Music on Christmas Morning

 

When I was growing up, Christmas morning was always a magical time - all the anticipation had been building for the good news of great joy, and the night before we celebrated with a candle-lit service at church where the story was shared again, along with singing the old hymns with modern voices. Then with the delivery of gifts under the Christmas tree, comes another delivery into our world. He came down to us, as an infant and gentiles (Magi) travelled from far to worship him and offer gifts. I had always wondered why we give gifts as a child, and this answered that pondering. As Lancelot Andrewes wrote in his Christmas sermon of 1622 that he preached in front of King James:

Christ was made poor to make us rich, and so ‘offering gifts’ comes very fit.  There now remains nothing but to include ourselves, and bear our part with them, and with the angels, and all who this day adored Him.  The Magi were Gentiles. So are we. We are to ‘go, and do likewise.’ We cannot say ‘we have seen His star’; the star is gone long since, not now to be seen. Yet I hope for all that, ‘we come to worship.’ [Let] the same day-star be risen in our hearts that was in theirs. For then it will bring us whither it brought them, to Christ.

The Magi followed a star, and may we do the same, though it be risen in our hearts not in the sky. We also are part of the Christmas story today, all these centuries later. In our small ways, we propel the story forward in our participation. 

As the rush of pre-Christmas settles down to Christmas Eve and Christmas, may there be a quiet rising of the star in your heart, something deeper sinking in as the love of God rises.

And on Christmas morning, we can hear the music and hear the words with deeper meaning, from old days of tidings and joy.

I've been reading through the Brontë sisters' poems lately, a lovely book my friend gave me. Anne's Christmas poem stuck out to me as a new favourite, as one I have been reading several times as we lead up to Christmas. 

I'll let Anne's wondrous words lead us into the these Christmas days. Merry Christmas!

Music On Christmas Morning

Anne Brontë

Music I love—but never strain

Could kindle raptures so divine,

So grief assuage, so conquer pain,

And rouse this pensive heart of mine—

As that we hear on Christmas morn,

Upon the wintry breezes borne.

Though Darkness still her empire keep,

And hours must pass, ere morning break;

From troubled dreams, or slumbers deep,

That music KINDLY bids us wake:

It calls us, with an angel's voice,

To wake, and worship, and rejoice;

To greet with joy the glorious morn,

Which angels welcomed long ago,

When our redeeming Lord was born,

To bring the light of Heaven below;

The Powers of Darkness to dispel,

And rescue Earth from Death and Hell.

While listening to that sacred strain,

My raptured spirit soars on high;

I seem to hear those songs again

Resounding through the open sky,

That kindled such divine delight,

In those who watched their flocks by night.

With them I celebrate His birth—

Glory to God, in highest Heaven,

Good-will to men, and peace on earth,

To us a Saviour-king is given;

Our God is come to claim His own,

And Satan's power is overthrown!

A sinless God, for sinful men,

Descends to suffer and to bleed;

Hell MUST renounce its empire then;

The price is paid, the world is freed,

And Satan's self must now confess

That Christ has earned a RIGHT to bless:

Now holy Peace may smile from heaven,

And heavenly Truth from earth shall spring:

The captive's galling bonds are riven,

For our Redeemer is our king;

And He that gave his blood for men

Will lead us home to God again.

Merry Festive Reading

 

Merry festive reading to you!

Do you have any books on your reading list for this time around Christmas? Ones that you want to read - or re-read each year? 

Still on my list I'd like to re-read in the coming week or two include A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens, of course, the absolute classic and the book that is credited with infusing into culture the ways we celebrate Christmas, even today. Also, The Nutcracker by E.T.A. Hoffmann. Last year was the first year I read The Nutcracker, and I think it will be one that I want to read each year.

Until those books are re-visited, here are the ones I have already been reading. I embracing the season with the good books that bring me right into the snowy and wintry landscapes, cheer, and mystery.

Jane Austen's Christmas - The Festive Season in Georgian England, edited by Maria Hubert

Traditions from the time of Jane Austen, with excerpts from her novels, her letters to and from family,  recipes, poems, and other letters and diary entries to get a sense of that time period and how they celebrated. Games families played were quite different from what we might consider today - such as apple bobbing. Isn't that a Halloween thing? Recipes are also quite interesting to read (and not try out, I am not so brave).

I loved learning more about the Twelfth Night Festivities, such traditions we do not even talk about today - from the last evening of Christmas to the Feast of Epiphany (when the wise men visited). Would you like to play Snapdragon, which involved popping raisins into your mouth from a bowl of flaming brandy?  You'd have a bowl flaming and reach your hands in to grab a raisin. Yes, this was a children's game. Popular from the sixteenth century. Maybe after you have some bullet pudding. 

Winters in the World, Eleanor Parker

I am re-reading this one, all the Winter sections, as it does travel through the seasons from the Anglo-Saxon world. It's absolutely delightful and fascinating to me. The literature, poetry, beliefs, traditions, and language. Winter is an invading force that comes quickly into their world, taking the world by storm, so to speak. The language finds beauty in all things about the turning year. We see the seasons changing and the importance of how it shapes their world. In a time that depending on the weather for survival, harvests, and livelihood, they paid such close attention to the gifts of each season.

After (All Saint's Day) comes Winter's Day, far and wide,
six nights later, and seizes sun-bright autumn
with its army of ice and snow,
fettered with frost by the Lord's command,
so that the green fields may not longer stay with us,
the ornaments of the earth.

The Wood at Midwinter, Susanna Clarke

Susanna's newest book, a short story beautifully illustrated. A fantasy tale inspired from myths and stories of saints. It is another crossover kind of story, like Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, where the real world and the world of fairy intertwine, and characters cross over. Strange indeed, and though provoking. A young girl gives up everything to raise a baby cub. In doing so, attempts to heal a brokenness between the natural world and man.

As Susanna writes in her afterword "In my own writing I had become fascinated by characters who are bridges between different worlds, between different states of being, characters who feel compelled to try and reconcile the unreconcilable."

