Refractions

I was introduced to the art of Makoto Fujimura more than a decade ago, and while I still can't say I *understand* his art, I absolutely can say I respect the form, the technique, the slow deliberateness of the creative process, and his words about art and faith in Refractions.  This book of his essays, written primarily around the time he and his family were displaced by the 9/11 attacks on New York City, gave me a more intimate look at his approach to art.  

One of the ideas that resonated with me is the Japanese aesthetic concept "mono  no aware" translating roughly to "beauty in the pathos of things" or "a wistful awareness of impermanence". It describes a bittersweet emotion—finding beauty, sadness, and serenity simultaneously in the realization that all things, including life and beauty, are transient.  Fujimura says, "The age old concept of wabi (poverty) and  sabi (rusting away) insists that what is truly beautiful is not the permanence of things but the impermanence." 

This perspective plus his creative process - from paper making, to sourcing and grinding of minerals for the paint, to the application of layer upon layer of these slow drying pigments - inform how he applies his Christ-saturated worldview into his creations.  

Here is a tiny snippet on his Theology of Making that may whet your appetite to learn more: 

Plucky Passage

Pelican's prominent prehistoric probiscis passes preposterously proximate to my porch

Flora & Ulysses

This wildly original, laugh-out-loud adventure from Kate DiCamillo, held a can't-put-it-down fascination for me.  Her prime character, Flora, navigates some pretty weighty family dynamics plus other perils of 10-year-old cynics, through the voices of her oft read comic TERRIBLE THINGS CAN HAPPEN TO YOU!

An unpredictable story from beginning to end that children will find both astonishing and hilarious. 

The Custom of the Sea

I have a longstanding morbid fascination with disasters at sea, so when the Avett Brothers referenced this book as the "inspiration" for their early album Mignonette, as well as their more recent Broadway musical, Swept Away, I immediately added it to my library.  

It likely goes without saying, but this is a harrowing tale of survival after 4 men's yacht sank in tumultuous open seas.  They rode out the next 24 days in a 15 foot dinghy with no fresh water and only 2 small tins of turnips.  In 1884, it was "the custom of the sea" that if it became necessary for survival, a ship's crew could draw lots to determine which of them would become "sustenance" for the rest of the crew.  

The Mignonette crew refused to draw lots so the Captain - on day 19 - chose to take the life of their youngest member who had drunk seawater (a fatal choice) and was near death, to prolong the lives of the remaining 3 who had wives and children counting on their return.  

The story recounts, not only the intense drama of their survival, but the personal and legal drama that ensued when they were subsequently the first to be tried for murder for practicing this "custom."   It's easy to dislike the Javert-like prosecutor, especially given the dire circumstances, the upstanding character of the Captain, and his refusal to hide or deny what he had done.  It's also impossible to imagine a level of distress that would allow otherwise civilized, rational, moral humans to justify taking another's life to sustain their own.  

Be prepared to wrestle with empathy for and solidarity with the Captain, and expect a hearty internal debate on situational ethics and the nature of self-preservation vs. self-sacrifice.

A worthy read. 

Feathered Frenzy

 Our famished friend flits frantically, foraging fragments for his forthcoming feast.

Heron Rising

Heron Rises from The Dark, Summer Pond

by: Mary Oliver

So heavy
is the long-necked, long-bodied heron,
always it is a surprise
when her smoke-colored wings

open
and she turns
from the thick water,
from the black sticks

of the summer pond,
and slowly
rises into the air
and is gone.

Then, not for the first or the last time,
I take the deep breath
of happiness, and I think
how unlikely it is

that death is a hole in the ground,
how improbable
that ascension is not possible,
though everything seems so inert, so nailed

back into itself–
the muskrat and his lumpy lodge,
the turtle,
the fallen gate.

And especially it is wonderful
that the summers are long
and the ponds so dark and so many,
and therefore it isn’t a miracle

but the common thing,
this decision,
this trailing of the long legs in the water,
this opening up of the heavy body

into a new life: see how the sudden
gray-blue sheets of her wings
strive toward the wind; see how the clasp of nothing
takes her in.

Beach Bum

 Black-browed and bristly, the bedraggled biped broods. 

Wordsmith Wednesday

Back in the day, the rhythms of my life included natural encounters with etymology (through teaching Latin and Literature) or with unfamiliar words (through frequent reading of theology, philosophy, literature, etc.), so at that time Wordsmith Wednesdays were routine (as was writing in general). Since my transition to the world of commerce, those encounters no longer occur naturally, and are mostly relegated to vacations when I make time to read something other than emails and contracts.  I'm on the beach for two weeks, so here we go!  

