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.

Growth

            Visiting AFI was exceptionally more enjoying than I expected, and more edifying. When we first arrived, I was still a little apprehensive. It was not until we got to hang out with the clients that my apprehension peaked and dissipated. As I first walked in to the lunchroom to find a spot to sit, I really didn’t know where to turn. I timidly surveyed my surroundings until I made eye contact with a female client. She excitedly pulled a chair out and beckoned for me to sit next to her saying, “Here. Come here. You. Sit here. This seat is for you.” Obviously I sat next to her. She excitedly shook my hand, introduced herself, and asked my name. The three other clients that were sitting with us watched in rapt attention as she carried the conversation on her back. I had no need to fear a lull in the chat as she was always full of questions and answers.

            After a few minutes, Amanda sat down with us, and our friend fired off the same slew of questions. Occasionally the client sitting next to me would look at me and rolls his eyes sarcastically and say, “Man, these girls can really talk, huh?” I acted like an old friend talking smack and said with a laugh, “Tell me about it!”

            I’ve always said leaving your comfort zone leads to growth and improvement. I definitely grew in that I will no longer feel any kind of apprehension towards the mentally handicapped. They love and want to be loved just like anyone else. Probably moreso. Actually, I imagine many of them have an understanding of love that I would be jealous of.

            The play might have slightly influenced my experienced of the trip a little, but the trip greatly influenced my experience of the play. I sympathize more with Jack. I find the boys even more innocent and enchanting. I can hear them speaking their lines much more clearly. My heart really goes out to them more, and the humor I saw in the scenes felt much more justified. Almost as if I understand them more, and I know that I’m not judging them, but I’m enjoying the unintentional wit they provide.

            I’ve grown, and that’s always my goal. I’m excited to see how my growth if manifested in other areas of my life, too.

I was sick, and you visited me.

• Defining “normal” as being created in God’s image.

            At first, I didn’t quite agree. But what if being created in God’s image is the standard of normal? Then being sub-average or above-average is up to you. It’s up to the percentage of your possible effort you put out. It becomes about the choices you can make, and the life you choose to leave. This takes away judgment based on ascribed statuses, and that a beautiful thing because it creates a righteous base line of equality among all people.

            Fettke states that “it seems very unjust to single out the disabled for their inability to adjust their embodiment.” I agree, in a way. After all, this paper is about them and how we can create and expand ministry to accommodate them, but I don’t think that detracts from the point being made. Singling them out as less deserving of assistance would be the crime as far as I see it.

• Should a sound mind and body be part of the definition of personhood?

            God forbid! If we believe that all humans are created by the Spirit in the image of God, then obviously not! The disabled deserve as much as they can handle. To consider them beneath personhood seems like it would be insulting to God.

• Can the disabled be “healed” by others’ acceptance of who they are?

            I think, in a way, yes. They do indeed have irrefutable disadvantages for living, but I would argue that most of the prominent issues they face are based on discrimination. Now, of course, treating them as if they don’t have a disorder is even more unjust, but treating them differently beyond helping them is wrong. Loving and supporting those who assist them doesn’t heal them, but I feel it does alleviate some of the worse symptoms.

• “The mentally handicapped . . . were the crack I desperately needed to give concreteness to my critique of modernity.”

            Mmm. Perhaps our perspective of everything is partial without some understanding of how the mentally handicapped are. Maybe we’re a little blind without them. This alone helps me to feel a little more uplifted about the idea of spending time with them during tomorrow field trip.

            I think Fettke is discussing a topic of true importance. Though I’m not sure where I stand on how we should reach out to them, I know it would be on Christ’s “to-do list.” I went to look up the verse where Jesus says, “Whatever you do for the least of my people, you do for me.” and I saw that it was actually the verses the Fettke mentions in his paper. Rightly so. It also says, “I was sick, and you visited me.” Regardless of where your mind is, if that doesn’t put you heart into this field trip, I’m not sure what would.

Act II, I repeat, and I mean this, Act II!

            Reading parts of this play out loud with some classmates was far more enjoyable than I expected. We got to laugh quite a bit at one another, and it certainly helped me to recognize more of the subtle humor contained in the dialogue.

            Act II contained a lot of things that really accent the “laugh, then realize it’s really not that funny” concept. I have some trouble deciding how much I actually do laugh at myself, so I can’t figure out what is okay to laugh at otherwise. The very end of the story seemed open to me the first time I read it, but upon my second go, it hit me as very final in its openness. I could help but think, “John and Mary die. John and Mary die. John and Mary die.”