The World of Xmas

 

We live in a world of Xmas.

Once upon a time in a parallel world imagined by C.S. Lewis (or simply an observance of our own world), we lived a preparatory period of 50 days leading up to a festival of Xmas. This festival made out to be a fun and happy time, but had requirements like filling the shops to buy gifts and cards for every person you know, or half-know, weary and exhausted, but as part of the sale adverts you must follow the trends and get gifts that are popular and wanted by all. Which means fighting crowds at the shops. It's a whole rushed experience because you are pushed around the long halls of shopping malls in pursuit of the sale.

This means, of course, you're quite emptied in spirit and in wallet, and have loads on credit cards to foster such purchases, and as we approach the main event, you're exhausted and irritated, so you spend half the day of the event in bed and/or your pajamas, trying to recover from overeating, overspending, and overdrinking. But that's all part of the event festivities encouraged.

Yet another event, a holiday is celebrated the same day, called Christmas and it is kind of the opposite of Xmas, in which the folks who celebrate wake early, dress nicely, and attend service joy-filled and focused on worship of one they call Creator. A story is told of a baby born and the young mother is seen as blessed above all women, yet she's in a dirty barn with her baby and receives unexpected visitors who travel from afar and have vastly different approaches to living. They want to bring gifts or sit there in adoration of the baby. The light shines brightly on Christmas as the Light has come into the world.

Yet, collide these two events do, on the same day. One affects the moment, a fleeting time of pleasure followed by regret of overindulging in various ways, and the other is never lacking and always filled to the brim with an everlasting joy not able to be purchased with coupons clipped. With one, we are glad when its over as we are already wearied of all the "things" and seek to shut it all away as soon as possible. While the other seeks to celebrate for a few weeks after the official event, seeing how it is possible to accept a gift that adds joy more and more the longer you follow. A weariness doesn't come. The light doesn't fade.

For Exmas and the Rush distract the minds even of the few from sacred things. And we indeed are glad that men should make merry at Crissmas; but in Exmas there is no merriment left. 

"Xmas and Christmas" by C.S. Lewis

Family, Freindship, and Jane Austen

 

She professed a love of Books without Reading, was Lively without Wit, and generally good humoured without Merit.

- from "Kitty, or the Bower" by teenage Jane Austen

The air in our region is sun-filled and chilly. The bite in the wind is delightful, perfectly Autumnal and welcome to usher in the season of gatherings and holidays. I don a sweater and smile. Wearing layers and sweaters and jackets makes me so happy. I look for time to take walks when the weather is like this. Eager to enjoy the best time of year in these parts. I make lattes and endless cups of tea with weather so charming. As we prepare ourselves for the holidays, and the coming Thanksgiving festivities with family this week, I have been deeply amused by some of my reading. Who doesn't need some amusement? 

You know the name of Jane Austen. How much have you read of hers? I daresay you haven't dipped into her teenage writings. Here we get a taste of what she was playing around with. Language, family dynamics,  social drama, escapades. Jane is a great source for us of the domestic life around 1800. She often wrote a tale for a family member, a brother, niece, etc. They all allude to jokes and are meant for that person. In these stories often set-up as letters, she assembles little worlds of the everyday social atmosphere. We all know about needs and expectations of family and friends, well, she mixes those into a tale dealing with fortune, family, marriage, and status. These tales are a bit messy and repetitive. They don't follow much of a storyline sometimes. They hold a bit of a dramatic flair in quite funny ways (note: I am keeping all the capitalization and spelling as Jane Austen wrote, she consistently wrote her "e" before "i" rather than "i" before "e" becoming a bit of a hallmark of her teenage style, for example "freindship", "beleive", "veiw", etc) - -

When the Ladies returned, their amazement was great at finding instead of Eliza the following Note.

"Madam"
     "We are married & gone."
                        "Henry & Eliza Cecil"

Her Grace as soon as she had read the letter, which sufficiently explained the whole affair, flew into the most violent passion & after having spent an agreable half hour, in calling them by all the shocking Names her rage could suggest to her, sent out after them 300 armed Men, with orders not to return without their Bodies, dead or alive; intending that if they should be brought to her in the latter condition to have them put to Death in some torturelike manner, after a few years of Confinement.

 Ahh, yes, who wouldn't want to be part of this family? I chuckle often. Reading her "The History of England" in kings and queens is so sarcastic; it's very funny and so worth reading. These are glimpses of the more mature Jane Austen to come in her well-known novels, mixing wit within the social constructs of her time. Reading these I can even see hints that expand into her future writings. 

Do you ever feel like you need to decline that nosy new acquaintance who wants to intrude on your life, and aren't sure how to put them in their place with respect? Don't worry, Jane Austen's got your back. 

"My dear Miss Grenville said I, you appear extremely young - & may probably stand in need of some one's advice whose regard for you, joined to superior Age, perhaps superior Judgement might authorise her to give it - . I am that person, & I now challenge you to accept the offer I make you of my Confidence and Freindship, in return to which I shall only ask for yours - "

"You are extremely obliging Ma'am - said She - & I am highly flattered by your attention to me - . But I am in no difficulty, no doubt, no uncertainty of situation in which any Advice can be wanted. Whenever I am however continued she brightening into a complaisant smile, I shall know where to apply."

I bowed, but felt a good deal mortified by such a repulse...

This is from a short section simply "Collection of Letters". Remember next time you need some advice on how to deal with some nosy folks, turn to Jane Austen. She may offer some Georgian rejection and humor to get you through it. 

Attention Reading!

 

Read not to contradict and confute, nor to believe and take for granted, nor to find talk and discourse, but to weigh and consider. Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested; that is, some books are to be read only in parts; others to be read but not curiously; and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention.

- Francis Bacon (1561 - 1626)

This passage from an essay of Bacon's could be the topic of an entire debate, I feel. Those bookish people could gather in a room and discuss their views on the different kinds of reading. With the amount of stellar books to read, with such a variety of writing styles and depths, I certainly agree, and implement myself, different ways of reading. Part of the kind of reading depends on what you seek from the book. Do you seek to learn, gain perspective, research, or be entertained? Those require different types of reading attention. I read slowly when I seek to learn, I read very fast when I am just seeking entertainment. My attention level is greatly increased when I am going to write about it later with significant depth. 

