From My Reading, 2/22/17

I started, but never finished, reading George Orwell's 1984 in high school. Eventually I will get back to it, but I am glad now that I read this first. 

From Brave New World, by Aldous Huxley:

"But why is it prohibited?" asked the Savage. In the excitement of meeting a man who had read Shakespeare he had momentarily forgotten everything else. 

The Controller shrugged his shoulders. "Because it's old; that's the chief reason. We haven't any use for old things here."

"Even when they're beautiful?"

"Particularly when they're beautiful. Beauty's attractive, and we don't want people to be attracted by old things. We want them to like the new ones."

A little later in the conversation, the Controller explains why none of the new things written can be like "Othello":

"Because our world is not the same as Othello's world. You can't make flivvers without steel--and you can't make tragedies without social instability. The world's stable now. People are happy; they get what they want, and they never want what they can't get. They're well off; they're safe; they're never ill; they're not afraid of death; they're blissfully ignorant of passion and old age; they're plagued with no mothers or fathers; they've got no wives, or children, or lovers to feel strongly about; they're so conditioned that they practically can't help behaving as they ought to behave. And if anything should go wrong, there's soma. Which you go and chuck out of the window in the name of liberty, Mr. Savage. Liberty!" He laughed. "Expecting Deltas to know what liberty is! And now expecting them to understand Othello! My good boy!"

The Savage was silent for a little. "All the same," he insisted obstinately, "Othello's good, Othello's better than those feelies."

"Of course it is," the Controller agreed. "But that's the price we have to pay for stability. You've got to choose between happiness and what people used to call high art. We've sacrificed the high art. We have the feelies and the scent organ instead."

"But they don't mean anything." 

"They mean themselves; they mean a lot of agreeable sensations to the audience."

"But they're...they're told by an idiot."

"The Controller laughed. "You're not being very polite to your friend, Mr. Watson. One of our most distinguished Emotional Engineers..."

"But he's right," said Helmholtz gloomily. "Because it is idiotic. Writing when there's nothing to say..."

"Precisely. But that requires the most enormous ingenuity. You're making flivvers out of the absolute minimum of steel--works of art out of practically nothing but pure sensation."

The Savage shook his head. "It all seems to me quite horrible."

"Of course it does. Actual happiness always looks pretty squalid in comparison with the overcompensations for misery. And, of course, stability isn't nearly so spectacular as instability. And being contented has none of the glamour of a good fight against misfortune, none of the picturesqueness of a struggle with temptation, or a fatal overthrow by passion or doubt. Happiness is never grand."

*     *     *

More and more I find myself wondering what we are buying, and buying into. How normal it seems in this corner of the world to expect and demand comfort and ease. How natural it seems to be to allow oneself to behave and be treated as first and foremost a consumer. How often I hear people confusing education with job-training. Does it raise a fight in you, the way it does me?

*     *     *

My other offering today, something old and beautiful. Spent, I suppose. But look:

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I Will Keep At This

I have been quiet for a long time. Partly because my children are getting older and I want to respect their privacy. Partly because I do not feel comfortable writing what is on my mind about my students—again for their privacy, as well as for my own. Partly because I haven’t figured out an honest and real way to communicate the things pressing on my heart and mind the most. And partly because to some extent I have been avoiding writing about those most pressing things, because the thought of doing it is exhausting and terrifying.

Wednesday night, though, I shared some of my feelings on Facebook following the shooting in Orlando. I have been silent too long. I am re-sharing them here, but not before I tell you how beautiful the responses from many of my friends were. It was overwhelming. We have wonderful people in our lives, and if I had stayed silent I would not have realized how many. My children would not know, either.

The fact is, every time I have chosen to speak up about something important, yes—there were people who stepped away, and yes—it hurt, but yes—there were many who stepped closer. Each time I spoke up I found out I was not alone. And each time I spoke up others found out they were not alone. I will keep at this.

I rarely feel ready to speak about something before the rest of the world is on to a new topic, especially because I am not always convinced adding my voice to the noise will make a difference. This time, though, I have to speak up. It has been brewing for months.

