, from friends), spiritually (it seems that some from the UK like to flaunt the fact that they are very much a post-God culture, as if that were a good place to be).
I’m not upset or miserable here – just processing, and a bit worn too. I’ll probably do a lot of that on this site (thinking, processing, expressing), and I promise more humorous anecdotes and themes. I know I said that last time, honey, but this time it's true. You gotta' believe me. You gotta. Don't leave me.
Anyway, final thought: recently (the last two years, that is), life has seemed to be largely about rebalancing in new contexts, and it is a new balance I now have to find. It’s something that will change, will be challenged, and no doubt strengthened as I seek and remember my Center in this new place.
(Written 3 September 2009 in London (I like to write by hand before typing, though this causes a publication delay))
“First of all, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I do not intend to transcribe a detailed schedule for you as an attempt to tell my story of studying abroad (though I may choose to do so once in a while, if I have a quite unconventional day or am fresh out of good ideas for a post). I do, however, intend to communicate the curious particulars of the days to come, for I find that these are what tend to interest me most in life: the lilt in my Irish friend’s voice, especially evident when he mentions his nation of origin. The compounding frustration of trying to find a reasonably priced, reasonably nutritional, reasonably delicious meal in a supermarket at 18:30. The mildly awkward music situation in the hotel lift, how it turns on when the lift begins moving and turns off when the doors open, as a strangely utilitarian European courtesy. The bleached, matching mullets of the two large, presumably Dutch women sitting next to one another on a sofa in the lobby. The background things. The things that interest me which, therefore, I tend to remember. Hopefully they interest you too.Being away from home and friends isn’t the strangest thing right now; I’ve dealt with the adjustment to living at college, being apart from friends during summer (and this fall, having left two months later than most), and have traveled a bit. Perhaps being in England still feels like a weekend trip. Perhaps I will realize “being here” more fully once I arrive in Oxford, or when I am given a look of disgust after putting peanut butter (I brought two jars – comfort blankets – from home) and jelly on a piece of bread for a sandwich (much like the look I gave to the cheese-and-pickle offering at today’s lunch buffet). Maybe I’ll realize it tonight when I wake wanting to read a Carl Sandburg poem from my favorite anthology and can’t. Maybe I’ll realize it when I walk into CS Lewis’ favorite Oxford pub, The Eagle and Child.
I intend to try to not focus on myself. I get tired and bored of me rather easily, and since I’ll be around me a lot, I’ll enjoy considering other things. I intend to be honest, as honest as I can while maintaining a tact I hope to cultivate. It’s easy to fall into extremes with honesty – clamming up for fear of alienating another, unabashedly confessing for fear of not finding some way, any way, to connect with others. As a wise friend often says, there’s a balance to it.
I intend to invite you to glimpse into this experience with me. Let’s see what happens, this uncontextual adaptation.”
The strangest thing for me right now is a sense of being out of rhythm, physically (eating differently, not exercising on the same schedule), mentally (not writing and reading on my own, to the extent I did over the summer), relationally (meeting new people constantly, being away from my family, from BethAnne, from friends), spiritually (it seems that some from the UK like to flaunt the fact that they are very much a post-God culture, as if that were a good place to be).
I’m not upset or miserable here – just processing, and a bit worn too. I’ll probably do a lot of that on this site (thinking, processing, expressing), and I promise more humorous anecdotes and themes. I know I said that last time, honey, but this time it's true. You gotta' believe me. You gotta. Don't leave me.
Anyway, final thought: recently (the last two years, that is), life has seemed to be largely about rebalancing in new contexts, and it is a new balance I now have to find. It’s something that will change, will be challenged, and no doubt strengthened as I seek and remember my Center in this new place.
(Written 3 September 2009 in London (I like to write by hand before typing, though this causes a publication delay))
Monday, September 28, 2009
Let's See
A few years ago, my dad gave me a newspaper article during Christmas break that he had found while I was away at school, and I have kept it since. It is a short piece (link) written by Garrison Keillor, and the wonder and loveliness of it have haunted me to this day, a sentiment no doubt woven with my quiet surprise at my dad having read and kept a writing that met me in such a real way. In the article, Keillor describes traveling on a bus in Manhattan during a chilled December night, sitting behind a couple he judged to be in their “early 20s:”
This glimpse reminds me of how it is to return home from college after months spent away from home, away from the smell of my closet, a soft blend of laundry and old books, from the quiet murmuring of one of my parents talking on the phone downstairs, from the stairway that is so built into my muscle memory that I now only trip one out of fifteen times when skipping a step on the way up to my room. And, of course, the people: the smell of my dad’s aftershave as he hurries about a breakfasting kitchen, my mom leaving the nearly-finished Chicago Tribune crossword puzzle like a fresh footprint, my younger brother’s indecipherable grumblings chosen over distinct “yes’s” or “no’s” or “I’m at a tumultuous stage in my life and, though I desperately desire to relate with others, the effort is too much right now and you, family, will simply have to wait while I remain in my adolescent-cocoon.” These things I have grown accustomed to, that I see but don’t see, in all their humanness and loveliness and peculiarity.