Do you dip into books? Do you read every page? Does it depend on the book?

My most abundant conversation is with books.

- Seneca, Letters on Ethics

Seneca wrote a collection of letters with advice as a mentor to a young man, frequently referencing books and encouraging more reading to learn about ethics and improve oneself. When you are reading are you having a conversation with the book? How do you have that conversation? I have a pen at the ready, marking paragraphs, underlining sentences, making notes in the margins, and sometimes arguing with the author in the margins. 

The idea is to have a dialogue, think about what you are reading. Do you agree, or not? Why? What insights or truth is being portrayed?

Wake a meaning, rather than convey a meaning.

- George MacDonald

This idea is so profound and so prominent in MacDonald's books. The first time it came to my attention it revealed remarkably how God can speak to us when we are properly woken up - it changes the way we see things. The ideas of sleeping and waking is also evident in Scripture where we are told - wake up oh sleeper, and stay alert and awake for His coming. Keep watch. Stay alert for the Lord's coming. Be mindful. All these reminders of staying awake. It makes me think of how much of us sleep through our daily lives, not alert, not engaged, and not even thinking about anything. This reminds me to read deeply to be awakened to the true, deeper meaning in good books.

Milton the Poet (not the hurricane)

 

We said goodbye to Milton the hurricane over a month ago, with gladness to be parted from its influence.  Milton the poet we also said goodbye to 350 years ago, and yet to this day welcome his influence. So, let's appreciate and visit with John Milton, the poet. 

You are likely familiar with the epic poem, Paradise Lost, published in 1667 by a bookseller Samuel Simmons in London. John Milton lived during a time of civil war in England, the Restoration of the Monarchy when Charles II came to the throne. Anti-Catholicism was the norm, and John Milton was a traditional protestant who believed in free will and freedom to choose our eternal destination. If Adam had not been free, he might have been like a puppet, Milton had said. Made in the image of God, man was, but with the freedom given to humanity.

You may have read this in school or sections of it, as it's exemplar poetry, along the lines of Homer and Dante. Epic, grand, world altering scenes told through (in Milton's case) unrhymed verse (English heroic verse without rhyme aka: iambic pentameter) that tells the heroic-type story of the fall of Adam and Eve. But the story doesn't begin with them, even though it is immediately alluded to in the opening lines:

Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste
Brought death into the world, and all our woe,
With loss of Eden, till one greater man
Restore us, and regain the blissful seat

The story then flows into a scene of hell, with the first views for Satan as he arrives, along with his fallen comrades who have been thrown out of Heaven. Satan is extremely displeased to discover where they are, in a place of torment and despair. But he rallies his followers, that persuasive and prideful stature of Satan; he stands tall and commits that hope is not lost. They can reclaim heaven by waging eternal war to conquer the grand foe, and cause utmost despair unto God. Satan and his mates swear:

To do aught good never will be our task,
But ever to do ill our sole delight.

Satan says he is equal to God. He believes God just has the power, which he can choose to overthrow (pride is the biggest deceiver). He refuses to let the tyranny of heaven rule him. But what should their next action be? They have a council meeting to discuss the options for how to wage war against Heaven and make their reign secure.

Here for his envy, will not drive us hence:
Here we may reign secure, and in my choice
To reign is worth ambition though in Hell:
Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heav'n.

Satan is a motivational speaker, rousing his followers as they jump up to join him in the rally. They determine that some new creation is coming, with beings that God is creating, and that can be the source of revenge. So we begin the tale of Milton's cosmos, where Heaven sits on top of the Chaos which is below. Before we even get a glimpse of God or His Creation to come, we see the behind the scenes situation of Satan and his fall. This sets up the scale of our whole story and how cosmic is truly is.

I seemed to have timed my re-visit with Milton perfectly to align with the celebration of his death 350 years ago. Milton's only surviving home, called Milton's Cottage, located outside of London, was the cottage where he lived and wrote the epic Paradise Lost. Milton's Cottage held a 24 hour Miltonathon - where volunteer readers read through the corpus of his works. How amazing is that? To watch and listen to readers from around the world, starting in England, over to America, Canada, New Zealand, Japan, and back to England. I dropped in as much as I could. I listened to Milton being read out loud while I did chores, while I made some lunch and dinner, and while I waited for my tea to steep. Delightful. 

If I could suggest, I think we need more occasions to read poetry and prose out loud to each other. Not as a special occasion only, but as regular evening activity, like long ago was the normal entertainment of the evening to provoke further, deeper discussion on such questions that might be raised by such great works as this one. The beauty of the poetry, the sound of the words, the story unfolding, and the experience with one another. 

Noise - Noise

 

From The Screwtape Letters, by C.S. Lewis. Letters written by an experienced demon to a younger one, instructing him in ways to tempt and draw souls to hell.

My Dear Wormwood...

    Music and silence - how I detest them both! How thankful we should be that ever since our Father entered Hell - though longer ago than humans, reckoning in light years, could express no square inch of infernal space and no moment of infernal time has been surrendered to either of those abominable forces, but all has been occupied by Noise - Noise, the grand dynamism, the audible expression of all that is exultant, ruthless, and virile - Noise which alone defends us from silly qualms, despairing scruples, and impossible desires. We will make the whole universe a noise in the end. We have already made great strides of Heaven will be shouted down in the end. But I admit we are not yet loud enough, or anything like it. Research is in progress. 

Screwtape is instructing his nephew in the ways of pulling souls into hell (seemingly) on their own accord. The art is taught in temptation, distraction, noise, and self-satisfaction. Frequently Screwtape encourages Wormwood to nudge souls into the selfish thinking, and to make them be proud of their "humility". So often the pride rises to overtake any ounce of goodness. These twisted ways of thinking can sweep us into disturbed state, and yet this is the battle that is going on for our souls every day.

