Book of Letters

 

Writing letters is a bit lost in today's modern society of instant communication. When is the last time you wrote a letter and mailed it to someone? Was the letter more than the length of a card interior? I admit I do not write many letters anymore, but writing one slows me down to think in the best ways as my hand forms words that will be zoomed through the space of physical distances.

I recently finished reading this first volume of Dorothy L. Sayers' letters from 1899 - 1936. I always feel a bit awkward reading letters of a favourite author, because it is likely they did not think anyone except the recipient would ever read the letter, but here I am in 2021 reading private letters written by a wonderful writer and thinker.

Reading these letters was like listening to her thoughts and feelings, and I was particularly keen on learning her thought process behind developing her Lord Peter mystery books. For example, there were several letters back and forth with a doctor friend who helped her brainstorm insights and conduct experiments with poison (specifically related to the death cap mushroom scenario she was toying with for the next mystery book she was writing), and it was fascinating to learn how she developed the plot from an idea of a murder and how the murderer would do it. She then created a story around that main inkling, fleshing out every detail and what made sense. My writer-self was taking notes.

Anyway, the letters. Sayers is a very entertaining letter writer (I rank her up there with C.S. Lewis as my favourite letters to read) and not just humorous but also very insightful and full of wisdom. Often some deeply thoughtful writing went into these letters (developed explanations), as well as some difficult family issues such as her covering up having a baby whilst unwed, and seeing that unfold in the letters (her conscious choice to keep that secret, even from her son). An interesting study of the human condition and expectations.

I found it funny that in a large majority of letters she wrote to family, she would begin the letter saying that nothing was going on and she almost no news to share, except.....and then she would go on with something interesting. It is funny because I feel that a lot, like I have nothing to share, or sometimes nothing to write, and yet if I just sit down and begin it reveals itself through words.

I could say that we do not have time to write well-thought letters in our lives today, and yet I find that I write letters everyday at work and personally (painstakingly well-thought I should hope) except in email form. Of course, it's not the same. The flourish of handwriting and the crinkle of paper can never be replaced with electronic devices, but I actually do spend a lot of time writing letters. But I would say that my letters are definitely not worth publishing. 

Spring Like Dreams

 

I tuck my spring like dreams into the snow-like pages of my journal with words hinting at distance in them. Places not seen in a time and a longing to be able to go there. Wonder in words, but not discontented notions. Just dreamlike inklings of a day some time off, into a world changed by the last year, and yet so alive with the wonder and loveliness of creation. 

The last year has kept me tucked away in my tiny home, away from all my favourite travels. I reflect in thanks for those days past and continue to dream, but stay rooted in the blessing of where I am in my cosy home, surrounded by books and gentle reminders of all the good we have in the everyday. This right here is also a dream. A lovely place to be.

It is pouring now. Sky open, gushing rain like it hasn't rained in months. Cleansing, heavy rain from the dense grey sky. Clouds of moisture and swirling weather. I am quietly eating my porridge and reading Psalm 86 when it comes swiftly - the darkened sky coming over my home causing my natural light to dim dramatically. I do not use overhead lights, so I am usually running by the light of nature coming into my home through sheer curtains. The atmosphere turns cosy - the suddenly desire to curl up with a book and blanket sweeps over me. Yes, rain, you are lovely. 

The petal carpets are all soaked and flattened into the ground now. Such as the spring like weather brings. Outside in nature, you are at the mercy of nature. We humans are so used to having the sense of wanting control over everything, but nature does not really allow that. So even we are at the mercy of nature in many ways. We cannot control the weather, thank goodness, but what if we could? Would it be used for good or ill? Anytime we have control or power over something, the risk is always there to use selfishly and for destruction. 

We were made for good, and to do good, and yet so often what we do is not good. But do we stop doing anything with the possibility of using it for ill just because it is possible? That's a risk, too. Opening up to the possibility of good also opens us the possibility for ill. We try to do our best, to do good as we can. And there is always risk.

Magical Reading

 

After a short silence, Strange said, "You advise me to read this book?"

"Yes, indeed. I think you should read it," said Mr. Norrell. 

Strange waited, but Norrell continued to gaze at the book in his hand as though he were entirely at a loss as to how to proceed. 

"Then you must give it to me, sir," said Strange gently.

"Yes, indeed," said Mr. Norrell. He approached Strange cautiously and held the book out for several moments, before suddenly tipping it up and off into Strange's hand with an odd gesture, as though it was not a book at all, but a small bird which clung to him and would on no account go to any one else, so that he was obliged to trick it into leaving his hand. He was so intent upon this maneuvre that fortunately he did not look up at Strange who was trying not to laugh.

Mr. Norrell remained a moment, looking wistfully at his book in another magician's hand.

(Page 301)

A humorous scene that pretty well sums up these two magicians and how different they are. Mr. Norrell, older, cautious, guarded, protective of his thousands of books, reluctant to try anything out of the ordinary. Jonathan Strange, young, vibrant, daring, willing to try anything no matter the risk, open to the ideas and wildness of the unknown. 

