The Wiles of the Heart

            This will be a close look at the writing of C.S. Lewis in A Grief Observed, specifically pages 24-28. Beginning with, “Kind people have said to me,” and ending with “unendurably as before it.”

            1. Representation of the text:

            In the struggle of dealing with the loss of his wife, Lewis had no doubt been around people who had wished to comfort him. However, this comfort was hardly uplifting. During his grief, he battled with real issues about God, reality, love, and anguish. Even in his broken state, Lewis’ intellect would not suffer him peace, but instead led him to question and pick apart the “kind words” of those he encountered.

            He imagined life on earth as no more than the story preceding eternal non-physical existence. The time he spent with his wife merely two beings, briefly physical, coming into contact for a short time, only to be torn apart. Now, when life had been stolen from him, for he would consider H. a great deal of his life, the sweet promises of religion are nearly bitter. What leads us to think our earthly comfort zone will be restored in eternity? Certainly not the Scripture.

            Lewis did not fear his wife’s total unhappiness in death, for her last words confirmed her peace. But, why, he wondered, do we suppose that death ushers in the end of all kinds of pain? Why would the hand of God be that much kinder after death? Why would God’s educational hurting be inconsistent? Why would the one left alone feel pain while the one who left felt nothing but perfect joy?

            2. Why this text deserves focus:

            At the very least this passage asks questions that are not, and should not, be answered quickly and easily. From direct questions about things like God’s consistency in allowing hurt, to indirect questions about the habitat of heaven, Lewis brought up ideas that don’t have pat answers.

            Further, it’s apparent that there are a great deal of minute details involved with serious grief that are unimaginable to those who have not experienced them. Lewis suffered through a tremendous amount of emotional and psychological pain to reach these thoughts (I won’t call them conclusions), so it would be ridiculous to assume that we could grasp their fullness without any effort.

            3. What this could mean:

            On page 25 Lewis says, “I know that the thing I want is exactly the thing I can never get.” He speaks of his physical connection and life with his wife. Revelation 21:4 says that heaven is a place where the former things will have passed away. Is he now merely a former thing to his wife? The unknown is a scary thing.

            On page 27 Lewis questions why people think all anxiety and torment ends with death. Specifically he asks, “Why should separation (if nothing else) which so agonizes the lover who is left behind be painless to the lover who departs?” Why does he seem to ignore the first half of that verse that clearly indicates that, “God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying, [nor] pain.”? I struggled with how such a wise man, seemingly full of the spirit, could overlook this part of the passage. I thought, perhaps, because the verse says that God will wipe away pain, Lewis might have imagined that this relief is only immediate upon death in our hopes and dreams. Still, to absent from the body is to be present with the Lord (2 Corinthians 5:8) . . . can we feel anguish in the presence of the God?

            Maybe the point here is not how Lewis could question the idea of a believer’s immediate and complete happiness upon death, for can we confidently disagree? Maybe the point is the depth which grief can reach. Lewis was in a deeper grief than he had ever been before. Maybe his closeness with God caused his grief to be so severe. Still, Lewis never abandoned his faith fully. On page 25 he said he would listen gladly about the truth of religion and submissively about its duty.

            Also on page 25, Lewis warns that he will question the understanding of those who offer him religion as a consolation in his grief. Clearly grief leads to understanding. In fact, that might be another idea at the core of Lewis’ agony: If understanding comes with pain, is death the final pain that grants infinite understanding? If God wipes away pain and sorrow, what if our idea of pain and sorrow are faulty? What if the trials we endure on earth are only painful and sorrowful to our physical bodies? To put it less plainly, what if pain and sorrow are only such to our minds? Can our spirits endure pain and sorrow in such a way that they aren’t so painful? If we are aware that the pain we feel is entirely for our benefit, can we still consider it an afflicting sorrow? Is there a way for our eternal spirits to be in pain, but with such peace and knowledge that we are able to endure them in a manner consistent with God’s wiping away of our tears?

            Unfortunately, there will always be more questions here than answers. What does this interpretation even mean? One theme in this book is confusion. Who am I to dissipate this confusion? Certainly, this really isn’t a definitive reading, but perhaps it can prove useful. Maybe even only by reaching the awareness of the unanswerable. Maybe those in dire agony, searching for a solution can find relief in knowing that there isn’t one, save time, possibly, if you have enough.