Prayer is powerful. It deflects the forces of the Satan. We are not powerless. Most importantly God hears our pleas, no matter if they are formed in words or murmurs of despair. May this week be a time of prayer for our country, as we enter into the election week and the uncertainty that will unfold. 

I rebel against the noise everyday. My (ideal) evening is an image of quiet and silence in a simple, typical evening. A mug of tea, a book, legs tucked onto my chair. Stillness, quiet, thinking, praying, reading. Deep breaths. 

May we look toward the Lord of all things, who rules everything under the sun. Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and yet remember who is the ruler of Caesar? Our Father in Heaven. God is above all things. 

Romans 13:1 - Let every soul be subject unto the higher powers. For there is no power but of God: the powers that be are ordained of God.

And may there be attention given to good music, and not to all the noise that is trying to grab our attention:

HERE and HERE and HERE and HERE

Back to Brontë

 

I am very glad to let roads lead me back to the Brontës. I have been eyeing this biography on my to-read stack, and I finally picked it up, and I'm so glad I did. I've read some other biographies of Charlotte, and the Brontës. I have always felt a closeness with Charlotte. She was an avid reader, passionate about writing, creative, independent, had poor eyesight, was always creating stories to figure out life, and was also adaptable with her work. She could take jobs she disliked (governessing, teaching) but kept onwards trying to make it work, whilst her siblings failed at keeping any positions for various reasons. Their lives are filled with tragedy, as they lose their mother and two sisters very young in life. Their father, the minister at the parish church in Haworth, outlived all of them.

This biography delightfully focused a lot on her (and her siblings) literary genius and challenges. I love learning more about them all. They are endlessly fascinating to me. Living in Yorkshire, in the small village of Haworth, the siblings grew up (Charlotte, Anne, Emily, and  their brother Branwell) creating stories, poems, and news articles of their created worlds. They were all keen to know all about the political occurrences going on in their youth - newspapers brought that to them. Their teenage writings are so enjoyable, especially Charlotte's which explore themes relational, political, wealth, power, status. They take place in a parallel world that feels like the future or history, and at the same time fantasy. 

The Brontë children's profoundly visual imaginations fed avidly on them all, and by the age of thirteen Charlotte already had a very developed "list of painters whose works I wish to see," which included "Guido Reni, Julio Romano, Titian, Raphael, Michael Angelo, Correggio, Annibal Caracci, Leonardo da Vinci, Fra Bartolemeo, Carlo Cignani, Vandyke, Reubens, Bartolemeo Ramerghi."

I don't even know who many of those artists are, but now my own interest and list has grown. Still, Charlotte feels like my friend from the past. She was author, poet, writer, thinker, independent woman, plain yet engaging, quiet, introverted in public, didn't like the spotlight as she became famous, hid behind her books, but engaged with other famous authors of her day. She wrote a few letters back and forth with Robert Southy, the Poet Laureate, and he replied to her, reviewing her poems and offering some kind advice. He even offered her to come visit him. She met many times with William Makepeace Thackery. She met Charles Dickens and his books had some influence on her writings. Elizabeth Barrett Browning wondered about her. It was so interesting to read about the context of their time - relating to the other authors at that time developing their books.

The three sisters took such a chance with publishing their books. They wrote through hard times, suffering, loss of family members (Anne and Emily died so young, ages 29 and 30, respectively), and they drew from personal experiences to build into their characters. They had imaginations to pull a story together as they had for all those years of sibling collaboration with the Angria and Glass Town stories. They created something new in their books, models we still use today, and are often required reading for English classes. They were so influential that we try to replicate them today. We never can, of course, we don't live in the 1830s- 1850s, and they had actual experiences to draw from.

They were wanting to make their way in the world not by some revolution but subtlety through their books, using male-sounding names to get their books published: Currier, Action, and Ellis Bell they were. It wasn't until years later when the fame of the authors (One author? Society was not sure) of Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, and Agnes Grey was brought into question and Charlotte decided to show up suddenly in London with Anne, to show her publisher who they really were (it was a shock to him, needless to say). Very talented young women writers. It's always good to go back to Brontë.

Spooky Season

 

It's fun to read seasonally - as the air changes along the blustery northern winds the seasonal shifts reminds us that we live in a world of perpetual change. We might grow comfortable in the hot, humid air and long days of sunshine, but under our noses a spooky season is coming. It creeps up on you. Suddenly you notice that the sun has shifted in the sky, and that window of yours no longer basks in the summer sunshine, as shadows cross it all day. You then start to realize that the sun is setting earlier each night, and rising later in the morning. Then, overnight, the winds bring in some cooler air and you wake up with a little shiver under your thin covers. 

It's spooky season, or Autumn as I generally notate. With it brings those tales of mystery and murder, dark nights and spooky encounters. It was perfect that on my recent visit to Pressed Books & Coffee I spotted this paperback Edgar Allan Poe collection of short stories. It has a wonderfully atmospheric cover with the spooky mansion and lighted windows. I realized I did not have a collection so I brought it home with me. I have read some of these stories over the years, of course, but none stick out to me as much as my first reading of " The Cask of Amontillado". To read it again now was to revisit that first encounter.

I was in seventh grade English class, and we were assigned readings, per usual. One of them was the short story by Edgar Allan Poe, "The Cask of Amontillado". I had no idea what I was in for, except that it was a tale of revenge, which is stated in the first line, but I was already feeling the sense of the grotesque from the next paragraph of this tale.

It must be understood, that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good-will. I continued, as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile now was at the thought of his immolation. 

I will never forget the spooky feeling the story left me with. I had chills. The almost playful countenance of the narrator, following along as he is leading his victim to his death is truly spine-tingling. If you want some chills you can go read the short tale. It was my first encounter with a truly spooky, evil intended tale of revenge and murder. My introduction to Poe and the literary genre of horror left an indelible mark of both appreciation of such word-weaving, and intrigue of formulating such tales. I noticed there's a way to tell such a tale by revealing only just so much information at a time to leave the reader hanging on to see the next page. The reader knows what might be happening, but it's so thrilling they can't stop reading to see if that horror actually unfolds. That's a foundational tool of a good author.

