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.