            4. More support from the text for these ideas:

            The very first line of the book points to the concept of grief being more than one can anticipate, even with some level of preparation. Lewis observes that he was never told “that grief felt so like fear.” (3) From this it is reasonable to infer that he has, in his life, heard ideas about what this type of grief might be like. The very first thing he writes asserts that what he heard was not enough. That nothing had prepared him.

            Lewis says “it is different when the thing happens to oneself, not to others, and in reality, not in imagination.” (36-37) Can you imagine this? Of course not. Theory and intellect will never suffice in preparing the mind for the wiles of the heart.

            Lewis does touch on the idea of understanding coming only through grief. He points out that H. would have understood it even better. If grief became so suddenly real to him, then it must mean that the grief he thought he understood all this time was actually beyond him. He considers his old faith and sympathies to be a house of cards. On page 38 he suggests that H. would have said, “the sooner it was knocked down the better. And only suffering could do it.”

            Finally, through all of this confusion, Lewis reaches the finality of finite ignorance. On page 75 he says, “We cannot understand. The best is perhaps what we understand least.”

            5. Why this matters:

            I see two possible purposes for examining a text such as this: Empathy or counsel for others experiencing grief, and sanity for experiencing it firsthand.

            First, what might we feel or do when others experience such grief? Lewis mentions that he must not have prayed genuinely for others who had felt the touch of death, because he clearly had never cared if they were alive. If we can begin to understand the agony through realizing that we can’t, our prayers might be able to come from our spirits and hearts, not only our minds. And, just maybe, words of hope are not what the hurting need. Maybe instead of, “I understand how you feel. Everything will be fine.” we ought to offer, “I have no concept of how you feel. Everything will simply be.” What if grief can only endure in its truest form when it has a foothold of false hope for a satisfying solution?

            Second, what might we do when we experience such grief? Lewis describes thoughts so convoluted and sick, that I believe those who have experienced them may not be aware of them, or able to articulate them, which would quickly lead to an inability to deal with them. The answers are not clear, and might not be available. As a Christian, I was always confident that my faith in eternity would see me through any grief I might suffer, but now? Now my confidence is in the fact that I have card castles everywhere in my faith. My fear is in the truth that “only suffering” can knock them down. I am confident that I am not, and will not be, prepared to deal with true grief when it hits me first. I could imagine that this scrutiny would equip me, but that would be naive and seem to miss the point. All one can do is try not to worry about tomorrow and brace for the impact, even though the only thing we can know for sure is that, no matter how hard we brace, true grief will leave us limp. Maybe it’s only when we stop tensing up after the impact that we can begin to heal.

Know ye not?

     This story was so much easier to read and follow than I expected. The three themes I saw most consistently were the "stupid idiot" older sisters, the relatively wise but immature in her own rights "child," and the idea of the body being a temple. I feel like these are the keys to the story, as they were so recurrent. Everything else just built on and around these ideas.
     What does it mean, though? How do these themes interact? The Temples (older sisters) seem to have very little respect for the body as a temple of the Holy Ghost. They even mocked the hermaphrodite from the fair, even with the conviction to be respectful. The child doesn’t explicitly indicate any great deal of personal care for her own body, or respect for it as a temple, but does seem to be stricken with unusual levels of wrath at her sisters from time to time.
     Through out the story O’Connor does a fantastic job of describing the scenes, especially the people. This does make sense, as the story is heavily pointed at the human body as a temple. Her writing style kept me very focused, causing me periodically to pause and question the existence of a word or the use of punctuation, especially what I often thought was a lack of quotations. After I would reread these sentences and come to understand them, I would become rather delighted with many of them.
     So, all these things considered, what does this story matter? Well, my thoughts about the body as temple of the Holy Ghost are conflicted. The Holy Ghost is a spirit and has no necessity for a body, much the same as our own spirits. After all, we are not flesh: To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord. Those words to be indicate full conscious awareness and existence. We are not our bodies. So, how exactly is our body the temple of the Holy Ghost? Not to say that it isn’t. After all, we can check 1 Corinthians 6:9-10 for God’s opinion on the matter. But how exactly? And how exactly?
     The story ends with mention of preacher’s having the fair shut down. All we know of the fair that could be considered worthy of being shutdown is the awkward hermaphrodite, who still seemed to be God-fearing. Is this key to the story, I wonder? Is this a parallel to religious legalism with appearances? Hmm, on second thought, perhaps not. That was really quite inappropriate. Whether they spiritually accept or reject that person would be the issue, I suppose.
     I’m not sure what to think overall. I liked the story and I was drawn in, but what have I missed by reading without thought provoking dialogue?