This book isn't just filled with murder stories, there are also a couple of the first detective stories, these that pre-date Conan Doyle's Sherlock, and I can see many aspects of Sherlock Homes, which were such fun to encounter in these tales of solving a murder.

He makes, in silence, a host of observations and inference. So, perhaps, do his companions; and the difference in the extent of the information obtained, lies not so much in the validity of the inference as in the quality of the observation. The necessary knowledge is that of what to observe. Our player confines himself not at all; nor, because the game is the object, does he reject deductions from things external to the game. 

So happy spooky season! I mean, have a great, thrilling reading time! 

Visiting with the North Wind

 

Nothing went wrong at the back of the north wind. Neither was anything quite right, he thought. Only everything was going to be right some day.

- At the Back of the North Wind by George MacDonald

A young boy, Diamond, wakes up in the middle of the night feeling his bed shaking and blasts of the north wind. He wondered if the house would fall down. The wind was getting in through a small chink in the wall, and blew about him all night. The other side of his wall was the north wind.

I felt a lot like Diamond the other night as Hurricane Milton swept through Florida, bringing the north wind slamming against the wall of my bed as well, causing me to go without sleep and wonder about my home falling down. This story came to my mind during the long night of the hurricane's visit, so I decided to pick this book up again to re-read. It was quite perfect timing. I love when a situation is more personal and pressing and a book speaks to its reader in a recast deeper light. The illustrations are stunning as well, from Arthur Hughes in the Pre-Raphaelite tradition of the late 1800s.

The North Wind is personified as a beautiful women with long, flowing hair. She can shift herself to different appearance and sizes, showing up to Diamond differently each time. Sometimes a tiny breeze blowing the petals of a primrose. Sometimes as a giantess lifting him up to the sky for a big task. She takes him into the sky on adventures to view her work, the things she is told to do. As the North Wind, she obeys her Creator, no matter how cruel it may seem to other unknowing eyes. 

This book is the perfect avenue by which MacDonald can deal with tough questions of suffering, good/bad, and what is nature if it is not good or bad? From the angle of a child asking the North Wind question after question, each reader finds they are asking the same questions. Why would the wind, if it were good, blow a mighty squall to destroy a ship and kill many people? Why would the wind sweep the dark streets of London, causing a little girl to topple over as she tried to broom the walkways?

"But you're kinder to me, dear North Wind. Why shouldn't you be as kind to her as you are to me?
"There are reasons, Diamond. Everybody can't be done to all the same. Everybody is not ready for the same thing."

Everybody is not ready for the same thing. The wisdom in that. There are reasons, and we cannot possibly know all the reasons. We cannot see all things and what is to come. The North Wind does what she is told, it might mean something that seems to be cruel, and yet she knows she is part of a bigger story and she is playing her role. It's a difficult idea to grapple with, and George MacDonald does it so well through fantasy, using a child to be the image of innocence and the question factory that we are deep within. 

Is the wind good, bad, or exempt from such a label? How do we judge good and bad? Diamond accepts North Wind freely and quickly but then pauses when she does something to him that seems cruel. Yet later in the story you read how that event impacted something later, which would not have come to pass if not for the event caused by the wind. Here we play our part that browse ideas of God's sovereignty, being above all time and space, yet allowing suffering to take place. We cannot understand fully.

Through a fantasy story, MacDonald uses a beautiful way to showcase such questions. Instead of abstract ideas you cannot grasp, you meet a young boy and the personified wind, and have a few adventures to explore wisdom higher than us. These are the stories that sit with us for years, providing wisdom beyond the tale and come out again later in new senses of clarity. 

In a Castle by the Sea

 

Lucy knocked on the library door and receiving no answer lifted the latch and walked in. Mr. Gwinne's library resembled a clearing in a forest, but the open space was by no means uncluttered, having a minor undergrowth of books piled on the floor, like the stumps of felled trees. Around the clearing great bookcases loomed from floor to ceiling here and there, as though light shone faintly through massed leaves, and ominous with motionless power. The light in the room was dim and green because of a creeper outside the window. It softly illumined Mr. Gwinne's bald head, bent over a writing table stacked with books and papers. He would have nothing touched on his table and a pleasing silver lichen of dust grew all over it. His bald head, Lucy thought, looked like a mushroom. She picked her way cautiously towards him, careful not to knock against the tree stumps of books, for some of them were very perilously balanced. 

- The Child From the Sea, Elizabeth Goudge

This is the book I found at my library for $.50 and I have been reading since I got it, for a month or so. At 598 pages, it is a bit of a chunky one. But when you are in the hands of Elizabeth Goudge, you know you are going to get a long journey with characters you get to know, and the passing of time will lead you to inner growth and development of these characters. Through sensitive storytelling and gleams of radiant wisdom sprinkled throughout, it's not without heartbreak and trials. This story occurs in the turbulent 17th century England, and follows the life of Lucy Walter, who becomes the secret wife of Charles II. Before you get to see all the royal relationships, spies, deception, decapitations, and captures, you grow up with Lucy in Wales, with her family living in a castle by the sea. 

You follow Lucy as she is young and spunky, growing into herself. You appreciate her honesty, and her willingness to venture out in the world on her own. She has a big heart anyone would admire. 

I love this extended metaphor of a library as part of a forest of trees. She enters the library of her grandfather and wants to borrow a book. Goudge takes such a simple scene and makes it remarkably memorable, which is what she does so well in her storytelling. 

The innocence of childhood is lost when Lucy meets Charles, young and charming, they fall in love and get married in her castle chapel by a layperson (legal, not legal?, that becomes a big issue), and she then lives as part of (but not really part of) the royal family and all the drama unfolds. She is hidden, a secret wife. When war comes and it's not safe to be in England, they all flee and her husband becomes consumed with his role. Soon, as history knows, his father Charles I is be-headed and Cromwell take over parliament. Charles is the rightful king, but it's years before he is able to return to the throne. And along the way, the family breaks and is fractured by rumors, drama, misunderstanding, and disloyalty. 