            The compassionate love I feel from Jack towards Arnold in the last scene was heart wrenching to me. When Arnold tells Jack that he has “behavior patterns better than a lot of people” I felt a warm smile cross my face. Then, when Jack and Arnold walk away from the train station together, the announcement of the train’s destination and Arnold’s glance back really hit me! It was a strange feeling, and I’m not sure what it was founded on. Maybe it was just the fact that I was visualizing it so well. I could really see the scene, and really feel the really wide mix of emotions in the scene. There is certainly a great deal of contrast between different feelings there.

            I’m trying to consider how this reading will further prepare me for our field trip, but I’ve yet to see it. If I’m completely honest, I am a little apprehensive about it. I really have no idea why, and I do see that it is totally irrational, and I can’t pinpoint a real reason, but I just tend to be uncomfortable around the mentally handicapped. I’ve worked with mentally handicapped before, even instructed them in martial arts classes, but I just feel weird. One theory I came up with was invasion of my bubble. I have a very small bubble, but in most situations, I don’t like people in it. I think martial arts might have thickened this bubble, but it’s never really a problem for me. Well, the only mentally handicapped folks I’ve ever worked with love to put their arms around me, touch me, hug, etc. I see this as very sweet of them, but I’m absolutely on edge the entire time it’s happening. My muscles are tense, and I know I’m in a heightened autonomic state. With everyone else I can step away without initiating a game of tag, or ask for a little space without perplexing the person. I suppose then that leaving my comfort zone will do me some good, but I like my bubble, and I’m not sure I want it popped. Maybe I just want to learn how control the intensity of my bubble in different situations.

Oh, boy!

            The Boys Next Door was easy for me to read, in that it engaged me with its wit and colorful characters. As I read the first few pages of the story, I playfully considered the possibility that everyone was mentally handicapped in the story. I was trying to figure out what style of writing this was, or what was in the author’s mind to make the characters act as unusual as they did. Eventually, when Jack finished monologizing his background to me, I realized I’d pretty much hit the nail on the head.

            After that, I found myself loving most of the characters more than I had imagined I would. Lucien seems very kind-hearted and is driven and motivated to learn and improve himself. His especially child-like character feels innocent and sweet. Norman never fails to crack me up with his, “Oh boy!” and seems like he would do whatever he could to make someone else happy, though he usually projects a generally selfish attitude. Arnold seems to be tenderhearted and I really felt for him after Jack exploded at him and he said, “You’ve got behavior patterns that are not fun, Jack! Not, I repeat, one bit fun!”

            I was pleased with Jack’s character in the beginning of the story. Caring for seventeen mentally handicapped adult men takes a special kind of person. Once Jack lashed out at Arnold verbally, I immediately hated his character, but after a moment, I realized I could understand his lapse in self-control, especially since he calmed down and even wondered if these men deserved a better man than he. Jack says, “They deserve better. Or I deserve better. Or somebody deserves something.” I wonder if this will be worth remembering through the rest of the story.

            Also, I can enjoy Barry, but he tends to annoy me more than the others. Only from a fictional perspective of course, I would be more sympathetic towards a real case of schizophrenia, but his general role in the story almost always causes me to sigh and realize his thoughts and “behavior patterns” are not truly his fault.

            I’m looking forward to finishing this story. I think I could grow from this story, depending on how it ends, which I will find out soon enough. It’s such a unique setting, with uncommon characters, perhaps the lessons to be learned would be difficult to find elsewhere.

Not gonna lie . . .

             . . . this was a little tough. I simply had trouble getting through it and understand it. Maybe some of the sudden and unusual changes in time and situation threw me off. I read the story once threw, rereading a lot as I went (out of necessity), then I skimmed throw it once again, then I Googled the SparkNotes for it, which revealed a ton of things I hadn’t considered. But, rather than discuss what SN had to say about it, I’ll look at the three things that stood out to me.

            First, our unnamed narrator thinks, “It was what I was thinking and so it seemed to me he had no right to say it.” As brief as this is, and how far from pivotal to the story it may be, it jumped out at me. It hit me as an insight of something that I experience, but never noticed. I love when a text describes something I thought was unique to me, or was something I couldn’t express. But I’ve felt this way before.

            Second, similar in brevity, “My trouble made his real.” That’s neat. Forced sympathy. I mean, people can say they are sympathetic or feel sympathetic, but is being sympathetic different from feeling sympathetic? A lot of this story has ties to not understanding someone else, or feeling for them.

            Third, and this is probably most relevant as it pertains more the overall story: Music. I think that’s the key here, but I can’t explain how or why. Sonny wants to be a Jazz musician, and his dream isn’t without obstacles. But his visible struggles while playing piano at the bar change his brother’s perspective. The whole music scene was pretty cool, actually. The way music is described as communication is cool. And I can really relate to the contrast sensations between the performer and the listener. I’m confident that very few people, if any, will ever really feel the things I feel when I play music. Sure, other musicians feel equally high, but I mean to say that I couldn’t feel the things they feel either.