After years of owning this compilation of essays, I FINALLY picked up Lewis' On Stories and encountered these rarely used words:

otiose - from the Latin otiosus, meaning "at leisure, unoccupied, or idle" - generally used to denote something as useless, unproductive, or futile

sidereal - from the Latin sidereus, meaning "of or relating to the stars or constellations" 

jejune - from the Latin jejunus, meaning "empty, hungry, fasting, or barren" - generally used to reference something lacking nutritive value, or devoid of interest or significance

pusillanimous - this word comes from two Latin words: pusillus, meaning "weak, small, or petty"; and animus, meaning "spirit or soul"; so together it literally means weak-souled or without courage

diuturnity - from the Latin diuturnus, meaning "lasting a long time" - a word so rarely used it's considered archaic

architectonic - from the Greek words arkhi, meaning "chief"; and tekton, meaning "builder"; so together with the adjectival "ic," it means "pertaining to a master builder" - I love that he uses this word when speaking about Dorothy Sayers.

dyslogistic - from the Greek words dys, meaning "bad"; and logos, meaning "words, language, speech"; together it means "bad words" - basically, the opposite of the word we are more familiar with: "eulogy/eulogistic" which we think of as funereal, but it literally means "good words" (spoken about another person).

optative - from the Latin optativus, meaning "expressing desire" - it is used to name a grammatical "mood" of wishing (not to be confused with the subjunctive which is the mood of "possibility" - what *may* happen - not "desire" - what I *wish* would happen).  I'll share Lewis' quote on this one because I find his pull-no-punches style enlivening. 

"...I have tended to use the Parthenon and the Optative as the symbols of two types of education.  The one begins with hard, dry things like grammar and dates, and prosody; and it has at least the chance of ending in a real appreciation which is equally hard and firm though not equally dry.  The other begins with "Appreciation" and ends in gush.  When the first fails, it has, at the very least, taught the boy what knowledge is like.  He may decide that he doesn't care for knowledge; but he knows he doesn't care for it, and he knows he hasn't got it.  But the other kind fails most disastrously when it most succeeds.  It teaches a man to feel vaguely cultured while he remains in fact a dunce.  It makes him think he is enjoying poems he can't construe.  It qualifies him to review books he does not understand, and to be intellectual without intellect." 

prosody - from the Latin prosodie meaning "the accent of a syllable" - generally used to refer to verbal intonation or poetic meter (Lewis' sense in the passage above)  

Water My Flowers

You couldn't help but notice her. Courtney was tall...very tall...even without the 5 inch heels she loved to wear.  She confidently towered over all of us women and many of the men.  And trust me, that confidence was warranted.  She was stunningly beautiful.  Elegant.  Wicked smart.  Creative.  A fashion goddess and all around diva, really.  Oh...and strong...she'd be rightfully offended if I left that out.  Maybe I tried to forget that part...I worked so hard to keep up with her on weighted squats one day that I could barely sit and stand for a week!

She majored in Agricultural Biotech (or something brainy like that), then traded career opportunities for motherhood.  She kept a lovely home.  Managed a household of seven. Schooled her own kids.  Hosted fabulous parties. Shot beautiful photos which she developed in her own dark room.  She was a devout Christian, a faithful friend, and remarkably humble in spite of her many gifts.   

A few years ago, though, her internal world began to unravel.  I guess I'll never know for sure what caused the fracture, but circadian and dopamine dysregulation spurred her already intellectual abstract mind into ideations that felt cosmically critical to her.  Her drive to pursue these ideas and capture them for the benefit of humanity was relentless.  I would sit and listen to her for hours on end, trying to navigate the blurred lines between creative genius and mania...between fantasy and reality.  Her ideas were often intellectually challenging and inspiring, forcing me to wrestle with perspectives I hadn't considered.  Sometimes they were outlandishly absurd.  Sometimes they were dark and unsettling.  Sometimes her musings were delivered in person through a torrent of analogies from biology and nature and philosophy and art and theology.  If you didn’t walk away feeling a little bit dumb, you probably weren’t listening! Sometimes they were delivered in the wee hours of the morning through dozens of manifesto-like pages of intricately woven chaos. 

On this journey, she lost everything and nearly everyone. She lost her marriage and family life, her home, her security, safety, and stability, plus many of her friends.  In some ways she lost her dignity.  She was abandoned by some, ridiculed by others.  Some disappeared because it wasn't fun to be around her in the same way, some because it was simply too painful to watch.  Some were hurt and pushed away by her unfiltered words and accusations.  

She left us recently...by her own choice, it seems.  Her absence makes me realize I never really grieved the loss of the first Courtney.  I accepted and moved forward with the changes in her.  With sadness, yes, but I never really grieved all that she had lost and all that I lost of her  healthier self.  When she glided through the world with an irresistible charm, I loved her.  When she limped through the world with an air of tragic vulnerability, I loved her.  I'm grieving the loss of both versions of her. 

I want my words to bear witness to her life. It was a life of extreme beauty and heartrending brokenness. On both sides of her illness, she was a faithful friend to me.  I cherish memories of ziplining through the jungles of Costa Rica, visiting STLs finest restaurants, vacationing with our families in Door County, exploring Vegas, scrapbooking in my basement, sharing family meals around our tables, wine tastings, untold hours of storytelling and laughter around the firepit with or without others.  As our life situations shifted and we both ended up on our own, we checked on each other regularly.  She is the ONLY person pinned at the top of my iMessages (as my sons have resentfully pointed out) because I didn't want to miss her texts.  I wanted to be available when she needed connection. 