You see the human side of these historical figures. Goudge brings them out so well. You feel you know them. This story doesn't end well, as Lucy only lives to age 28. She endures such suffering as does the king. At the end of the book, there are beautiful reminders of the trials we bear, from Dr. Cosin. Words that can enrich our own lives with some spiritual wisdom.

All we are asked to bear we can bear. That is a law of the spiritual life. The only hindrance to the working of this law, as of all benign laws, is fear. 
- The Child From the Sea, Elizabeth Goudge

Autumn Appreciation

 

Amazing Autumn apples crunchy and sweet. Raw or cooked, in drinks, desserts, breakfast, lunch. If you are seasonally inclined to notice, apples are popping up everywhere and I am delighted. Yes, my coffee is an apple crisp latte and it's delicious, thanks Concord Coffee. I happened upon this new book about the history of apples, and it has been an invitation to imagine all the centuries of apples and learn how they were used and where they have grown. I have been fascinated and my appreciation for apples is deeper than ever because I know some of their story. Did you know that if you take some seeds from a certain type of apple (like Bramley, Gala, or Granny Smith) and plant them, you won't know what kind of apples you will get? Unless you cross pollinate to ensure the same type will grow. It's a bit of a guess. What an apple-y mystery. I imagine and remember my walks through apple orchards, only a couple times have I been able to do that (in Massachusetts and in Kent, England), and each time it was pure magic.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

   Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

   With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

   And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

      To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

   With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

      For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

- from "To Autumn", John Keats

I hear these poetic words in my head when I think of apple orchards. This is always the first poem I think of when the topic of Autumn is upon us. Thanks to John Keats, his short, quiet life in Hampstead, London has gifted us with these words that have offered much fruitfulness since his day. Why poetry? It rustles our imagination and invokes the sheen of gleaming fruits and sweetness of the harvest through words that conjure images in our minds. It is the gift of abundance from our Creator. 

Autumn is harvest and bounty, and yet it is falling leaves, falling apples, and the ideas of dying from a human perspective. It is memory carefully held and drawn upon. Fruitfulness has its season and then it falls. For me, it is a season with loss - today marks 15 years since my Dad's passing. Truly I live in this, in a season of memory, where he is always alive. I was so young/foolish when he passed, and did not truly appreciate all he was, and now I have the rest of my life to appreciate all he was and to honor him and his goodness in my life. 

We cannot have seasons without a feeling of loss somewhere. God blesses us with seasons so that we can round back to it after a year, to reflect on ourselves and thank God for His many gifts. We need these reminders, because we so easily forget ourselves and where we come from. Reflecting on loss can lead to meditations on thankfulness and appreciation for that which we do not have with us anymore, and that which blessed us. May this be a season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.

But Where Shall I Find Courage?

 

"But where shall I find courage?" asked Frodo. "That is what I chiefly need."
"Courage is found in unlikely places," said Gildor. "Be of good hope!"

-The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R. Tolkien

Every couple years I feel the deep desire to re-read The Lord of the Rings. There are so many nourishing aspects of this story that reminds me to hold onto hope, and stay encouraged. I don't know about you, but I feel like I could benefit greatly by receiving extra doses of courage. Each day can throw a world of disappointment that buries any light I was carrying. It can be quickly swept away with someone's harshness, negativity, or some kind of defeat. Something will surely come that makes us each feel inadequate in whatever way that strikes us most severely. I try to view these kinds of things as speedbumps, something to slow me down and consider how I could learn and grow from this scenario. But it still hurts. I still feel defeated, in whatever way. 

When you read The Lord of the Rings, you join the journey of these characters as they fall into defeat over and over. The very notion of the main task of the whole book is to be rid of an evil. To destroy the one ring, which is itself a heavy burden and also a temptation to fall into its power and will. This is a backwards journey of a treasure hunt, as it is a giving up of power to save the world from evil reigning over all things. It's a journey that requires the fellowship to set aside all selfish desires for the greater good. And it confronts defeat over and over. Places and times are plentiful where they could give up.

Whilst I was reading through this first part of the story, I wrote in my journal a few times about how I was reading certain sections. When I finished the passage through Moria (the underground mines) I felt the sadness and my heart sank. I could feel the loss the fellowship endured with Gandalf's fall and their subsequent feelings of confusion and defeat. Tears and sadness hit them all as they emerged into the sunlight from Moria, but they could not sit and mourn by the hills as they were in danger even where they were outside the gate. They had to continue onward and they entered the woods heartbroken and frightened, and yet they did not know the rest and encouragement they would soon receive by coming into Lothlórien, deep in the woods. It's a beautiful image of prevenient grace going before them, and of a place that reaches deeply into their souls to restore and offer encouragement with what they need. A place to pause, reflect, mourn, and rest. But not to stay. Their visit with the elves equips them to move forward as they must do, some gifts and fond farewells from the elves, with light to go with them (wisdom and courage to keep going). 

We may need a Lothlórien sometimes. I know I do. When I feel defeated, sad, lonely, and discouraged. It is soon the next step to help me on the journey and remind me of the task to keep moving in hope. It is the Word of the Lord, the life of Jesus. In these things I turn and see how Jesus has gone through it all before me, to take comfort in Him. To rest in Him. In everything look to Him, and follow where He is leading. To equip me in the journey.

"Despair, or folly?" said Gandalf. "It is not despair, for despair is only for those who see the end beyond all doubt. We do not. It is wisdom to recognize necessity, when all other courses have been weighed, though as folly it may appear to those who cling to false hope."

-The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R. Tolkien

Fluttering Caramel Leaf

 

A fluttering caramel leaf breaks free
Settling to a different view to see
The world from above, ambition climbs -
Separating itself in its thought-filled mind -
Dreading any pause it seeks more
Wind, more drift, more air to score
A loftier stance, higher and free,
Missing a lovely spot to pause and be
Deeper in what the leaf was made,
Firstly to provide solar panel and shade -
Eventually though, as the seasons turn,
There's something new for leaf to learn -
To embrace the landing after flight
After gathering a glorious new height -
Landing softly under branches bare,
A covering, a blanket, essential root care
The divine gift itself must be
Willing to devote itself to Thee.