I have prayed, I have signed petitions, I have given money. I have read and read and read to try to understand this from different sides. I will keep doing those things, but I also want my friends to know that as the mother of a gay teen it breaks my heart that he is a particular target for violence. That some people may never be able to see what a gorgeous human being he is simply because he is not straight. That practically every day at school he has heard his peers using words that described aspects of who he is as synonyms for stupid, or perverted, or worse. That he has friends who are terrified to come out because of how their families and communities might respond. That he and his sisters woke up Sunday morning not just to the renewed knowledge that this world is full of violence and hate and horrible loss but also to the knowledge that there are people out there who would kill him if they could, without knowing anything else about him.

I have not yet gotten over the fear of judgment from my friends, especially my fellow Christians. But I love my children more than I fear what anyone else thinks, and to me it is a matter of faith to stand beside my son and support him fully. I pray that enough others are heartbroken by what happened in Orlando—that enough people will allow their hearts to be broken—that they will start listening differently. The most important question I ever asked myself, years before my son came out but still not soon enough, was “What if that were my kid?” I believe it is a question that saves lives.

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Light, 12/20/15:

Today's light: sparks, flashes, warmth. 

Got lost in music, in making things, in the people around me. 

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Learning to Speak

1. Yes, I am convinced by now that God speaks—all day, all night—in a stream of beauty and oddities, in kindness, in the words of friends and strangers, and also in pain, in shake-up, in freak occurrence—anything that cracks the veneer we seem so fond of. There was a time I could not pray words, at all. Had nothing but some kind of silent reaching, and looking, and listening, hoped that what I had could be enough. If I could see one beautiful thing, or enter into a phrase of music that reached for heaven, or hear words from a friend or a book that touched the rawest, hurt places, I could take that personally. Maybe God was not silent. Maybe I could listen more carefully. Maybe I could learn better the language I was hearing the most. It is a delicate, difficult language—

2. We visited Oldest at music camp and after four weeks finally got to hear him talk and talk. It was the most comforting wonderful sound. I took pictures of him, even though he did not want me to—couldn't help it. Mostly I took them from the side or behind, but in one picture he is looking straight at me, part pained, part perplexed. Why, Mom? When we hugged him goodbye (two more weeks) and left I was not crushed—only because he told us things. At the parent meeting on the first day of camp, we were given advice: You are not doing anything interesting. There is nothing going on at home, you are not having an amazing vacation without your child. You do not need to encourage homesickness, and your sons and daughters need to focus fully on what they are doing here. I am trying to follow this advice, remembering that “We miss you” gets boring, anyway. I send texts and pictures: oddities, funny happenings, shared memories. Translation: I love you. I am here, always. Recently it dawned on me what language I am speaking.

3. It is a tricky one, this language. Delicate, difficult—language of giraffe’s eye, seed fluff, spark—language of lifted veils and torn curtains. Language of accumulation: snowflake-upon-snowflake, word-upon-word, phrase-upon-phrase. Tear-upon-tear and kindness-upon-kindness. The stars speak it fluently, also the very old, and the very young. And trees, their arms forever lifted. I am only learning, the syllables clumsy on my tongue but also round, smooth. Phrases catch in my head, circle softly, carve deep. I hear them in dreams, they fall at my feet. Listen, and listen. Finally venture a word here and there, cringing at my own accent: beads of honey, hints of salt. 

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Underneath

1. I texted Oldest at camp this evening about the storm that blew through before dinner:

Both Dad and I called out to the girls (from different parts of the house) to go to the basement at the exact same time. We lost a few branches and the roof lost some shingles, but otherwise everything was fine. The girls found this guy on our window afterwards—thought the storm blew him in, maybe.

Hidden deep within those words, or not so deep, were other words. Silent. Tucked into the memory of the other moths we have found as a family: luna, prometheus, sphinx:

I miss you. Your absence is exactly what it should be and I can handle it, but there is this constant ache.