Today, it's hard not to question why we hadn't talked since October...why I allowed myself to be so busy that I didn't push in when there was no response to my last invitation.  I look at our latest threads and see words like "Time is short." "I still love you and always will." "My health is failing." differently than I did at the time.  We shared a love of music - mostly off the beaten path stuff - but the last song link she sent me hits differently now too:

Who's gonna water my flowers? 

Who's gonna cry my name? 

When they lay me down in the cold hard ground, 

And I'm in my final hour,

Who's gonna water my flowers? 

I will, my friend.  I'll water your flowers.  Today I water them with an endless flood of tears.  I'm so sorry that you died alone.  I'm so sorry I wasn't there to talk you into staying or to hold your hand and bless you with words of comfort...reminding you of the faithfulness of Christ, of the remission of sin, of the hope of resurrection, and the promise of all things made new.   

May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.  May you wait in peace until we are reunited in wholeness at the Final Resurrection.  

I still love you too...and always will.  Shalom, my friend.

37 Years

Beef brisket. Coleslaw. Baked Potato. Onion Rings. Deviled Eggs. Cheese Biscuits. Fruit tea.

37 hours from now, the man who murdered my housemate 37 years ago will meet his Maker.  This will be his final meal.  That knowledge humanizes him more than I want it to.  It forces me to consider what he might be thinking and feeling as the end draws near...what it's like to experience the smell and taste of food for the last time...what it's like to imagine the experience of dying...to anticipate the unknown. I welcome these imaginings and the tears that accompany them partly because they signal that my desire for a soft heart is not entirely futile.  I pray for him... though I suppose it’s more true that the Spirit transforms my groanings into intercessions I can't articulate.

But harsher thoughts rush in: "Why do you get to choose and control your final hours in a way Karen was not allowed?  She didn't know her final meal was her last.  She didn't get to choose her manner of death or how much pain she might experience.  No one gave her sedatives to numb the terror or ease her pain before you bashed her head in.  She didn't get to appeal for clemency based on her good behavior or her steadfast faith - her case would have been very, very strong."

The old battle still rages inside me.  Mercy and Indignation. 37 wearying years.

When I learned back in the spring that Nichols' death had been scheduled for December 11, I began the process of agonizing over whether to attend. It had been scheduled twice before and delayed.  I wrestled long and hard with questions like "what does it look like to live Christianly in THIS context in THIS moment?"  How do Christ's teachings in the Sermon on the Mount apply?  What does it actually mean in real world practice to...

• Not resist an evil person
• Turn the other cheek 
• Give generously to one who wrongfully exploits you
• Go twice as far with the usurper as they demand
• Love your enemy
• Do good to those who act in hate toward you
• Forgive in the same way you have been forgiven

As a follower of Christ...

• What does it mean to measure this man with the same measuring rod I want to be measured against?  I want the measuring rod of mercy!  
• What does mercy look like in this situation?  
• Is it a manifestation of revenge or unforgiveness or hatred to want to be present at his execution?  
• Is the obligation I feel to represent Karen and his other victims mere sentimentality?  It doesn't change anything.  It won't mean anything to them.  Is it evidence of a hard and unforgiving heart?
• Is it blatant hypocrisy to pray for his redemption then show up to watch him die? 
• Why does it feel "right" that this is happening and yet my spirit can't be at rest?
• Is it possible to faithfully hold the tension between justice and mercy?
• What should I THINK, BELIEVE, FEEL, and DO?

As I am inclined to do, I turned to scholars, theologians, and pastors for insight.  While helpful, my mind was distracted and pulled toward emotion...which is my least favorite place to live.  Fortunately, one of my local pastors who is theologically astute and has the soul of a poet, gave me the gift of a compassionate, attentive ear so I was able to express at length and with deep emotion my intense struggle.  He granted me a great gift with 3 simple words: You are free.  The sentence of death is just and you are free to attend if that is helpful, and you are free from any obligation to be there.  Those words may seem simple or even obvious, and even though on some theoretical level I may "know" that, to have those words spoken to me in that moment (words that have never been spoken to me in my 60 years of life in the church) was powerful and they lightened my load.  I'm so grateful. 

The last few months have been a roller coaster.  It started with a call from Sierra - the dedicated victim advocate in Tennessee who has been keeping me informed for a decade - confirming that, even though there had been some recent debate about me attending, I was cleared to do so and would soon receive my packet with instructions. My deep emotional reaction and the relief I felt were clear indications that some part of me needed to be there.   However, a couple weeks later, I received another call telling me the "rules have changed" and not only am I not allowed to be a witness, I am not even allowed to be present at all with the victim advocate team.  Members of the press can be there, but I cannot...another of many confounding mysteries along this journey.    

I asked for the opportunity to meet face to face with Nichols and that request was also denied.  The idea scared me, but I have lingering questions - of little significance to anyone other than me - that I want answers to.   I also hoped his eyes might reflect an understanding of the gravity and impact of his actions and maybe...just maybe... I could even hear him express genuine sorrow for what he has done.  