            I feel that I currently have little to contribute to discussion, but I’m absolutely stoked to hear the dialogue about this story, so I can get some literary clarity on it. I’m sure I’ll understand more of it quickly, and be able to jump in soon, but I’m a little off at the moment, I feel.

House of Cards

            I went to the Lakeview, Roselawn and Tiger Flowers cemetery complex for this fieldtrip, and I stayed there for some time, although I am not sure if it was quite 40 minutes or more as I was focused on my surroundings.

            I went to the graveyard at night, simply because thoughts seem louder in the dark. I figured the graveyard would feel a little bit eerie, but not much more. But, the very moment I started to look around, it really sunk it that all of these people have massively complex stories. They likely all left people behind when they died. Many of them are in Hell. Many people still alive are letting their memories agonize them.

            The most direct tie I made between the cemetery and A Grief Observed was the fading of memories, or the symbolic replacement of a person. The tombstones had small snippets and excerpts of a life on them. Assuming I die before Christ returns, I will one day have a symbolic stand to mark my life as well. Wild.

            In the last two chapters of the Lewis writing, several things hit me hard. Two things hit me the most. First were the painful requirements of God’s goodness. If God does not purify us by fire, He is not good. Suffering is the only legitimate way to become better. Like Lewis said, if He were not wholly good, He may relent before we are made into what we need to be. Praise God for His goodness, but fear Him for what it implies!

            Second was the house of cards illustration Lewis kept using. I believe my entire Christian faith is a flimsy and potentially useless in its current state. Why do I believe what I believe? Do I bend Scripture to mean what I think it means? Do I take the great commission of Christ seriously? Am I absolutely, completely and wholly wasting my life in a house of card while I ignorantly and arrogantly beg for God to knock me down? I’m afraid to consider these questions, and my fear gives me the answers.

            How terrifying is it to ask, but I do: God, please tear down my house of cards. Destroy whatever I’m allowing to hinder me from serving You as fully as You wish. Indeed, it is simple to ask for all the suffering and pain I need to become a new man, but it is much simpler to spend my life fighting the effects of the answered prayer, and resisting the call. Further I beg that I respond. I have no will to do this of my own, so I ask: Tear me down. Completely and seriously. Then give me the wisdom and bravery to be built up in you.

            

Woah.

            Absolutely phenomenal.

            Perhaps I’m not well read enough to judge, but I would venture to say C.S. Lewis is my favorite author, so I went into this reading with a great deal of interest and anticipation. Although it was not assigned, I read the foreword and introduction in addition to the first two chapters. This was a great help to me.

            Even in the foreword and introduction I found things I wanted to write about. Then, digging into Lewis’ own thoughts, nearly every page contained a message or quote that surpassed the one before it in its profoundness. The biggest struggle of this blog was how to avoid writing an extremely thorough essay. I could dialogue for longer than I choose to determine about this.

            For me, I suppose then it would be best to try and look at the biggest possible picture of what the text says then decide if I can find something more specific to write of. To scour the writing for all that struck me would consume far more time than I’m afraid I can spare. Maybe the best will remain in the front of my mind.

            Enough riffraff.

            Lewis is writing cathartically. This is something that I absolutely love to do. When I get confused or hurt about something, I write. I write, I think, and I dialogue. Indeed, writing, thinking, and dialogue fuel one another and lead to great discoveries, but I think writing might be my favorite. Lewis writes splendidly, and dialogues with himself to an extreme degree throughout the text, and it’s clear that he’s thinking. My personal experience with fleshing out hard issues through writing allowed me a glimpse into his despair, I feel.

            Still, I think one of the most haunting things about this reading is my realization that my glimpse into his despair is hardly even a glimpse. I felt a strange mix of desires as I struggled to empathize with Lewis. On one hand, I hope to one day suffer deeply so that I might fathom the heart of this man. But, on the other hand, if I understand him correctly, first hand comprehension is a dangerously high price. I don’t think I can hardly scratch the surface of a true understanding of his pain, and as much as I would like to, I don’t think I would like to.

            In regard to more specific thoughts . . .

            How true is it that our nearest and dearest are so easily forgotten? To try and create a clear mental picture of the ones I love most dearly becomes more difficult the longer I look at it. Just as Lewis says, it changes. I have the reality of these people around me to snap their image back into focus, but he didn’t. He had pictures yes, but as he says, no picture can ever capture a person.