So sets the stage for this wonderfully written, flowing, witty, lengthy 1006 pages of a novel that takes you to 1806 - 1817 England during the Napoleonic Wars and meeting these two magicians. As history intersects with the story, Strange and Norrell each take part in the war against the French. Magic was long thought to be dead in England, and yet, these two magicians are able to assist the English in the war efforts. 

But that is just part of the story, as there is another deeper mystery at hand after Mr. Norrell raises a young woman from dead by summoning a fairy. This character mysteriously enchants with his powers, pulling humans into the land of faerie with dark consequences. If you read fantasy novels that follow tradition of England and how it used to be open to the faerie realm, you know that faerie is a perilous realm full of magic and tricks. 

This sweeping novel is beautiful and atmospheric. From the rainy streets of London to the vast regions in Yorkshire (northern England), and to the canals of Venice, you are taken on a journey with these magicians who start as friends, but because of their differences become rivals leading them to different paths.

There are so many glimpses into truth and wisdom throughout this book. As characters make choices, you are faced with the decisions with the characters, and it feels like there is a taste of the Lewis and Tolkien kind of fantasy wisdom, with elements of George MacDonald. I saw it described as Harry Potter for adults, and it certainly has that magical curiosity and fun about it that leads you into another realm that is so delightful to me. This is darker than Harry Potter, though. You enter a realm where you aren't quite sure what could happen and you have a lot of fun not knowing where it is going to take you.

White Book Shelves

 

White Book Shelves

My heart bursts with a thrill
of empty, clean white shelves -
Ready to hold the weight, the still
presence of books aplenty.

Judge not the weight of a book
as if value is based on number -
But weigh and measure as you look
from the words on pages, to the world.

The gentle gaze of a waiting story,
perched high there on a shelf -
Lingering in tales of wisdom and glory,
just waiting to share thrills with you.

A sneak peak at my new bookshelves! I am still waiting for the other shelf to arrive and then I can fully organize all the books (as there are still five tall book towers by my bed waiting for their shelves). Once the other shelf arrives I will be able to do a nice, clean organize which I am very excited about!

Lent Garden of Refreshment

 

This Lent season, I am aiming to be much more purposeful about the 40 days that are Lent. I always want to reflect more in this season, and it somehow escapes much of my daily practice.

Lent is meant to be a time of simplicity, reflection, and withholding. But that does not mean it needs to feel dry or lacking in beauty. So, I am keeping a few pages in my journal blank and listing each day of Lent. Each day, I note something that is beautiful or inspiring. It could just be a note about the crisp, chilly morning that I delight in so much. Or, the beauty of tulips even past their prime somehow still showcase a loveliness surpassed by no other flower I think.  

I am simply building a garden of refreshment in my Lent pages. It's nothing big. No pressure to do much. Sometimes my days feel so overwhelmed I don't have space to do much. This is a way to just note the blessing present in that day. At the end I will see the whole season with notes of goodness in the everyday. It is all about rearranging your thoughts to look at the good, the beautiful, and the gift of each new day. 

Do you do anything different for Lent? I am finding that changing a few things makes the season more meaningful. I have never given up things for Lent before, but this year I decided that giving up candy/cookies/chocolate/etc would be a good reminder each time I crave something sweet like that, to be turning my heart to God instead for the feeling of sweetness in His blessings. It is going well so far. 

Another thing I do every year is read through a poetry book that takes me through the whole season. My book of choice is Word in the Wilderness by Malcolm Guite. It is a book with a poem each day and a short reflection by Malcolm. It is a wonderful book I turn to every year.  

"...a gospel paradox takes us deep into the mystery of time. The paradox is about losing to find, giving away to gain, giving everything up only to find it given back in a new and more beautiful form."

Following Dante into Hell

 

Then said my courteous master: "See, my son,
All those that die beneath God's righteous ire
From every country come here every one.

They press to pass the river, for the fire
Of heavenly justice stings and spurs them so
That all their fear is changed into desire;

And by this passage, good souls never go:
Therefore, if Charon chide thee, do thou look
What this may mean - 'tis not so hard to know."

- Canto III, The Divine Comedy: Hell

A Medieval text can reach our souls today? How do we understand it? Can it teach us things we never considered? Well, you know that my response is always, yes, absolutely. There is so much to learn from the wisdom that came before us. And the creativity is amazing. I have much to glean and I rejoice in that.

I suspect that most people avoid glancing at old literature because they think it entirely unapproachable,  difficult in language, or out of date in what it is saying. Did you know Dante's Divine Comedy is actually quite political?  This was a way of him poking at that fire a bit as he sat in exile. He places certain political, religious, and well-known people in the various circles of Hell that he meets as he journeys through. He definitely ruffled some feathers when he wrote this from 1308 and completed it in 1320.

Sin is a choice, and therefore being in Hell is a choice as well. Dante portrays this idea in the allegory of his Inferno. Reading this for the second time, in my new book, the translation by Dorothy L. Sayers, it is fresh and lively. I will gladly read everything that DLS has written. She journeyed deep into her study of Dante and The Divine Comedy. She corresponded with Charles Williams (an Inkling who was in his own right quite an expert in Dante) frequently. Their writings have helped open up this work to see the hidden/deeper meaning behind all the symbols that pop up with every step of Dante's journey with his mentor (he calls master) Virgil through the circles of Hell.