Once upon a hot summer afternoon, the girls in my family gathered to create little projects with an Autumnal flare. As one being anything but crafty myself, it was a delight to simply make something with my hand, spending time with girls in my family, embracing some lovely things to come in the Autumn season approaching. Do you feel it in the air yet? That gentle Autumn vibe? 

On Summer Rains

 

Peaking out the window at the rain-filled sky

It's already rained this afternoon
Heat rises and falls in the blink of an eye -
Setting apart no time of day for rain
But any hour, any minute clouds will try
To hold in the abundance -
Yet it overflows
A flood not held secure
As it goes
Falling without regard of their store
All the earth is open, land or sea,
The rain falls, it's both wild and free -
Surmise the force and power in clouds
An attempt to predict is knowhow -
And still limited - clouds act in accordance 
To the nature it is - able to spin and dance
Across landscapes at the will of winds
From all the corners - still God within.

A Tale of Two Books

 

This is not a crazy tale - just a little tale of finding two books in my town whilst perusing used books and what came of them next. It's a typical summer day. Intense heat from the sun starts early, as soon as it's above the horizon. Long days melt into the repetitive nature as it cascades over many months. Occasionally I venture out - daring to defeat the heat with a/c in the car and dashing into a building - preferably one that holds books in it. Recently I took such ventures and was rewarded. The best thing about used bookstores is that you will never be able to predict what you can find, and sometime you are met with some amazing treasures.

Oxford, by James Morris was sitting there on the shelf waiting for me. The name of Oxford of course caught my eye, in the history section, which I might not always peruse in great detail. This time I did, and I pulled this nice hardback off the shelf. It's a Faber book, published in 1965. Several sections of black & white photos accompany the book. I barely had to flip through anymore, it was coming home with me. 

The last few days have been my Oxford days. And let me say, they have been pure enjoyment whilst reading this book. I may not agree with every observation he wrote, but Morris was such fun. He covered historical aspects of Oxford, the weather, the atmosphere, his observations (of course from the perspective of 1965 or so), and it was all so fascinating. Perhaps because it's my favourite city I have more interest in the general history, but as an added bonus, every building and street he walked by, visited and discussed I was familiar with. Which meant that I could picture where he was talking about and learn something about it I might not have known.

The old photos are so fun to see, with the reminder of how little has changed in central Oxford, other than the modern cars, more bicycles and buses, and thankfully, better facilities in the buildings that were not always there, even in the 1960s. But for centuries this spired city has looked timeless. 

The Child From the Sea, by Elizabeth Goudge was sitting forlornly at the bottom shelf at the end of the $0.50 special section, almost too easy to gloss over and miss. But something caught my eye. The name Goudge is not one that I see often. This was a book I haven't read yet, and it was in my shopping cart online for  along time, then I simply saved it for future and forgot to ever order it. What a delight to add another Goudge book to my library, and this one I am just cracking open - fresh and in great condition from 1970. It's historical fiction written before the genre of historical fiction took a very popular turn in recent years, tracing back to the English Civil war and the (secret) wife (Lucy) of soon to be Charles II.

The tale of these two books ends happily. For, one book has been read and now joins a great host of books hanging out on my tall shelves, whilst the other book is in my reading stack, getting to be opened and read as a book should be. They are very happy and content. 

I feel it in the Air

 

"Ah!" said Gandalf. "That is a very long story. The beginnings lie back in the Black Years, which only the lore-masters now remember. If I were to tell you al that tale, we should still be sitting here when Spring had passed into Winter."

- The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R. Tolkien

Can you feel it in the air? A slight change, a shift in the air. I awoke this morning and the air smelled different and graced us with temperatures at least 5 degrees cooler. Hints of a coming change of season, even if well in advance. The air smelled different. I might be keenly sensitive to it, with my longing for the colder months, holding the sense of adventure and inspiration. To me, the end of summer grants that presence of newness (such as a year back to school and all the excitement of the fresh pencils and notebooks, ah, always did that thrill me) of what is to come. A change of season and new journey at hand.

Can you tell I've been watching The Lord of the Rings movies? It's been ages since I watched them, and I am also going to re-read the books next. The movies do a good job of capturing the air of the books, the atmosphere of endings and beginnings. I am currently re-reading The Silmarillion which includes the beginnings of Middle-earth. It is truly the long tale that can be told of the history of creation and the first and second ages of Middle-earth before the tales of Frodo, Sam, Aragorn, Legolas, and crew begin. It holds the history of beginning and endings, long tales of old that may have been shrouded in mist, but were not quite forgotten.

Perhaps because school begins in the Autumn (or very end of the Summer) that I feel this awakening and excitement in the air. Something fresh to shake off the idles of the Summer when it's too hot to move around or do much. One stays lounging in the shade to avoid the intensity of weather. But when the leaves start to rustle and fall of the branches, we are also rustled, awakening from the depths of somewhere this readiness for adventure. To move and be moved. 

It would be wise for us to heed the advice of Gandalf, though, as we set out (or plan to set out) on another adventure. It might not be the long road we are ready for, but we are at least ready for the next step.

"No indeed!" said Frodo. "But in the meantime what course am I to take?"
"Toward danger; but not too rashly, nor too straight," answered the wizard.

- The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R. Tolkien

A Glimpse Only, at Brideshead

 

It is a cosy morning, replete with soft lighting subdued with some early clouds and calm air. Dew is quietly diffused into the air creating a humidity heavy and showcasing the depths of summer. Rain fell early yesterday but not in the evening, so the morning feels thirsty and as the sun parts the clouds the landscape will seek refreshment by the afternoon.

