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.