           Honestly, linking this to another text we’ve read seems too easy. If you want grief, look at the book Joel. People are weeping and wailing at the blood, fire, smoke, darkness, and death all around. War is raging, the heavens are trembling. And it’s vividly painted, allowing us almost to observe it. How much more of an observed grief could you ask for? Still, I wonder how Lewis would have compared his own grief to the grief of Joel’s text. Would he have seen his grief as greater? Would have intellectually acknowledge the pain in Joel to be equal or greater, but willingly irrationally decided his was worse?  Would he have consider his less?

            Now, this is weird . . . I don’t do this often. But I feel a poem may be a better expression for my overall reaction, which I labor to articulate.

I inquire thus, not to taunt and boast, but for a taste of relief:

O, death, where is your sting? O, grief, where is yours?

Among the trials and pain in life, I consider this question chief.

What burning pain I feel from all sides, but cannot grasp.

What bitter facet of grief and death holds me tightest?

I escape the clutch of other pain, but I cannot this clasp.

Will one day I fathom truth about the life that ends?

I pray, God, not. I fear I would not stand against it.

Still, perhaps love is what the painful message sends.

Joel's painting

"Weep" "Wail" "A day of darkness and gloom, a day of clouds and thick darkness" "The stars lose their brightness" "The sun will be turned into darkness and the moon into blood"

Painting

A blog about beautiful book's words being observed

     One might wonder what makes a literary work sound beautiful. After our last class period I was excited to write this blog because I felt like I really learned quite a bit. Or, more accurately, the little I learned was relatively profound.
     I have quite a bit of experience with rhyme, alliteration, consonance, assonance, and rhythm. As a songwriter, I’ve been playing around with these for years, and now I’m excited to be more aware of them as I write. I went back and read the lyrics from some of my songs, playing closer attention to these traits of spoken words, and found quite a few surprising instances. I won’t post my lyrics here and fill up the word count, but I will say, one of my songs had the i sound (both long and short) 29 times in a 63 word chorus. And I had never even noticed it until I was looking for it! And it’s one of my favorite choruses that I’ve written, so I wouldn’t hesitate to say that there’s a strong link there.
     Looking back at the book of Joel, I’m astounded by how many of these styles of writing are crammed into all of the lines (although not as much rhyme, but perhaps it was lost in translation). I find it interesting that while the whole book is full of repetition and variation, the parts that seem to hold the most, are the parts that I highlighted. Apparently the system works.
     I didn’t want to write a blog and fill it with passages from the book, but one captivates me enough to include it. “A day of darkness and gloom, a day of clouds and thick darkness . . .” Oh, my goodness. I love this line. The repetition is obvious, but the picture painted is neat as well. This scene may not be appealing to everyone, but I feel physically relaxed when I imagine it. I despise sunny days if I’m not in the water, or if it’s not cool outside. I much prefer dark gloomy days, because for some reason I’m absurdly productive and creative on those days. This passage is beautiful to me in how it sounds and what it describes. I imagine some people, if not most, prefer sunny days, which makes feel like the beauty of this passage may be subjective. Subjective beauty in poetry . . . That’s an interesting thought in itself.
　
　
　
　
     Seeking sounds of similarity is surprisingly pleasing, but still not as amusing as squeezing out my own, however strained they are. =]

The Beauty of Joel

            Before I share my thoughts, I must note something (which is a thought, I suppose). As readers, we were told to look for the "beauty" in Joel. Many of the passages that sounded beautiful aloud, were not actually beautiful passages. For example, "Awake, drunkards, and weep." is quite an undesirable image, but I consider it beautiful. Arguably, all things in Scripture are God's revelation, and God's revelation is perfect, and perfection is beautiful, but that isn't a flawless argument. What I would argue is that the ugly can be beautiful in its own way, perhaps by its potential contrasting, or its piece in a beautiful story. You will likely be disappointed if you ask me for more details, because I’ve not yet thought of a more eloquent way to express the point.

            Most of what I found to be beautiful was destruction. The wailing and weeping at the grand scale of horrors befalling the victims of wrath of God, an invading nation with teeth and fangs like lions, days of darkness and gloom. It’s difficult to narrow down what paints the most amazingly vivid pictures. Joel relates images, sounds, physical feelings, and more. A moon of blood, the King of Kings uttering truth, a quaking world. The description is almost overwhelming.

            But, what is most beautiful of all? Salvation: “. . . the heavens and earth tremble, but the LORD is a refuge for His people.” Ah, there it is. What is a refuge in a world of serenity and peace? Not beautiful. What is a refuge in a world of occasional sorrows and pain? Occasionally beautiful. What is a refuge in a Joel’s world of pure, unadulterated, all-pervasive, all-consuming terror, fear, death, and agony? Perfectly beautiful.