I've never heard Nichols say he was sorry...other than on the witness stand when his life was at stake.  It's hard to judge sincerity in that context.  I've had no indication that he owned up to the destruction he wrought, not just on Karen, but on the other 12 victims and all their friends and family.  In fact, I interpreted the many appeals and attempts to reverse his conviction as evidence of him not taking responsibility or repenting.  I have read the opposite into his words and paintings which I interpreted as full of "frivolity and victimization."

Today, I found a video that accompanied his recent request for clemency (which Governor Lee denied).  Like everything else related to him, it stirred up conflicting reactions. There's beauty in it.  And unfairness.  And redemption.  His is a moving story of transformation that began with words of forgiveness from Karen's mother and a challenge to become someone worthy of that forgiveness.  It appears her prayers on his behalf have been answered.  While this video doesn't bring full resolution, it answers some of my lingering questions, and I hear expressions of remorse that seem authentic.  Yes, it could be yet another selfish appeal to escape punishment. I don't know his heart.  I want to hear him say "I accept this punishment as just. I submit to the consequence of my actions.  I know death by lethal injection might bring discomfort but it won't compare to the pain I caused Karen and my other victims."  But that isn't meant to be.  I am still grateful to have found this video because, whether or not he is sincere, learning about the actions of Karen's mother toward him is instructive and moving.  While he was still in his sins, not knowing his need or desiring a new heart, she extended grace and pointed him to Jesus.  Surely, that is what it looks like to live faithfully in the tension so that mercy will triumph over indignation.

**Post Execution Note: in some real sense, this chapter in my life feels ended with the carrying out of his sentence.  The DA's office called me shortly after and I immediately felt a biological release that I can't explain, didn't expect, and didn't even know I needed.  It's over. 

____________________________________________________________________________

Past posts about this experience:
1988

Taking a Breath

Enter...Harold Wayne Nichols

A Fierce & Difficult Calling

The Christian & Criminal Punishment

Reaching Out

I am just beginning this little book by Henri Nouwen and can already tell it is - unsurprisingly - a gem.  A quick quote from the early pages on loneliness:

"No friend or lover, no husband or wife, no community or commune will be able to put to rest our deepest cravings for unity and wholeness. By burdening others with these divine expectations, we might inhibit the expression of free friendship and love and evoke instead feelings of inadequacy and weakness.  Friendship and love ask for a gentle fearless space where we can move to and from each other.  As long as our loneliness brings us together with the hope that together we will no longer be alone, we castigate each other with our unfulfilled and unrealistic desires for oneness, inner tranquility, and the uninterrupted experience of communion."

Reaching Out is an exploration of the spiritual life and the inflection points of spiritual growth - learning to live in healthy relationship with our innermost self (moving from loneliness to solitude), with others (moving from hostility to hospitality), and with God (moving from illusion to prayer).    

Lilly's Gown

3 weeks may sound like more than enough time to make an infant dress, but for an overthinking, overachieving human like me (with an already full plate of responsibilities), it didn't feel like enough time to imagine, research, design, source, and create Lilly's gown.  Still, it was important enough to give it a go.  I began with a rough sketch of my vision for the gown, including a list of potential sewing elements and symbolism to incorporate.  I wanted this gown to be a treasure of beauty and craftsmanship, as well as a comprehensive storybook of life with Christ.   

I knew what pattern I wanted to use for the base design, but forgot that it hadn't survived the 2012 downsizing.  That led me to conduct an extensive online and in-store search for any pattern that would provide the right foundation and which I could alter to fit my vision.  I was excited to discover an unused envelope of Simplicity 7488 - my original intended pattern - on Etsy!  Isn't the modern marketplace a wonder?

I've been out of the sewing groove for more than a decade now, but I had previously used Simplicity 7488 to construct a very simple baptism gown and coat for the male infant of a close friend.  The gown was simple and the overcoat had very little embellishment.  It was lovely but simple, following the original pattern. 

After finding the pattern online, my next discovery was that the fine fabric shops that used to grace St. Louis, no longer exist.  There are quilting shops all over town but none that carry heirloom quality fabrics any more (at least not that I could find!).    If you sew, you'll appreciate my strong hesitation to order fabric online without TOUCHING it.  I mean...that just isn't done!  I finally found The Children's Corner, an online version of a shop I became familiar with back when I subscribed to Sew Beautiful and Creative Needle magazines.  I determined it would be safe to order fabric from such a reputable shop.  They were gracious enough to overnight all 8 1/2 yards of handkerchief linen they had on hand so I could get started. 

Choosing entredeux and laces from photos on Etsy felt very risky because lace needs to be seen up close and in person to really assess the quality of the product.  In the absence of local sources, I scoured reviews, crossed my fingers, and took the plunge with HeirloomSewingDesign...and it paid off.  