Omelas

            It surprises me just how much I enjoyed this story. It was a little difficult for me to get rolling with it, but once it hit its stride, I was sucked in. The descriptive details and engaging unique writing style had me captivated.

            So, Omelas seems to be a good place—full of joy and happiness. Several times LeGuin encourages the reader to imagine the city for themselves, often with suggestions, such as orgies (for those picturing the city as too goody-goody). For some time, it seems like a truly ideal city is trying to be painted. For example, LeGuin says the city has religion, but not clergy. I wonder if this distinction is one of personal disgust with what people do to and with religion.

            Midway through the description of the city, the reader is questioned: Can you believe this city is so full of joy? In other words, does it seem to good to be true? Well, yes, of course it does. There are no flaws. No blemishes. No hideous marks of reality. But, wait. What’s this? A child kept in a deep, damp, dark closet, bathed only in its own excrement, and loved only piteously through meager scraps of sustenance. A repulsive sight of sores and disfigurement. Somehow this child allows the rest of the city to live in the way it does, although not in blissful ignorance. Everyone must be made aware of this child’s suffering at some point in their lives. Apparently this experience of enlightenment shocks everyone into a stupor, although most manage to shake it off. Some, however, walk away from the city. Presumably disgusted with the necessary price paid for happiness. Where do they go? The citizens of Omelas don’t seem to know, or care I imagine.

            Clearly, this story is wrought with metaphors, but what are they? Does LeGuin intend for the reader to imagine parallels, just as they imagine the city, or does she hope they notice the allegory she intended? Is the child the disgusting byproducts of today’s society? The price paid to enjoy the life style we do? Is the child the hungry and homeless? The environment? Selfishness? I imagine the people who become aware of the child and continue to live in the city represent the “sheep” of our culture, but who are the people who walk away? And why is the place they walk so so fantastic in its own right?

Great wings

What do I make of it . . .

I really like the story. I’ve read it before, several times, when I was younger. Thought I’m not sure why, I’m sure I appreciate it more now than I did then. It’s such a well written story in regards so concrete sensory details that I’ve always been able to picture it so clearly and almost “watch” the story in my mind.

What meaning do I get out of it . . .

I’m not sure. I mean, everything that comes to mind seems cheesy, silly, and maybe a little stretched. For example I first thought, “You never know when the things in your life will change or leave.” then “Patience can lead to great victory.” But I don’t feel like that’s it. Perhaps, “There’s more to people than we can physically see, behaviorally observe, or even cognitively know.”

Scholes’ What does it say . . .

Well, the old man with great wings falls, endures, and leaves better off (it seems). The family used to struggle, but seem to live quite nicely. And the poor spider girl has it rough.

Scholes’ What does it mean . . .

I’m not sure what I could say here that would expand on what I said above. However, after writing about what it says, I feel I have a little more insight into what might hold clues to its meaning and matter for that matter: The story isn’t one-sided. The old man with great wings has a perspective, as does the family, the visitors, the spider girl, etc. And perhaps there is more to this, “Fall, endure, succeed” business.

Scholes’ What does it matter . . .

Well, until I get a better grasp on its meaning, it’s sketchy to try and determine what it matters. Of course, all writing can be beneficial in someway, though some may require more filtration and thought to get a message out of, it all offers something.

Even if I miss the “meaning,” I can still get something out of the story. And right now, matched up with the stress of finals, and the simple fact that I have spread myself too thinly this semester, the old man’s story of endurance with a “happy” ending is encouraging. Even the family endured and overcame, though you might call their “perseverance” petty.

Moving to move

What of Messenger?