            I believe there is a great deal of beauty in the terror Joel paints in this story. However, the truest beauty, the beauty of the saving love, can only be fully admired in what seems to be the ugliest of scenarios. And that makes the hideous beautiful.

Rose covered bees.

            A Story about the Body cracked me up. I had absolutely no idea what I was getting into based on the headnote, so I was expecting a more “normal” story. As I read, I was enjoying the unique flavors in the story, especially since the author fit them into such a short story. I was even intrigued up to and through the double mastectomy, but once I got to the bowl of dead bees covered in rose petals, I found my face locked into a perplexed expression for a few minutes, even after I finished reading.

            I read the story to my friend, and he jested, “I feel like there’s gotta be some big moral. Is a bowl of roses, but it’s really just bees! Ya know? You see it, and it’s like, ‘Hey, sweet. Roses.’ but it’s really BEES!”

            I’m not sure if he quite hit the nail on the head, but it did make me think of the various sugar-coated things in the story: The bowl of bees covered in rose petals was clearly a well-thought out message from this woman. But what was she paralleling? Perhaps she considers this a satirical mirror to his behavior. Maybe she was enjoying his company, like roses, but when he walked away when he saw who she truly was, it stung like bees, revealing who he really was. I can see how he could disagree with her point of view. Obviously, since she had to forewarn him of her double mastectomy, her appearance was deceiving. Maybe he only thinks of her true image as the bees, and her façade as the rose petals.

            Upon further inspection, the headnote says Hass like to write and think about “the fullness and emptiness of things.” This is interesting, as it doesn’t take a very great stretch to see how all of these things are “empty” and “full.”

            I was captivated by both of these stories, and although they were both absolutely bizarre.

To The Grievous Denouement

            If anyone had been paying attention, fish could have been seen lazily leaping from the water to snatch a bug out of the air. The curvy stream would have appeared so tranquil that the only tell of its steadily flowing waters would have been how it broke into white bubbles around the gray rocks at its edge. Thick trees on one side of the bank kept the distant horizon out of sight, and bright orange flowers popped out of the water’s edge in contrast to the darker greens and browns of the other foliage. The scene would have been relaxing—if anyone had been paying attention.

            But Job was not paying attention to any of those things. What captured his attention was his throbbing headache and ringing ears. Every time he wiped away the blood rolling down his face, he would look at his red hand in disbelief before cleaning it on his shirt. The airbag had done its job of protecting his head from blunt impact with the steering wheel and left him instead with tender friction burns on his face. Ironically, his bleeding forehead came from edge of his car’s roof, a credit to his haste to escape the vehicle in his confusion immediately following the crash. The cracked radiator drooled its fluid onto the hot engine block, releasing curls of steam from beneath the now crumpled hood. The stinging smell of vaporized coolant is what captured Job’s attention.

            Job had spent a few minutes catching his breath and coming back to his senses before calling emergency services. Now he sat on a large boulder underneath the same tree he had just wrapped his red truck around. Though his feet rested flat on the ground, his elbows on his knees, and his face in his hands, he was not at rest. He took his face out of his hands, and replaced it with his chin. He looked at his vehicle and tried to convince himself that his life was not over. “At least I’m still alive,” he told himself. He couldn’t bear to keep looking at the mangled truck he had so suddenly introduced to the only tree along the roadside. He glanced down at his blue jeans and tan boots, covered in dirt from the day’s construction work. His plain white T-shirt was now smeared with blood in addition to the usual dust and dirt.

            The sirens of emergency response vehicles came faintly into hearing range, and Job tried to reassure himself, “No worries. No worries. It happens to the best of us. My life is worth more than this truck. This is just a lesson learned. I’ll never text and drive again.” He felt sick, but tried to remain relatively composed. He stood up suddenly to take a deeper breath, leaned his head back, and drummed on his thighs as he paced in small circles. The sirens remained faint in the distance. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked to see who was calling. It was his fiancée, Sarah. He took another deep breath. Talking to Sarah was lately bittersweet for Job. He loved her, but not exclusively. Recently, he had been spending time with another woman, Madison, and he had been questioning his feelings towards both girls. He took another deep breath and flipped his phone open, “Hello?”

            “Job, where are you? Are you not taking me seriously?” Sarah asked in an irritated tone.

            “No, I’m sorry, I am. It’s just that—and please, don’t be too alarmed—it’s just that I had an accident in the truck on the way over, and I’m not sure I can make it anytime soon.”

            “Are you kidding me?” she snapped. “You have no idea how serious I am, do you? You think I’m kidding. You think this is the time to make up some bullcrap response about why you aren’t showing up? You’re probably just with that Madison whore, aren’t you?”