I then ran around town for a variety of notions and other items I didn't have on hand and discovered that even some "basic" quality sewing notions were impossible to find locally.   Of course, this led to untold hours of imagining how I might quit my job and open a specialty sewing shop in The Lou. Because…well…that’s what my crazy, can’t-be-still brain does - imagines how to restore broken down things, add form and function to base matter, or create what is missing to fill a void.  Anyway…

I wanted Lilly's gown to be long, and to incorporate pintucks, entredeux, French and English laces, lace insertion, smocking...ALL the things I've drooled over for years but have never actually done!   I'll spare you all the details of the process, but  I took 10 days off of work and devoted hours to tutorials and experimentation that I hoped would equip me to produce the desired result.  The gown has several imperfections and flaws (which would be easily spotted by an experienced seamstress, but somewhat less obvious to the general population).  Though hard for me to accept in my natural drive for perfection, in the end I was able to let go of that need and be content with the gown - flaws and all - as a labor of love.  

I initially considered using my wedding gown to make the overcoat, but in the end, this gown didn't NEED a coat.   I used my gown instead to make her under slip and bonnet, and while I was at it, added some lace covered booties to the ensemble. 

Ultimately, I was only able to incorporate a single symbol into the design.  My inexperience (especially with hand embroidery) and lack of time meant I was unable to tell a more comprehensive story, so I settled on the Celtic Trinity Knot, as a slight nod to the Irish history on both sides of the family but, more importantly, as a testament to the reality that the One in whose name Lilly is being baptized, is essentially communal.  She is brought into the life of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit and made a member of Christ's Body - his Bride (thus the "fancy white dress").  This is her defining identity...belonging to Christ and his people.  My prayer for her is that she will grow to full understanding of that as she experiences the joys and sorrows that lie ahead, and that she will embrace it with gratitude and humility. 

Birthday Blooms

Look what I discovered as I walked out my door today to go to work...my first sunflowers wide awake with their faces absorbing the light! A welcome sight as I commemorate 21,900 trips around the sun they love so much.  

This one is at least 8' tall!

And...there are a dozen or more to come!  Aren't these buds intricately glorious?!  

The Anesthetized Life of the Metaverse

The advent of analgesics in the late 19th century made it possible for most of us to quell ordinary daily physical pain...and sometimes even extraordinary physical pain. In time, a broad range of psychotropics brought us options to reduce or numb our mental and emotional pain as well.  This age of pharmaceuticals is a blessing, is it not?  

Yet I can't help but wonder...what have we lost in this era of accessible, easy relief?   When these substance interventions fail us - which they sometimes do - when the pain remains, do we even know how to live?  Do we have the Resilience, Grit, or Perseverance to endure?  Do we know how to bear up under that which seems unbearable? 

Our modern experience of death is somewhat similar in that we remove the reality from ourselves as quickly as possible.  We scurry the body off to a morgue where we don't have to see it.   We hide it.   We distance ourselves from it.  We sterilize it.  We clean it, apply makeup, dress it up, to make it as "undead" and realistic as possible before putting it on display.  I recognize that, for some, these rituals carry symbolism of respect and dignity, or may represent an important step for others on the road to "closure" (if such a thing even exists), and for some, it even instills a sense of hope.  I get it.  But I wonder about the long term effects of beautifying the grotesque.   Death is hideous. Generations who came before us knew this.  They didn't have the option to escape the raw realities of death.  The sight and smells of decay permeated their world, making it somewhat absurd to spin it as the gateway to a "better place."  It isn't. It is creation coming undone.  It's the wrenching apart of personhood - body and soul - which was created to be whole.   It's not something to beautify, make clean, or soften with platitudes.  Like a ring in a pig's snout, none of this changes the filth, the coldness, the darkness, the stench.

But pharmaceuticals and embalming aren't the only ways we anesthetize and soften the reality of life.  We have grown accustomed to cleanliness, to whitewashing, to ease, in many facets of life.  We hop in our cars for an effortless journey to the grocery store where very little exertion lands us a cart full of fresh and already-prepared food.  We cook that food over a fire we summon with the push of a button, then tidy up with clean water that streams into the very room where the mess is. Our most foul excretions are immediately spirited away to the underground depths as if they never existed.  Our facial blemishes are magically masked with any number of cosmetics.  Clothes show up ready-to-wear in boxes dropped conveniently near our front door.  When we soil them, machines clean them with relatively little effort on our part. 

Don't misunderstand.  I am not glorifying the past or the way things used to be. No rose-colored-glasses here.  Hardship and difficulty can forge character, reveal courage, instill strength...but they also produce fatigue, pain, sickness, and discouragement.   Progress - and I believe modern plumbing and cars and gas stoves and washing machines are examples of creative progress - has brought us many good gifts.  But when we move forward without consideration of the impact on the body, soul, and psyche, we may do ourselves and our posterity a disservice by over-distancing ourselves from reality. 

Since the Industrial Revolution, we have moved further and further from SOURCES of things.  We are distanced from the land that produces our food.  We are distanced from the bodies of water that keep us clean and hydrated.  We are distanced from the mechanics of our machines. Indeed, as technology advances, more and more specialization is needed to understand the physical world we interact with. But as we abandon the source, we lose understanding of how our world works (see Matthew Crawford's wonderful philosophical musings on this in Shop Craft as Soul Craft and The World Beyond Your Head.).  This distancing breeds unfamiliarity.  We're losing connection with the created world.  We are out of touch with the materiality, the physicality of our lives.

