Madwoman in the Attic

How is it that behavior that appears madness in others' minds is for myself an attempt to reclaim sanity? The time I have available to write is first thing in the morning, which means getting up at five or earlier. True, I can't always convince myself that writing is more important than sleep, but once in my conscious state, I realize that writing's importance ranks somewhere close to that of sleep in helping to stave off an inability to cope with the demands of life. For, as Donald Murray expresses in his essay "What--and How--to Write When You Have No Time,"I find

[t]he less time I have for writing, the more important it is that I write. Writing gives me a necessary calm, what Robert Frost called "a momentary stay against confusion." Writing slows down the rush of life, forcing awareness and reflection. As writing increases my awareness, language clarifies that vision. What is vague and general becomes concrete and specific as I find the words. These words connect with other words in phrase and sentence, placing the immediate experience in the context of my life. I read the story of my life by writing it. I also receive the gift of concentration and escape the swirling problems of my life as I follow paragraph and page toward meaning.

Many Happy Returns

It's the 111st birthday of C.S. Lewis. Can we say it's his eleventy-first? Bring on the fireworks and the turkish delight!

It's also the first Sunday of Advent, a season of preparation for Christ's coming that so often becomes overshadowed by the spirit of consumerism. Recommended reading: Lewis's essay "XMas and Christmas: A Lost Chapter from Herodotus" from his book God in the Dock.

House of Mirth--Not Wharton's, Mine

Despite the gloom of this foggy day, I feel mirth gurgling inside, and it keeps spilling over at the oddest moments.

I laugh when I learn I forgot a supervisor's meeting in the writing center--I was the one who sent out the reminder email yesterday!

I laugh when I realize I don't have a clue about trigonometry--it's the first "new" information I've encountered in my math class.

I laugh at the professor's delight at seeing me show up to observe in a class on a day when his students are peer-reviewing each other's annotated bibliographies--how nice it is to feel useful and be appreciated.

I laugh when I get to my French professor's office and my application essay I wanted her to review is nowhere to be found in my online file and when the only items in her inbox are two "new" messages from last year--who knows where we would be without computers?

I laugh when three quarters of the cake Mrs. B. baked for one of my co-workers is consumed before the birthday boy arrives for his shift--Happy birthday, Zak! The cake was great and I hope you get some.

I laugh when the Greek test reveals how little I really know about the language--for all the study and review, my mind is a tubula rasa--oh, wait, that's Latin, isn't it?

I laugh when I, a student of language, literature, and writing, find words inadequate to convey meaning--if I can't write something meaningful, where does that leave the rest humanity?

I laugh, when for all the reasons in the world, and for the weather, too, I should be gloomy--tears have their place, but not for me, and not today.

Straighten Up

When I was a little girl, my grandfather was constantly reprimanding me for my bad posture. He suffered from scoliosis and so was hyper-conscious of others' form. As most children tend to do, I slumped. Despite his words echoing in my memory, I still slump. I'm slumping now at my desk as I type. Some people never learn, do they?

It's not just my physical posture that could use improvement these days. It's my posture as a thinking believer, too. And for that reason, I'm thankful for this reminder by Anna Blanch on prayerfully approaching research. I should learn the Aquinas meditation my heart.

How Sweet the Sound

Video: Il Divo, "Amazing Grace"

When John Newton's testimony is retold in four-part harmony, against the stunning backdrop of the Coliseum that was once the site of horrific persecution, it reminds me of the lasting and redemptive power grace has in the human experience. Thanks be to God.

Where have you experienced grace, and what did it look like?

Bright Star

One of the beauties--or banes, if you prefer--of the internet is that you can nearly always find someone who shares your opinion of any given subject. Take the recent film Bright Star about John Keats' love affair with Fanny Brawne, for instance. It's rare that I go see a movie, but this one called me out from among my books, being about one of my favorite poets. My roommate and I saw it a few weeks ago, and all this time, I've been wanting to write a review of it. But what to say? I found myself left dumb in the wake of such an exquisite piece of work. But Meredith says it all so I don't have to. See her post "Laboring to be beautiful" on her blog, For Keats' Sake.

Violent Meditation

C.S. Lewis, in his introduction to his Reflections on the Psalms, called poetry "a little incarnation, giving body to what had been before invisible and inaudible."

I love the way Mary Karr's poem "gives body" to her meditation on the Incarnation in her sonnet "Descending Theology: The Resurrection."

From the far star points of his pinned extremities,

cold inched in—black ice and squid ink—

till the hung flesh was empty.

Lonely in that void even for pain,

he missed his splintered feet,

the human stare buried in his face.

He ached for two hands made of meat

he could reach to the end of.

In the corpse’s core, the stone fist

of his heart began to bang

on the stiff chest’s door, and breath spilled

back into that battered shape. Now

it’s your limbs he comes to fill, as warm water

shatters at birth, rivering every way.

Poem text: The Poetry Foundation