            Job sighed. Sarah knew about his friendship with Madison, but not his promiscuous behavior with her. She didn’t like Madison as it was, and Job certainly didn’t relish the thought of her discovering the truth about their relationship. She wasn’t sure, but she figured accepting his recent marriage proposal would be enough to ensure Madison would be out of the picture. Lately though, she felt like even engagement hadn’t been keeping the two apart.

            “Sarah, no. It’s not like that, I promise.” Job hated lying to Sarah about his faithfulness. He wasn’t sure how to go about correcting his relational problems. After all, he was in love with two women and the only thing causing him a problem was their jealousy. Job liked to think of jealousy as his biggest pet peeve. “I couldn’t be more serious, Love. I know we’ve been going through a rough patch, but I would never lie to you about something like this.”

            “Whatever, Job. Don’t even. You’re such a hypocrite. I saw David one time, like, a year ago. You freaked out, Job. But now you seem to think it’s a free ticket to screw around.” Sarah hung up before Job could respond. She liked to think of hypocrisy as her biggest pet peeve.

            He took another deep breath and leaned his head back in frustration, letting his arm drop from his ear to his side. When Sarah and Job had started dating a little over a year ago, Sarah had spent the night with her old boyfriend, David. Job had become hysterical when he found out about it, threatening David’s life. It took Sarah several weeks of effort to quell Job’s resentment and reassure him of the loyalty of her love. This event had played a large part in Job’s hatred of jealousy. When he thought about his response to Sarah’s infidelity, justified or not, he didn’t like how he had acted.

            The sirens were getting closer now—too loud to allow a proper phone call—but Job didn’t consider that as he tried to call Sarah back several times. Sarah wouldn’t answer the phone.

            Job refocused his eyes to study the emergency vehicles, now coming into clearer sight down the road. As he listened to Sarah’s voicemail message once again, he noticed that there were no other trees visible near the road in either direction. He dropped the phone back into his pocket. He had been texting with Madison during the drive to Sarah’s, and found it beyond upsetting that he had managed to drift off the road into the only menacing tree for miles.

            The ambulance pulled up to the scene, and produced a man who appeared to be the same age as Job, maybe 28, with an emergency first aid kit. Job sat back down on the boulder as the EMT approached. He introduced himself, quickly asked Job about any symptoms he might have been experiencing, and began to clean the wound on his head. A police officer pulled in next to the ambulance, but instead of getting out, kept his engine running as he made a phone call from inside the vehicle.

            “Well, I must say, you did a good job of catching the only tree out here.” The EMT needled, as he started wrapping Job’s head in a bandage.

            “Yeah, thanks,” Job said. “I was just thinking about that myself.” He felt his phone vibrate. He quickly pulled it out, hoping it was a call from Sarah, but it was not. Madison had sent him a text message. Job hadn’t finished the last message he was writing to her because of his encounter with the tree. He had asked her if she would be free later that night. She had told him that she wouldn’t. He opened the new message but had to read it several times for it to register, “Actually, Job . . . I don’t think we should hang out for a while. Maybe ever again.” Madison’s words seemed unreal to him. He wanted to hang his head in frustration, but the EMT hadn’t quite finished dressing his wound.

            He hadn’t been sure what to do with his relationships lately. He loved Sarah, and he did want to marry her, but he loved Madison, too. Sarah seemed to love him back but always accused him of seeing other women, especially Madison. He had finally become frustrated with these accusations, especially since they were accurate, and decided to propose to Sarah, hoping it would terminate her obnoxious suspicion. Madison wrote him again before he could think of how to respond, “I’ve been seeing another guy. Don’t text me again. Sorry.”

            “That should do it. Hang tight for just a minute.” The EMT’s words brought Job’s focus back to the bandage now tightly wrapped around his head. The paramedic peeled the blue latex gloves off of his hands, clicked his first aid kit shut, and walked back to the ambulance. Job reached up and felt his bandaged head. His fingers traced down his face and ran through his thin brown beard, no longer wet with blood. He looked up at his truck once again.

            “No,” he said to himself, “no, this can’t be happening to me. Madison and my truck at once? I need to talk to Sarah.” Job felt as though he was losing his composure. His heart began to beat faster, and he felt a rush of sickness pass through his body. He tried to control his breathing and reason with himself. He finally decided that if he had been having trouble by loving two women, then Madison’s disloyalty was simply the hand of fate pushing him towards Sarah. He was, after all, engaged to her. He felt more confident as he tried to convince himself that this only seemed so bad because it was stacked on top of his wrecked vehicle. If Sarah wouldn’t answer the phone, he would text her. He would tell her the truth about everything. He was done playing around. Maybe the crashes with his truck and with Madison were just what he needed to check him back into reality. He looked back down to his phone and wrote Sarah a message that spanned several individual texts, “Sarah. I love you. I need to tell you how sorry I am. I had been seeing Madison for a while, but we’re done for good. I know it may be hard for you to believe me, but I swear. I’ll never be able to love anyone but you. I really did crash my truck, and I’m sorry I couldn’t make it over right away, but I’m more sure than ever that I will spend the rest of my life with you.” As Job sent the message, he felt his heart slow down as relaxation washed over him.