I suppose these shifts may allow us to embrace Meta as a natural next step.  Zuckerberg, its creator, recently promoted the Metaverse as the "embodied internet" where you're "in the experience."  Ironically, the very nature of this universe is a DISEMBODIED one...or perhaps it's a world of "embodied" ISOLATION.  Here you can experience one another in an anesthetized environment where you won't have to smell another's sweat or stale breath, where you won't be confronted with real flaws of others or have yours exposed. You will never truly know or be known in Metaverse because you will always inhabit a fictionalized version of yourself alongside the fictionalized versions of another being, all staged in a fictionalized world.  You can exit an interaction without explanation and blame a bad internet connection.  You can project a feigned presence while remaining wholly distracted by a device or the real presence of another (sure we can do that now, but when we are physically present with another, we can at least SEE each other's distraction b/c we inhabit the same real space).  The Meta experience claims that your avatar presence - which is an entirely fabricated idealized version of "you" - will allow a more "natural and vivid" experience with "the feeling of presence" made possible through "living 3D representations of you."  

Here's the thing.  So much of what we can do with new technology is SUPER cool. I'm blown away by what is being discovered, learned, built, and added to the world of our experiences.  There are some amazing, redemptive, and FUN applications for these innovations!  But I can't shake my discomfort with the language of "embodiment."  As humans made in the image of a Trinitarian God (communal by nature) who took on flesh (embodied presence), we are designed to live and experience life in and through our flesh and bone bodies, not through a curated ethereal disembodied experience.  In REAL life, being physically present with someone experiencing deep physical pain is gut-wrenching.  It doesn't need "vivifying."  It can't be escaped.  The person in pain doesn't need the "feeling of presence" but ACTUAL presence.  In a 3D universe, I can be "present" with you while you suffer and not FEEL your suffering.  I can pretend to share in it without any consequence to my own person.  And without the benefit of helping you bear that burden.  

I'm reminded of this quote from Buechner's The Hungering Dark:

'No man is an island,' wrote Dr. Donne...'for whom the bell tolls it tolls for thee.'  ...any man's death reminds us of our common destiny...our lives are linked together.  But there is another truth...that every man IS an island.  ...we speak not to reveal who we are but to CONCEAL who we are.  Instead of showing ourselves as we truly are, we show ourselves as we believe others want us to be.  We wear masks, and with practice we do it better and better, and they serve us well--except that it gets very lonely inside the mask, because inside the mask there is a person who both longs to be known and fears to be known.

The Metaverse has the potential to enlarge our islands and allow us to hide even more easily behind well-designed masks, entrenching us in our fear of being truly known.  

There is no stopping the momentum of this innovation train. I simply hope we pause often to consider how we might be unintentionally swept away by transformative technologies without understanding their soul-impact.  I hope we find courage, when necessary, to brace ourselves against the swelling tide of pressure to live as a counterfeit self in a counterfeit world, and to embrace the raw, gritty, dirty world of created matter and humans as the flawed flesh and bone humans we are.    

--originally published by She's No Lady in January 2024

The Beatryce Prophecy

"Answelica was a goat with teeth that were the mirror of her soul -- large, sharp, and uncompromising." 

Thus begins Kate DiCamillo's 2021 story about young Beatryce.  What could possibly be more frightening than the goat who opens the story?  A strong willed girl who can read and write, that's what.  Only Beatryce's unlikely companions - among them the goat, an illiterate orphan, and a monk with a wobbly eye - recognize that these gifts were given her to fulfill her destiny. 

"What is it to know that people will come searching for you?  Everything."  This is Beatryce's hope as she waits in the dark to be led to where she belongs...to her home.

Another heartwarming novel from DiCamillo, weaving together suspense, delight, and laughter while introducing young readers to words like "benign," "antipathies," "beatific," and "prodigious."

A worthwhile read.

Turns of Phrase

From The Memory of Old Jack - another Port William tale full of beauty and sorrow - come these turns of phrase as only Wendell Berry can spin:

"And always near him was the thought of the dead woman who had loved him as he was and of the living one who could not."

"It is the blessing and trial of his old age that his mind goes back to inhabit again and again the body of the man he was."

"He was her cross, and she bore him with a submission that, afterwards, chilled him to the bone." 

"His labor is no longer work, but a striving against the effrontery of circumstance."

"Lying in the bare room whose curtainless windows admitted the bright, implacable gaze of the stars, he knew that he had become the incarnation of his solitude."

Again, they must resume their journey, the long return of dust to dust."

"She wants what she cannot ask and he cannot give.  He sees it in her eyes.  It makes a sorrow in him that only his grave will heal."

"He became again the true husband of his land, but now  his work was healing."

"She had made of herself a sort of portable occasion for the ostentatious gifts of her husband."

"The cost of living beyond his time is putting up with the various noises and contraptions of these new times."

"Now he must cease to be a son to the old men and become a father to the young." 