I begin to wonder, What else am I growing accustomed to? What else is becoming familiar, so familiar that it annoys with its sameness, fulfilling the adage, “familiarity breeds contempt?” Why is it that we desperately desire to know, and be known, yet start to feel stale in our own home, in our own skin? Perhaps it is not so much new people or new places that we truly desire, but fresher, realer ways of seeing all that’s around us. Like Keillor,
“She was a pale-skinned dark-haired beauty, perhaps an Egyptian film star, perhaps not, and the way she laid her head on his shoulder said that they were sweethearts, but he was so cool toward her, so blasé."He didn’t kiss her once though she clearly wanted him to. I hear him say, ‘I was over at Larry’s when you called. Sorry I didn’t call you back.’ ‘What were you doing?’ she said. ‘Just hanging out.’ His hair was much nicer than a man’s hair should be. Too much time spent on that, and why would you hang around with Larry when you could be with her?”
This glimpse reminds me of how it is to return home from college after months spent away from home, away from the smell of my closet, a soft blend of laundry and old books, from the quiet murmuring of one of my parents talking on the phone downstairs, from the stairway that is so built into my muscle memory that I now only trip one out of fifteen times when skipping a step on the way up to my room. And, of course, the people: the smell of my dad’s aftershave as he hurries about a breakfasting kitchen, my mom leaving the nearly-finished Chicago Tribune crossword puzzle like a fresh footprint, my younger brother’s indecipherable grumblings chosen over distinct “yes’s” or “no’s” or “I’m at a tumultuous stage in my life and, though I desperately desire to relate with others, the effort is too much right now and you, family, will simply have to wait while I remain in my adolescent-cocoon.” These things I have grown accustomed to, that I see but don’t see, in all their humanness and loveliness and peculiarity.
I begin to wonder, What else am I growing accustomed to? What else is becoming familiar, so familiar that it annoys with its sameness, fulfilling the adage, “familiarity breeds contempt?” Why is it that we desperately desire to know, and be known, yet start to feel stale in our own home, in our own skin? Perhaps it is not so much new people or new places that we truly desire, but fresher, realer ways of seeing all that’s around us. Like Keillor,
“I don’t want to be like that young man, in the presence of magnificence and oblivious to it. His life has been too easy for him to understand what a miracle her love is. Mine has not.”When we know love, it’s easy to forget what loneliness feels like - what homelessness might feel like because homelessness is the essence of loneliness - its weight and suffocation, how seems inexorable. It’s easy to forget our deep need for one another, for love, when we are with those people, and perhaps this is sometimes a good thing to forget. Yet, it is our quiet, or frantic, sufferings that remind us of all that’s inside calling out to love and be loved. This is a level worth connecting on, the realest level there may be. As Frederick Buechner writes, in his work "Adolescence and the Stewardship of Pain,"
“We are never more alive to life than when it hurts – never more aware both of our own powerlessness to save ourselves and of at least the possibility of a power beyond ourselves to save us and heal us if we can only open ourselves to it. We are never more aware of our need for each other, never more in reach of each other, if only we can bring ourselves to reach out and be reached."If absence, longing, makes us realize our love for others, how can we live with this awareness of their beauty, of their loveliness and depth and humor and holiness? How can we not fall into well-worn paths of being with one another that, because of the familiar footfalls and cracks and ridges, blind people with a gauze of mundanity? We need constantly renewed eyes, hearts, as Jesus put it in Matthew 9.16,
“Neither do men pour new wine into old wineskins. If they do, the skins will burst, the wine will run out and the wineskins will be ruined. No, they pour new wine into new wineskins, and both are preserved.”How then, to engage in this restoration? Far from a conclusive answer, Anne Lamott writes an idea that points toward this renewal in her book Bird by Bird:
“ [Good] books help us understand who we are and how we ought to behave. They show us what community and friendship mean; they show us how to live and die. They [teach]…quality of attention: we may notice amazing details during the course of a day but we rarely let ourselves stop and really pay attention. An author makes you notice, makes you pat attention, and this is a great gift. My gratitude for good writing is unbounded. I’m grateful for it the way I’m grateful for the ocean.”I’m not sure if Jesus read literature, or if half of America even does. That’s not really the point, though. The point is learning to pay attention. To listen. To see others, really see them. I wonder if Adam and Eve had this problem of distraction or boredom before the Fall – probably not. It’s something we need to practice, to re-learn. We need wake-up calls. We need “eyes that see and ears that hear," and good art, good conversations foster this. What if we lived with the growing attentiveness to a God whose silence fills the earth: whose unspoken truth is everywhere, who came down to earth “delivering signs and dusting from their eyes,” as Sufjan Stevens sings? It is an ongoing pursuit, this awareness endeavor, and I wonder how much of it is us seeking to see something, and how much is grace-filled discovery. They mystery, however, is what pushes, lures, and tickles me onward.
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