I reach for my book, currently reading Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh. Re-reading it, in fact, with a new appreciation for the beauty, nostalgia, and journey to redemption of this book. It's more than 11 years since I read it. I know this because I found a plane ticket stub stuck in the back page/cover of the book, for my flight to IN for training in my new job (still my employer today!) in March 2013. I know I did not fully appreciate this book back then. I was not nearly as deep or attentive of a reader back then to understand the nuances of this novel. 

This book is deeply nostalgic, set between the two world wars, mostly taking place in Oxford and London, setting us up from the very beginning with the mature Charles Ryder falling upon an estate whilst camping with his troops in the countryside, and suddenly when he hears the name of the estate  "Brideshead":

...an immense silence followed, empty at first, but gradually, as my outraged sense regained authority, full of a multitude of sweet and natural and long-forgotten sounds - for he had spoken a name that was so familiar to me, a conjuror's name of such ancient power, that, at its mere sound, the phantoms of those haunted late years began to take flight.

 And there follows this journey back to Charles's young college life at Oxford, still a city in "aquatint" in those early lightweight days before deep trials came through his associations with the Marchmain, an English aristocratic, family. Through the years of some painful growth he encounters episodes of grace and conversion, he encounters the culture shifting and faces the ultimate decisions of choosing faith over the depravity of a sinful life. 

The writing is exquisite in this book. From reading some of Evelyn's biography, he must have drawn from some of his own youthful Oxford experiences for the story of Charles, and the lovable, yet facing inner demons, character of Sebastian. This kind of book, I feel, could not be written today with such beautiful and harrowing encounters of life in between the world wars, unless someone had lived through such a time. One cannot imagine exactly how the culture shifting (deep growing secularism and dismissal of Catholics until a later time) would have impacted someone living in that time, facing the secular and religious clashes unless one had seen that unfold. What we see now is different, naturally, our world is different, so getting a glimpse of this life in the 1920's, 1930's is thought provoking and insightful. How is it different from now? Is there more or less freedom? These are questions we can ask as a modern reader.

He led me through a baize door into a dark corridor; I could dimly see a gilt cornice and vaulted plaster above; then, opening a heavy, smooth-swinging mahogany door, he led me into a darkened hall. Light streamed through he cracks in the shutters. Sebastian unbarred one, and folded it back; the mellow afternoon sun flooded in, over the bare floor, the vast, twin fireplaces of sculptured marble, the coved ceiling frescoed with classic deities and heroes, the gilt mirrors and scagliola pilasters, the islands of sheeted furniture. It was a glimpse only, such as might be had from the top of an omnibus into a lighted ballroom; then Sebastian quickly shut out the sun. "You see," he said; "it's like this."

This is what occurs through the book, of Charles telling his story, looking back. There arises a glimpse here and there, of something more, something trying to break into his life as he encounters the Marchmain family and their Catholic faith, for years he resists these glimpses and pushes them off, but when events take a turn, even if still not wanting to be folded in for the deep reasons, he kneels and prays. If motivation is at first in the direction of Julia, he begins to understand it is actually for something much deeper and more fulfilling, it is true belief. 

Things may not end in the worldly happy sense, and yet, the turning toward God, for both Julia and Charles, is the best of all possible endings, with their gazes directed toward God as their ultimate source of all they need. Leaving their own desires for God's.

I found it this morning, burning anew among the old stones.

Down the Turl of Ideas

 

Cloudy Grey Afternoon Musing -- 

When do ideas come to you? When do you capture ideas and how? Is there quiet, thinking time a certain time of day? Is there a place, a time, a method? Do you thrive on routine or on flexibility? 

Now the last day of many days
All beautiful and bright as thou,
The loveliest and the last, is dead,
Rise, Memory, and write its praise!

(Percy Bysshe Shelley)

Or, is it from your memory? Learning is a lifelong process and often something we learn about, read about, or experience comes back to us via memory. Either in an "ah ha" moment or a gentle reflection that reveals something. 

Fleeting like a fully bloomed flower, ideas tend to burst forth with wonder and delight, but if you don't capture it in some way, it fades and droops, and might be hard to retrieve again. This is a big reason why I journal and everyday let out some thoughts, even if it's not anything earth-shattering. 

I coyly inserted a little quote from Percy Bysshe Shelley as he was known for his big (atheist) ideas that got him expelled from Oxford, just down High Street, in fact, at University College. Despite his aversion to Christianity, his poetry is rather brilliant and not without lots of Christian imagery and language.

Turl Street in Oxford is one of my favourite streets. It connects Broad Street and High Street, so it a very handy path, but also is a central smaller street that is a source of many branches of paths diverging from it. It not only offers the cut-through to High Street from Broad Street, but along the way, it also provide a branch directly to to the Radcliffe Camera (Brasenose Lane) and then the other direction toward Cornmarket via Ship Street or Market Street. There are great shops along Turl, like Oxfam bookshop, The Missing Bean coffee shop, and some of the loveliest colleges (Exeter, Jesus, Lincoln). One of my favourite restaurants used to be there (a victim of Covid time). A spire can be seen at the end where High Street greets it (it used to be a church, now the Lincoln College Library). And a huge Horse Chestnut tree stands on the corner of Turl and Ship Streets behind the Jesus College wall, branching well above and over it to provide shadows and beautiful greenery to anyone along Turl Street.

Turl Street can be really busy sometimes,  it can get congested with delivery trucks and bikes, students, tour groups, and construction/restoration projects. The moments when I can capture it in a stillness is fleeting, and I try to embrace it almost by instinct whenever I turn onto Turl Street. I find that I reach for my phone to see if I will be able to snap a photo of the delightful street. The way the road curves ever so slightly as it approaches High Street is visually appealing, with the lines of shops on the right and Lincoln College on the left.

So when I think of ideas, I think of Turl Street as the guide - the street that leads to all kinds of directional paths branching off. It's one small road with 5 different possibilities. It's this visual and real life exhibit of how one idea has the ability to branch off into many ideas depending on where we take it. As humans, we have these amazing capabilities to plan, strategize, make choices, learn, adapt, change our mind, re-design. It's with a sense of appreciation and wonder I think of ideas and how we use them as the catapult into some exciting.