The Pained Underside of Severity

Mat Feltner: "I think of the pain I've given to my children.  Especially to Virgil.  You hope for a realization in them, finally, that the pain is given out of love, inept and blundering and blind and wrong as it can sometimes be, I don't worry so much about Bess.  She's had a family of her own long enough to know the terrified love you can sometimes have for your children.  But Virgil I feel like I owe an accounting to.  There's maybe only weakness in it.  You want your good intentions recognized, even the failed ones.  You want it known by the ones nearest you that your good intentions are a real part of your life, and your love for them." 

Hannah studied his face, seeing in it an old man's sorrow for the imperfection of his life and fatherhood. She understands suddenly how a young man might be borne up, might justify everything, by the hope of perfection - and growing old, must realize that he has done nothing perfect.  She knows that Mat has allowed her to see, as Virgil never was allowed to, the pained underside of his severity.  

--A Place on Earth, Wendell Berry

The Hotel Balzaar

In March of that year, Marta and her mother arrived at Hotel Balzaar. They were given an attic room that contained a bed, a sink, and a battered chest of drawers. 

In her new "home" Marta is to be quiet as a mouse and disturb no one. But the insatiable curiosity of the young girl is stronger than her will to be silent. 

If that little snippet doesn't pique your interest, I feel sure the introduction to Norman Francis Binwithier (the sleeping bellman), or Alfonse (the exceedingly straight-edged desk clerk), or the flamboyant countess and her General-turned-parrot companion, just might. 

If those characters also fail to draw you in, well then you may be nigh hopeless.  But I'm certain no one can resist being mesmerized by Julia Sarda's exquisitely detailed illustrations, (my poor quality snapshot does not convey the full glory of her images)

The Puppets of SPELHORST

The Puppets of Spelhorst are filled with a longing they can’t name.  Each one has a unique characteristic by which they define themselves, but in the absence of purpose they can only boast of their uniqueness and downplay each other’s.  

• The Owl boasts of his real feathers.  His longing to pontificate wisely masks his truer longing to FLY.
• The King boasts of his crown.  His longing to command others masks his truer longing for MUSIC.
• The Wolf boasts of her sharp teeth.  Her longing to destroy masks her deeper longing for FREEDOM.
• The Boy boasts of his arrows.  His longing to do important deeds masks his truer longing for LOVE.

As their journey progresses, each gets a taste of The Thing they longed to do, but they end up abandoned and alone, missing one another and unsatisfied by their momentary experience.  Their true glory and the fulfillment of their deepest longing only comes when they experience The Thing in community with one another and for a greater purpose.

Kate has done it again.  She has woven a tale that captivates a child's imagination, while tapping deep into the soul of the adult reader. It is, as I've come to expect from her, both delightful and insightful.  

A Place on Earth

Wendell Berry's powers of observation and his ability to capture essence with unparalleled economy - of a person, an event, a landscape, a community, an experience, a photograph -  remains unmatched.  Here's a tiny sampling from the 300+ pages of A Place on Earth:

Jarrat Coulter - "It is a severe manhood that Jarrat has, that feeds on its loneliness, and will be governed by no head but its own."

Uncle Jack - "He relishes his ciphering.  The figures come into his mind smelling of barns and grain bins and tobacco and livestock.  His figures grunt and bleat and bray and bawl.  This is the passion that has worn him out and made him old, and is still a passion.  As he labor over it, the notebook becomes as substantial in his hands as a loaded shovel."

Mat Feltner - "This is the crisis of increase - what he was born to, and what he chose.  When he has done all that can be done, he is at peace with himself.   His labor has been his necessity and his desire."

Brother Preston - "The Word, in his speaking it, fails to be made flesh.  It is a failure particularized for him in the palm of every work-stiffened hand held out to him at the church door every Sunday morning - the hard dark hand taking his pale unworn one in a gesture of politeness without understanding."

Gideon Crop - "There is evidence everywhere of the presence of a strong, frugal intelligence, the sort of mind that can make do, not meagerly but skillfully and adequately, with scraps. He had the gifts of quiet endurance, of tolerance of rough work and poor tools, of makeshift, of neatness in patched clothes, of thrift."

Aunt Fanny - "That these things have grown out of the ground into their secret places apart from anybody's intention, and that she takes them familiarly and freely without attempting to take them all, that they are the harvest of a ramble and not a search or a labor, all this bespeaks a peaceableness between her and the world."

Roger - "Roger is lying on the big four-poster bed, wearing shirt and tie and coat and hat, generously covered with quilts, his head propped up against the bare headboard - sound asleep, his bottle propped beside him, a large briar pipe lying extinguished on his chest.  That he has escaped burning up is owed, according to some, only to the Lord's noted solicitude for drunkards and fools."

A Practiced Drunk

"They watch him pass in front of the most distant of the houses and come slowly down the row of them toward town, his walk a little unsteady but neither awkward nor faltering; he never strays out of his direction.  It is the gait of a man intricately skilled and practiced in being drunk. There is a ponderous grace about it like that of a trained elephant or a locomotive.  He sways heavily back and forth across the line of his direction, like a man carrying a barrel across a tightrope, his progress a sequence of fine distinctions between standing up and falling down.  His drunkenness has become precise."