2. Last week I visited the city that will always feel like home. Spent time with old friends and new, visited as many favorite places as I could. Showed Husband where you could get bakery samples big enough to double as dessert. Walked and talked and explored with a friend from high school and her young boy, noticed how much of the time he kept one hand touching her as he explored the world.

Underneath: companionship. Veins of it running deep, silent sometimes—even for decades—and yet they are there.

3. Found this the day before we left for home. I appreciate a gentle subversiveness. Underneath is a story: the impulse(s?) to leave one’s mark, to surprise, to change things.

I am doing my best to pay attention.

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Listen

I figure if things are making sounds they are asking you to listen.

*     *     *

Early, early in the morning. I am awake for no reason but since I am the thoughts have started rushing in and swirling around. First the details: schedule, after-school activities, the never-ending to do list. But then, louder: You are going to let everybody down. You will not be able to do this well. Who do you think you are, anyway? The fears and details need to be answered. They are quieted, often, when I turn to face them. But they are not the only thing to listen to in this early-morning dark. There are also the crickets outside. I can let the silver whir envelop me for a moment. I can hear it as the mating call of countless insects, yes, but I can just as easily hear it as something else, entirely: the fading-away of summer, a gilding of the dark air, the easy praise of a creature fulfilling its calling simply by being, by whirring.

*     *     *

If I have been quiet, these last few months, I have also been listening. It is something, I’m starting to believe, that requires the whole body.

Listen to the fears—we must, I suppose—but listen, also, to the crickets. The crickets should also be required listening.

Listen to the words on the page. Sitting down with a book recently has been like sitting down hungry to a good hot meal—the kind that brings forth an extra prayer, an exhaled Thank you as I take in the first bite. Often, when reading, the inhalation follows: Tell me. I want to eat the words, absorb their marrow into my own, internalize, understand, live the good I find.

This listening—I don’t know how my own voice fits in to it. I only know that it’s hard to listen when I'm making noise, myself. That too often the echo of my own voice makes me cringe.

I believe there are stories to tell. I know that the conversation I want to have with the world is not a conversation if I remain silent. But this deep quiet seems necessary. It is nourishment, it is fuel. It is something, maybe, taking shape.

And all around me there are requests to be heard:

Listen to the words of the song.

Listen to the pictures on the wall, in the book, in your memory.

Listen to the small hand that grabs yours, the eyes (big, deep, wide, scared, friendly) that seek out yours.

Listen to the friend who says she can’t take it anymore.

Listen to the voices everywhere that are frustrated, angry, hurt, afraid: Ferguson, Liberia, Iraq, Syria, Gaza.

Listen to the voices right there beside you in your life—what is asked, what is told, what is left out.

Listen to the wind, the birds, the sunrise.

Listen to what takes shape in your life.

Listen, and be changed.

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Wordless 2014, Day 41

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Week's Work

Over the course of a few days: freezing rain, then snow, then bright sun, warmth and melting. Midnight thunderstorms and water in the basement. Then fog. Then hail. And sun again.

A chance to run outside (twice!) and to feel overly-warm. Puddles to splash through, cool water seeping into my shoes. It felt good. Seeing a robin felt good, too, although hard to believe. The warmth was only a few hours old—did this bird rise up out of the ground?

Sick children. Time together.

Time spent working with my hands. Learning new things, and falling in love with the process.

Antsy students, which translates into chaos mixed with short brilliant moments of learning.

Watching my children respond to others’ deep hurt, and being reminded (again) how very, very fragile it all is.

The chance to take part in the celebration of a life that was full and too short. I did not know her. But now in a way I feel like I do.

More sickness—me this time—twenty hours in bed, and the kindness of my family. Small gifts to treasure: an eleven year-old who was proud to make lunch, a Cadbury creme egg, a read-aloud from the Captain Underpants book of the day. Those hours weren't lost, I've decided.

Monday again, gray sky. New resolve to learn this life as well as I can. Thinking about how sometimes what we're doing looks like staggering, and sometimes it looks like dance.