            The degree to which Oliver considers being in nature and observing her job is astounding. She even seems to contrast how foolish it is to focus on something other than developing awe when she illustrates herself as she begins to worry about her appearance, and then brings herself back to what she believes should be her focus: Standing still and learning to be astonished and rejoice.

            Actually, much of this poem seems similar to the one I wrote in my last blog.

           

What of Walking Home from Oak-Head?

            I like a lot of the imagery used in this poem. The dark snowy wood is really nice. I wonder if the Oliver is comparing the snow to stars. Later in the poem, when her shoulders are covered in stars, I wonder if this is related to falling stars.

            A still, unhurried wind. An irrepressible falling snow. The lovely meaninglessness of time. Standing in dark peace. All of these are gorgeous images.

What of Six Recognitions of the Lord?

            Each of the six recognitions provoked a great deal of thought, but one stood out to me personally. As of late I have been recognizing a struggle in my spiritual life: When I pray, I make it about me by trying to say the “right things.” When I realize this, my efforts to correct it feel like attempts to say the right things once again. I struggle to have genuine prayers, sometimes even in private.

            Even though we all read it: “I know a lot of fancy words. I tear them from my heart and tongue. Then I pray.” Obviously, fancy words here means far more than vocabulary or technical terms. I feel that it refers to any attempt at scripted or “performance” prayer. Anything less than fully genuine heartfelt and spirit driven prayer. I thirst for this.

What of Poetry as a Spiritual Practice for Mary Oliver?

            Does tension lead to spiritual fruit? Hmm. I’m inclined to think so. Initially I thought that peace alone leads to understanding and fruit, but now I think tension is essential. In psychology, there is talk about “eustress,” which is a positive stress. Eustress is what gets you out of bed, pushes you to clean and feed yourself, etc. Too much though, can lead to distress, which is harmful and negative. Further, distress only comes when you perceive that you can’t handle the stressors. In theory, you could have an extreme overload of stressors, and be ok with them and just keep growing. Perhaps the tension between Earth and God is the stressor that leads us to growth. Only when we resolve it or consider it too much does it seem like a trouble to us.

What of my trip to Lake Bonny and my poetry?

I went to Lake Bonny, and stayed there for well over 45 minutes. I mostly listened to nature (mostly ducks and frogs) but, admittedly, a few of Relient K’s softer songs. Quietly though, where the sounds of nature could overwhelm the audio.

Writing this poem was not a task. Nature does well at providing any necessary literary/spiritual provocation.

For what or why do Mallards hustle?

As if their seats were not enough.

Compelled at once; the group to bustle

Hurried along, with purpose enough

To waddle so quick and find a place

To rest again and mutter quiet

I laugh at them, but then a trace

Of curiosity. Perhaps I’ll try it.

I move with sudden drive and haste

To perspectives unlike my last.

The life I see is just a taste

Of creations that hasten past

I wonder what all have I missed

In sitting where I think is right

My view is small. “I get the gist

Of what it is.” At least, I might.

I think the ducks might have the truth

Of how our spirits ought to grow.

We look at life with eyes aloof,

But miss the wonders we could know.

How often we’re prodded, but refuse

To move because we cannot see

A reason first. We won’t amuse

Moving to move, or being to be.

The Breeze of Understanding

            I think what Corrigan wrote about nature and poetry being spiritual practices was spot on. Personally, when I’m out in nature, I feel very different. But, I think it’s very important that we make a point of being aware of the various aspects of what makes us feel that way. Things like slowing down, calming down, developing awe, etc. These are things our body and soul yearn for, especially when we’re out in nature, but our mind has to help them receive it.

            Circle B was beautiful. As we read the poem over, I noticed two parallels in particular between my environment and the poem.

• “Gusts of a pacific storm . . .” As we read this line, quite the gust of wind blew threw our area.

• “Topsoil: going fast.” Without realizing it, I had begun to gently sift through the leaves and dirt with a small stick as we read this passage. I had just been considering how easy it was to lift the first inch or two of soil from the ground. It made clear sense how easily topsoil could be “going fast.”