--A Place on Earth, Wendell Berry

He Knows Our Frame

Originally published December 30, 2010:

Are you ever tempted to think how much easier it would be for us to put our faith into full practice if only Christ were here with us?  Not just in our hearts or by His Spirit, but visibly, audibly, tangibly present.  If that were the case, how could we possibly fail to trust, love and obey Him?

A stroll through the first few chapters of The Gospels should quickly cure us of that delusion - that is, unless we somehow set ourselves above the disciples.  Take Peter, for example.  You know...that world-renowned rock on which the apostolic church is built...yeah, that Peter.  He had Christ's literal, physical presence.  He heard His voice, felt His touch, looked in His eyes, and was an eyewitness of all manner of miracles - the casting out of demons; the healing of the lame, blind, deaf, mute, and leprous; the stilling of the storm; the RAISING OF THE DEAD!!  Well no wonder he had faith!  Unfaltering, unwavering faith!!

Well...there was this one time...

Peter had just witnessed His Lord feed a crowd of more than 5,000 with a mere pittance of fish and bread.  He must have been on an emotional high after such a spectacular experience!  In fact, he was so filled with faith that, a few hours later when Christ came walking across the water toward the disciples, Peter asked to join Him!  By faith, and at Christ's bidding, Peter climbed out of the boat and walked toward his Master.  HE WAS WALKING ON WATER, PEOPLE!  With his whole mind, heart, and senses, he was observing and participating in a tangible miracle! 

Yet, in the very midst of this experience, he saw a wave coming and was filled with terror.  Christ was right there with him...in the flesh...and he was overcome with doubt and fear!  How can this be?!  I suppose you and I would be foolish to imagine we would have done anything differently than Peter did.  Apparently, a clay vessel is a clay vessel.

But you know what the BEST part of this story is?  When Peter, filled with doubt, began to sink, he cried out, "Lord, save me!"  And how did Christ respond?

"Where is your faith, Peter?  You had it just a moment ago!"

"C'mon, Peter!  I'm RIGHT HERE!  Pull yourself together, son!"

"Aw, Peter.  I'm disappointed.  After all you have seen and experienced, you still don't trust me?  What's it gonna take?"

No.  Christ could have lambasted or skewered him with any number of honest and well-deserved rebukes, but He didn't.  He didn't shame him or lecture him for his lack of faith. 

Instead...He immediately reached out and took hold of Peter and brought him to the safety of the boat.  Even then Peter received only the gentle rebuke of a compassionate parent, "Little Faith, why did you doubt?"

When we find our own faith is small...smaller than we thought it was...smaller than it ought to be based on our knowledge and experience, we can lose heart, or we can remember this: the Triune God has revealed Himself to us in the person of Christ.  This is what our God is like!  Compassionate.  Longsuffering.  Ready and anxious to take hold of us as soon as we call out for deliverance!  Even when our hearts condemn us, God is greater than our hearts. He knows our frame and remembers that we are dust.  By His grace He will keep us calling out, "Lord, save me!" and confessing, "Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief!" 

Believe this and be at rest. 

SaveSave

"I Will Never"

Originally published July 9, 2014: 

We resist humility.  

As Christians, we prefer to face life armed with moral certitude.  After all, we believe strongly in Good Things: marriage, Christian education, liturgy, personal and societal morals, and countless exacting points of theology which we have labored to fine-tune to precision.  And we have the authority of Scripture, Confessions, Catechisms, and Ecclesiastical Tradition on our side…not to mention intellectual acuity and eloquence!  

We like certainty.  It feels safe to be certain.  Of our beliefs.  Of our rightness.  Of our staunch resistance to the decay we see around us and our unwillingness to compromise.  Our faith is strong and secure.  Therefore…we declare.  Some of us declare silently within ourselves.  Others of us declare out loud…via conversation, sermons, social media, or even…blogs!

The problem is that all too often, those declarations have much to do with our own faithfulness and little to do with the faithfulness of Christ.  It easily translates into pride and superiority, making our voice repulsive to our hearers.

We become like Peter who, I imagine, was entirely persuaded when he declared, "Even if all of these fall away because of you, I will never fall away.  Even if I have to DIE with you, I will never deny you!"  We all know how that turned out.

Peter, like us, had the wisdom of the Proverbs at his disposal: "Pride goes before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall."  

But humility is a hard-won virtue that often comes to fruition only after we have "declared" and subsequently found ourselves on our knees weeping bitterly and pleading for mercy because we, like Peter, have done the very thing about which we proclaimed, "I will never…!"

The Good News is, that though God resists the proud, he gives grace to the humble.  Christ waits for us in that place and looks on us with understanding and compassion.  Our failure…our denial…are not the final words.  The Final Word is the Word of Life who raises us from our knees, declares his constancy in spite of our inconstancy, and then sends us out as witnesses with a new and faithful declaration: the Forgiveness of Sins. 

Though we resist humility, our Lord will see it formed in us so that when we declare His Truth, it will be sweet as honey to our hearers.  We will be heard…and believed.