            He stood up, feeling strangely relieved. Looking down, he chuckled at his situation and kicked a pebble. It scooted several feet away. He slowly meandered toward it and kicked it again. Sarah really was the girl for him. For the first time, rather than acting sorry about Madison, he was sorry. He caught up to the pebble again, now outside the shadow cast by the wounded tree. He kicked it again, a little harder this time, and watched it fly through the air and land in a nearby stream. The pebble made a satisfying “ploop” sound as the water catered to its arrival. Job put both hands in his pockets and walked to the water’s edge. He felt a sense of symbolic awe with his ruined truck behind him, and such a beautiful scene in front of him. He surveyed the bright orange flowers, popping with contrast out of the darker greens and browns of the other foliage. He felt as carefree as the fish leaping out of the water. His truck didn’t matter. His head didn’t matter. Madison didn’t matter. He had Sarah, and that was all that mattered to him. His phone vibrated again. Sarah had sent him another text, “Don’t be sorry. We needed to talk. I’m with David . . .”

            His phone made an equally satisfying “ploop.”

Oh, Sanjeev.

            Sanjeev is a 33-year-old graduate from MIT, where he studied engineering. His height is nothing unusual, his cheeks carry more fat than he would like, though his build was average, and his eyelashes are long—both features he isn’t overly fond of. His parents had arranged for him to be introduced to his now wife, only four months ago. They beseeched him to marry her, and he consented. Now, moving into to a condominium with his wife, he is struggling to determine just how he feels about her. Certainly their parents had played a major role in the two of them marrying so quickly, but it was hardly arranged, and the proposal had been out of his own free will, however strongly influenced.

            Sanjeev works at a firm where he has his own secretary, as well as a dozen employees working under his supervision. In fact, he is currently being considered for the position of vice-president. With such prestige surrounding his working position, and his extreme concern for how people feel about his appearance and the appearance of his house, we can assume that Sanjeev rarely dresses too casual. Further, Sanjeev likes fine music, and he enjoys reading the liner music along with it. This, as a generalization, also indicates a person of distinguished style.

            From this story, much can be inferred about Sanjeev. Nearly every action and statement could be analyzed to tell us something of his psychology, but rather than this, I find it more important to point out a few of his more prominent traits:

            • Pragmatism: Sanjeev doesn’t see much sense in the useless, although he is biased in his definition of what is useless from time to time. His pragmatism is seen throughout the story, but one example is when Twinkle finds the vinegar with the statue of Jesus, he doesn’t have much to say besides the obvious and logical things from his position: Check the expiration date, and throw the statue out. He isn’t interested in examining the statue for himself, nor is he excited by the unexpected acquisition of vinegar.

            • Compassion: Sanjeev can certainly be cold or harsh in how he feels about things. But, when he is upset, he usually keeps his calm. For example, when he told Twinkle he was going to trash her Virgin statue, he did so very calmly, and only after he took a breath to calm himself. After he upsets Twinkle, he is so upset with himself that he actually feels physically ill.

            • Precision: Sanjeev is an engineer, and the type of guy to mark unpainted spots with post-it notes. It seems safe to assume that he is a precise man.

            • Calmness: As described in “Compassion,” solidified in “Tolerance.”

            • Tolerance: Sanjeev is irritated greatly, and by a great number of things, but he does well at keeping his composure. At one point, a snarl from Sanjeev is described as unfamiliar.

            Sanjeeev makes it very clearly known that he is not a Christian. I imagine this means he holds dearly to his Hindu faith, and it likely influences his behaviors. Still, in addition to his engineer’s mindset, I believe one thing influences his behaviors most of all: The opinions of others. There are a plethora of examples in this story where Sanjeev demonstrates concern, arguably insecurity, about how other people view him.

            In an interesting contrast, he seems to feels a bit superior to others, considering himself more logical and efficient. He shows a very interesting mix of attitudes towards others from irritation to caring.