When you read this, you cannot help but laugh at the irony of the figure of Satan himself, a giant at the very bottom of Hell, when they finally reach it after crossing through all the terrible circles. Especially in the description of him being encased in ice from the waist. With three faces, each mouth devouring a sinner. Once Dante and Virgil cross through the center of Hell to the other side of the ice sheet, comically they see the hairy legs of Satan just sticking up. 

There are more encounters of humour, irony, and interesting meetings along the way. Dante has the feelings we could easily commiserate with in our own days. Struggling through a darkness in life, going through the pain and suffering, and coming out the other side with a little bit of wisdom shining on our faces.

Sleeping Next to all the Books

 

It was only a matter of time before the books overflowed and I ended up sleeping next to them. 

One day they may end up in my bed somehow, stealing most of the duvet. Books kind of have a way of inviting themselves onto every surface available. Usually I am tidying a little stack of unruly books that somehow made their way off a shelf. Who knows how it happens? I am always welcoming them into my home so I suppose that is inevitable. I do not ever begrudge my decision to welcome them, though.

This time they have all floated off their shelves and into my bedroom, building stacks of tall towering skyscrapers. They arranged themselves into an Inklings sandwich unbeknownst to me - stacks of Tolkien, next to Lewis, next to more books about the Inklings. The tall, lumbering stack of Chesterton is nearest to my head of the bed, so hopefully some of his wit and wisdom of the world is soaking into me every night as I sleep. The poetry stack leans a little precariously, as many poetry books tend to be small and as it grows tall, a wobble ensues. There is a little bit of a metaphor there somewhere.

It is rather fun to see a huge amount of my books in a different perspective. I do not want them to be long on my bedroom floor next to my bed, for if I needed to find a particular title, it would be a challenge. Not to mention a library needs shelves (a home) for the books. Part of the joy of having hundreds upon hundreds of books is being able to browse them like a library. Soon, patient books. I will get you a new home to perch from. Your old home has gone to live at Mum's house.

After the Rain

 

After the Rain

The birds are singing after the rain -
From splash-soaked branches I hear
their chatty, cheerful chirps.

Clouds part and open to the sun again -
As if a thick storm had not passed
my home with rumbles and rain.

The dripping-drooping leaves and calm, cool air
invite an attitude of reflection
in puddles or minds.

Rejoice in this gift, so lovely and fair -
A new day fresh born and alive. 
Be still and see.

Comfort Comes

 

Comfort Comes

Comfort comes in the cold climate
Wintry throes of whistling winds
pound impatiently at your window.
This is where the comfort begins.

The requirement takes some room.
Make way for your warmest throw.
It takes a subtle dance of sweaters
to be in the cold comfort know.

Don't let bare hands deceive you,
they need some comfort too.
Wrap them around a hot cup of tea,
warming your inside outside through.

A smooth pen will do quite nicely -
Poised above the present page
of your writing or reading, thoughtfully
gleaning from thy book, thy sage.

The evidence rises on the glass of windows,
icy frost growing upwards, looking in
at your candle-lit room, and cosy nook,
where we find you, reading yet again.

Tales of Comfort

 

What is comfort for you?
Is it food? An air temperature or weather? A piece of clothing? A place?

For me, it has a lot to do with atmosphere. Give me some soft socks, a cup of steaming tea, a chunky book, a sweater, a few candles, maybe a blanket, and cold-grey weather. Rain? Even better. Snow? In my dreams.

Not only is Winter a more cosy season in general, because we tend to bundle up and light a fire or candles and wear soft sweaters, but as the time continues on and on and on of being isolated more due to the pandemic, we are staying home more than usual. We are not taking long trips or going out to crowded events at all these days. Are we finding ways to be comforted at home in our own ways? 

The news, media, and even social media can add stress and remove us from comfort. Sometimes I may talk to someone who is clearly obsessed with listening to media and others about all the negative things going on in the world and my heart is dragged down in that. Sometimes I think 24 hour news and internet is the worst invention because it means it can become obsessive very easily, where it becomes all we listen and devote our time to. I remember when I was little you had to wait for the 6:00 news to get the news. There is nothing wrong with just getting the essentials.

What we choose to focus on will become what we think about and how we react to the world. If we focus on the negative and what the media tells us, we will adapt that negative, bitter outlook too. If we focus on beauty, simple joys, comfort, and good words, we will adapt that mindset instead. 

Do you have a comfort read genre or author that you turn to? I tend to love murder mysteries as you may know. But also Elizabeth Goudge is one for me, and I just finished her novel Green Dolphin Street. I love how she sweeps you the reader into a story with atmospheric locations and developed characters. And always enriched with heart and soul. 

So, I am going to continue to appreciate all the Winter vibes that have been gracing us lately. As I write this, I am wearing three layers, my thickest socks, and my chunky blanket covers me. It is a cold night. My book is within arm's reach, and that is exactly what I will be opening as soon as I close my laptop after writing this sentence.