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From the Heart

In honor of  Valentine's Day this year, I wore a pair of silver heart earrings. I have had them for a very long time. When I was in sixth grade, the boy I liked came up to me after school and gave them to me, along with a single yellow daffodil. I don’t remember what I said to him, only that I stuffed the flower in my backpack before I got on the bus. Because what if someone saw? I had never seen a kid carrying a flower on a school bus. And I might not have known the word for it, but carrying a flower on a school bus seemed like a very ostentatious thing to do.

What strikes me now is that the boy had guts. Especially since my response was less-than-gutsy. I loved the gift but it also made me shake all over, and the idea of having to explain the flower—Where’d you get that? Who gave it to you? Is he your boyfriend?—was completely over the top. But the boy—he was courageous.

I learned from Brené Brown that the word courage comes from the Latin word for heart, cor. Like love, courage is from the heart. And I think the two need each other. They seem to be always entwined. Love (and I mean all kinds, all forms,) risks ridicule and rejection and pain and misunderstanding and mistakes and entanglements and messiness. It forces uncomfortable things like realness and honesty and transparency. It is this totally gorgeous and warm and scary thing. It requires courage. And in the end, I suspect that love is also what creates courage.

So I wore the earrings to honor a sixth grade boy and the person I hope he became. But also because I would like to throw out all my cynicism about Valentine’s Day. Because love is way bigger and more complicated and harder and better than I ever imagined. Isn't that why we spend so many years giving valentines to every kid in the class?

To honor the day this year I wore not only the silver heart earrings, but also the bright flower necklace Husband gave me one Christmas because he saw me fall in love with the colors, and the gifts Youngest showered me with during the 2^nd grade class party: a paper bracelet, a giant plastic cupcake ring, a puffy green heart-shaped sticker that said Hugs. I wore them all for love and courage and everything else from the heart. 

May my understanding of them increase every year.

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Manifesto for Tuesday Morning

Expand, expand, expand.

Never grow tired of sunrises

or frost on windows

or talking to children.

Drink ginger tea

because a friend told you to—

only leave the tea bag in the cup,

just leave it

and let it all turn spicy and rich

and drink that goodness all day—

long after the cup itself is empty.

Enjoy the silence.

Enjoy the noise.

Learn how to seek out

both, and when.

Remember that these three things

are braided through it all:

love,

mystery,

grace.

Follow those strands through,

trace their path

with your fingertip.

Breathe deep.

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Heat Signature

“Mom, look!”

Oldest had a projector set up in the dining room, shining across the table onto the drawn window shades. He had lit candles for dinner, a new small joy he’s brought into our lives recently, and their shadow—

“Look at the flames!”

“I know. That’s a heat signature. I learned about it on Doctor Who.” He started describing the episode.

I looked it up, and I’m not sure that’s exactly what we saw. However, the way my mind works, that’s okay. I learned something true.

First, the candles—their shadow showed something different. We could see their heat rising, rippling into the air. We saw how the flame took up more space—different space—as a shadow than it did as a flame. In your mind you can put flame and shadow together but you still don’t have the whole story.

Second—the idea of heat having a signature. Something that can be left behind, that identifies it's source, even. And of course, the physical side is only the beginning of it.

*     *     *

I’ve been thinking about what people leave behind. The better and longer you have known someone the more complex their signature. But a single sentence or look or gesture, left even by people who are maybe just passing through, can carve a signature deep into the soul, as well. 

“I always used to watch your thighs jiggle in dance class.”

“We! Hate! You!”

“When I had young children I did not bring them to the grocery store.”

The once-overs that said, “What are you doing here?” and “I just wrote you off.”

“He thinks you do drugs. You’re always staring off into space.”

“Well we decided we were going to let God decide how many children we have.”

“Well. You should try harder.”

But also:

“You said our relationship could be about more than just joking around and you were right.”