            After that, I began to drift and think of how everything in my life seems right when I feel a breeze rustle through the trees on a cool and overcast day. Nothing could have improved my mood, save solitude, or perhaps a single close companion. Listening to that breeze whistle through the trees, and Hass’ words really put me into a stress free place. I thought we would have a chance to write some nature poetry, and this is when I began pondering what I might write. Unfortunately, as a class we never got around to it.

I may or may not have gone ahead and written some poetry.

Ok, I did. Here it is:

Such a breeze of understanding

Such a gust of sweet serenity

Scarcely strength to keep me standing

If that I could always see

Tasks’ harsh shackles broken loose

Contractions in my mind released

Nimbly wind unknots my noose

Uncertainty’s despair is ceased

Hear the trees: they whisper mellow

And reassure a new awareness

“And my troubles?!” I do bellow

The trees say, “Be a little careless.”

I try. Be as still as stones

And feel the world around me

The breeze puts a chill in my bones

Then I am filled with free

I’ve done some walking about at Gator Creek. I usually take a camera with me. Here are a few of my favorite photos . . .

Purply flowers

Yellow and Orange

Orange Pod

Argiope

We’d never have gotten up from our knees if we could.

            Normally I think about what to write in my blog, and then write it. But this time, I’m going to try something new. I’ve read the poem twice, highlighting things that don’t make sense. I’m going to bullet them here, then, if applicable, briefly Google what information I can about them, and hopefully the revelation it leads too. Confident we’ll figure the rest out in class, I won’t spend long digger through various resources to find what I need, but here we go:

• “One of the six billion of her hungry and curious kind. Inside the backpack, dog-eared, full of illustrations.”

            The number threw me at first, because I didn’t think this poem was that old (it’s not), and I thought there was much closer to seven billion people alive. Google says that only a little more than 20 years ago there were a billion people less alive. That clears that up.

            I had no idea what “dog-eared” means. Neither does my dictionary. But Google says it refers to the folded down corner of a book. Which makes perfect sense, since it’s an adjective describing a book. So, is it mention to be descriptive, or imply that the book is commonly referenced?

• “She’s one of those who’s only hungry metaphorically.”

            No comprendo here. I can’t even try to figure out if there is a metaphor I don’t get here, because it says there is . . . so, yeah, I don’t know what this means.

• Everything about Lucretius.

            Apparently Lucretius was a Roman poet from around 1^st century BC. Best known for his philosophical poem, “On the Nature of the Universe.” This is obviously Hass’ inspiration for the title of his own poem.

            Wikipedia (I know) says that he begins his poem by invoking Venus, paralleling another reference Hass makes in his own poem.

            Being mentioned several times, it was clear Lucretius was a fair part of the inspiration for Hass’ poem, but after reading about him briefly, it would seem he was nearly the sole inspiration.

• “God: about fished out. Haddock: about fished out”

            I’m not entirely sure what the term “fished out” means here. Especially since God and a fish are mentioned together as being such.

• “Most of the ancient groves are gone, sacred to Kuan Yin and Artemis”

            Kuan Yin, or Guanyin, is the Goddess of Mercy, and Artemis has much to do with nature and life. This still leaves me a little lost about how the two are correlated together, and how they tie into the story.

• “The blood of the rainbow boa curled in the earth’s core”

            I feel like there is more to this line, but briefly Googling only brings up Hass’ poem.

• “The figure of three graces” (Appetite, Chaste Restraint, and Beauty, apparently)

            Same as above, really. I don’t get this. I started hitting some really rough patches around this area.

• Several references to “the dance” or “dancing”

            Tough to Google, so I’m lost.

• The last three lines

            Ditto.

Overall, I liked this poem. I got the main overtone I feel. It had lots of reference to the agony of the planet, and perhaps human nature, too. There are quite a few things up for interpretation, and a good deal of thought provocation.

My favorite line, though I don’t think it’s particularly important to the poem, was this: “It must be a gift of evolution that humans can’t sustain wonder. We’d never have gotten up from our knees if we could.”

That’s quite epic. I hear a lot of Christian complain about God becoming “normal” to them, and how disappointing that is. And yes, God should never be plain to us . . . BUT the facet of human nature that makes Him become plain to us is absurdly necessary for a reasonable life. If we could keep it from working so well on Him, we’d probably be better off, but ‘tis life.