“If you play as beautifully as you look I would love to hear you someday.” (This is especially powerful spoken by a famous violin teacher to a 13 year-old who does not feel beautiful.)

“You’re right. I made assumptions about who you were, and I shouldn’t have.”

“You matter, too.”

“We’re so proud of you.”

“You were scared? Why didn’t you tell me? I thought you were just really, really brave!”

“I feel like I can talk to you about this.”

*     *     *

It strikes me that we don’t always have control over the signature, what we leave or what we carry with us. That whether it is good or bad or confusing, it continues to burn. That we can’t be certain what kind of trail we’ve left behind us.

It also strikes me that the signatures that burn warmest come mostly from people who are still a part of my life. That my handwritten signature looks the way it does partly because of decisions I made about how I wanted it to look. That I've seen a few small strokes change the entire picture, and that a true artist is always looking for ways to improve her craft.

And if you think that you somehow don’t matter, that you are not constantly touching others, you simply have no idea.

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Thankful, 11/2: Salt

—and everything else savory. The people who draw out your best, the happy surprises, the moments you replay over and over in your mind. All the things that leave you thirsting for more of that, please.

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What Stays at the Table Long After

I keep flowers on the table too long. I’d like to be a fresh-flowers-everyday sort of person, but so far in this life I have tended to be a little too haphazard with that kind of detail. The flowers that make it to our table usually mark something: a recital, an illness, a birthday. Even those that are just-because mark something: welcome home; I love you; I thought of you.

So I leave them in their spot of honor. Beyond the point, usually, where I could dry them and keep them forever (and then what do you do with the dust they gather?) I leave them to brown at the edges and drop petals and droop ever-downward. Yes I notice. Yes I might be lazy. But I keep seeing the gift: Congratulations; I hate that you’re sick; I just wanted you to see this bit of cheeriness every day. There’s always a twinge when I finally decide to take action, petals dropping madly as I carry the vase away from the dining room table. It’s so hard to let go.

Can I pretend that, in the spirit of a Dutch still-life, I am allowing the transitory nature of life to sit with us at the table while we eat? Welcoming the fact that all of it is all the more precious because it’s only for a time?

Maybe.

I keep seeing the flowers in the moment I received them. It’s a moment I don’t want to lose, and even as I hold on, I am reminded of how quickly things pass. Even so, the gift remains.

A seed, maybe, and fertile ground.


 

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Cherry Sorbet

Start with two heaping cups of halved cherries. Assume that any recipe that calls for heaping anything will be good, but maybe especially heaping fruit.

 

Notice: fingers stained with cherry juice. Shining fruit, dark red.

 

Make a syrup with sugar and water.

 

The promise of something simple and sweet is enticing. The motions of cutting into fruit, hollowing out pits, stirring until sugar becomes one with water, are absorbing. Music in the background, and sunlight. The children are quiet but not dangerously-so. Think about a friend’s words and how they hit home, even if they shifted slightly in the hitting: I pour into other people’s lives, I look for ways to bring them comfort and happiness. But I can’t find joy anywhere myself, right now.

Yes. These feelings are familiar. What to do but keep looking? Keep pouring out. Keep caring for others, keep trying to care for yourself. Make cherry sorbet—not because there’s time, not because things make sense, not because life actually feels like a bowl of cherries. Do it as an act of faith.

 

Notice the sun on the fruit. Hear the music. Feel the graininess of sugar through the wooden spoon. Anticipate the flavor, the coolness, and leave everything else aside for a while.

 

Offer something sweet.

 

 

 

 

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What I Brought Home

I’ve been on vacation, with spotty internet access, for two weeks. First a week of percussion camp for Oldest in Minneapolis, then a week of Family Camp in Michigan. Haven’t written much. Most of this month, in fact has been spent away from home. Writing, picture-taking, even reading, have been spotty. I’m looking forward to getting into a real routine in a few weeks. And at the same time “Summer is not over yet…Summer is not over yet…Summer is not over yet” is running in a continual loop in my head.

I’m home now, wrestling with laundry and email and phone calls and schedules. Writing and picture-taking and reading are still taking a back seat…

I wonder how I’ll look back on this summer. A lot of it has been about being in difficult places, and also about rest, and recovery. And I’m not done with any of those things, even though I’m feeling stronger.

Vacation was good. Time and rest and friends and experiences. I’ve never been big on buying souvenirs, but I always bring things home with me. This time was no different:

 

A note from Middle, given to me before I left for Minneapolis.

Wasabi peas. My dad keeps me supplied from Trader Joe’s when I visit, because the only kind I can get at home are dyed bright green and I refuse to buy those.

Dirty shoes (= adventures.)

Taller, older, more complicated children. I want to stop myself from saying it’s happening so fast, their growing up, because I was always so annoyed when adults said it to me. But it’s true, and so what if it’s a cliché? It’s shocking enough to seem worth mentioning.

Notes. The rough beginnings of things I want to write about, the titles of things I want to read, the thoughts and images I want to keep and play with and internalize.

Conversations. I carry them close, let them work in and on me.

 

Sore muscles. Mostly from a climbing wall last week. (Yes, I'm proud.) Having pushed myself to do hard things is something I want to carry as close as my notes and conversations. I’ve spent a fair amount of my life hesitating and shrinking back, and it’s a habit I want to shed completely. Slowly, I’m teaching myself.

Fewer sore muscles than I could have. Not because I’m terribly strong but because I spent so much less energy holding on for dear life when I tried hard things. It’s comforting to know that physical challenges are like performing: you can grow accustomed to putting yourself out there, at least enough to believe you will survive. Zip line, high ropes course, Tarzan swing—I am learning to trust the ropes.

The memory of a roller coaster ride with Oldest. I have not been on a roller coaster, not a big one anyway, since some time in high school. And I absolutely love that I still love them.

 

*     *     *

I think I came back richer. I’m determined to not forget.

 

 

 

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10 Bits of (Suzuki Institute) Magic

1. "I'll try"
2.  Watching Middle chop in Fiddling class
3.  Work = fun
4.  Youngest's gusto-filled up-bow accents
5.  Fresh ways of seeing and hearing
6. Being together
7.  Music that makes you laugh out loud
8. Sitting in the middle of an orchestra fortissimo
9. "Devil Went Down to Georgia"
10. Friendships

Oh, and 11--because we can't forget the frogs.

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Oh Joy

“I think it’s all done now.”

“What’s done, honey?”

“Well, you know how you were supposed to rest? Because of your cough? You’ve been resting a lot, and I think it’s all done now.”

That was Sunday afternoon, a few hours into my rest. It’s not done. (And Youngest is not feeling any more patient today.)

In exchange for being sent home instead of being admitted to the hospital for pneumonia, I’ve promised to be very, very good and rest. And, honestly, my lungs are helping me back that promise up.

Sleep is another story, due to some of my medications. Walking, laughing, talking all wear me out. Internally I am running marathons.

But I am resting. Couch-or-bed, mostly. Oh joy.

The thing is, it is so not boring.

I finished some assigned reading (from Oldest):

And some more assigned reading (from Youngest):

(I finished my assigned reading from Middle a while back):

I’ve also been (much more slowly, because it's rich and delectable and true) reading this and oh—loving it so much:

Also:

Doctor Who with Oldest.

A bracelet-making tutorial with Middle.

Coloring with Youngest.

Lunch in bed today with several guests.

Resting—Oh, joy!

I admit I’ve been dealing with deep discouragement. Getting sick is the least of it, although it’s a very large cherry on top. (And I love the cherry, by the way, fake as it is, especially if you will give it to me without the whipped cream. But you know what I mean, right?)

Here is something I know about creativity: to flourish, it often needs limits. Walls. Trouble, even, if you want to think of it that way.

Maybe beauty is the same way—the kind you want, not the kind you think you want.

Maybe it’s that way with all good things. Light in the darkness, water when you’re thirsty, warmth in the cold.

Amen.

PS—this.

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