            One of the most important flavors of the story is love (isn’t it always?). Sanjeev wonders about his own love for Twinkle, and the definition of love in the first place. Twinkle is beautiful, and he claims to love her, but he wonders who he is reassuring when he says, “I love you.” There are a lot of clashes between the two, even minor ones: Sanjeev want a wife that can cook an impressive meal for him and for company; Twinkle makes a meal haphazardly and isn’t even sure how much vinegar she used. Sanjeev can’t stand the “senseless” Christian artifacts cluttering up his home; Twinkle seem enchanted by them. Still, my guess is that the Sanjeev doesn’t love Twinkle, but his unconscious awareness that he is falling in love with her, but confuses and astounds him.

            I could sift a great deal of other things out of this story, but I won’t. The most difficult part of this was keeping it small. I can make assumptions about nearly every sentence here, but that would result in a blog significantly longer than the story itself, and that doesn’t seem prudent.

Oh, Twinkle.

            I was expecting a more of a directly conveyed moral to eventually arrive when I first started reading this story. Instead, I found myself making lots assumptions about and changes to how I thought the character felt about each other. I’ll highlight the notable parts of my thought process:

            At first I felt like the couple was playfully in love, bickering almost flirtatiously. Then, as the bickering seemed to grow in clashing, I started to feel like Twinkle was oblivious and Sanjeev was impatient and irritable. As the story continued, Twinkle grew more and more captivated by the various religious paraphernalia throughout the house, and, understandably, Sanjeev grew more frustrated and cynical.

            Just as I begin to question the security of the marriage, I was informed that Twinkle and Sanjeev had only known each other for six months, and the Sanjeev was beginning to really notice some of Twinkle’s more annoying habits. I thought this was interesting, because as both of these characters develop in my eyes, they were developing in the eyes of one another as well.

            I wondered if Twinkle was open to exploring the Christian faith. At the start of the story, she refers to herself as a “good little Hindu.” This statement seemed slightly sarcastic, and it seemed more important as she continued to make other similar statements such as, “Face it. This house is blessed.” This could also be sarcastic, but on the whole, Twinkle seems to be a intrigued by Christianity, at the least.

            Later, Sanjeev questions his love for Twinkle, and love itself. This part of the story seems pivotal to me. If Sanjeev isn’t sure about love, how can we reach conclusions about how he really feels? I would venture to say that we might be able to analyze their relationship and reach a conclusion that even they seem unable to reach.

            The story ends on a note that places a surprisingly clear picture in my mind. I can see Twinkle genuinely appreciating her husband, even though she doesn’t always show it. I could almost see Sanjeev chuckle in amused submission to his wife’s odd behaviors, realizing that he can see himself spending his life with her, and all of her “unique” attributes.

            A much shallower thought about the story: I liked the way it was written. Clear and interesting descriptions abounded, and interactions between and feelings of characters were noted in ways that seemed unfamiliar but fitting.

My thoughts done got provoked.

     Thoughts on Pearson:
     I exercise significantly more than most (although I eat enough to disguise it), and I do well in relating to analogies that involve physical training. Whenever I begin a new style of physical training, it can be hard to be “get into the groove.” For example, when I first started weight lifting, or Taekwondo, the movements were awkward, painful, and difficult to master. I can feel this way sometimes when it comes reading large portions of literature. I’m excellent at reading small texts with good focus and interest, but I just can’t seem to keep focused on large portions. I’ve never thought about that from the perspective of simply needing to practice. I like thinking of it like that, because I know I’m capable of bettering myself. I look forward to “practicing” my “reading endurance.”
     Thoughts on McAloon:     McAloon speaks about lectio divina, and I must say it kind of excites me. I believe I’ll have to give it a try with some of the Psalms or Proverbs for the next few mornings. I plan to integrate the idea of looking into the world of the text, the world behind the text, and the world before the text into my meditatio and comtemplatio.
     The idea of poetry offering us words, worlds, and wonders rings very true to me. And, I believe that are very closely related and intertwined. I feel like the words lead to wonders that guide us to other worlds. Quite possibly, too, texts could lead us to worlds that show us wonders and allow us to see words in a new light, I’m sure. I imagine these three factors could interact in any number of ways to bring the reader in and change them.
     Thoughts on Corrigan (The essay, not the man):     “The practice of facing darkness is . . . where we lose our false religious hope and find an authentic hope in the God of truth beyond answers.” This line hit me. I had a wave of understanding about the level of faith it would take to truly sell all of my possessions, abandon the life I’ve got set up for myself, and follow after Christ. I really felt a rush of blood when I read this. Maybe I’m crazy, but I felt like it was one of those amazing obvious secrets in Christianity.

     How interesting that facing darkness is about hope. Although, I suppose most negative things are about facing them with their opposites. Does this mean that as long as we look to Christ as our hope, we will also be faced with darkness? Where is God in the darkness? Is it in the darkness that we can most clearly see God? Is it that in the darkness we should see God most clearly?

Love is simple enough.

            Ahhh, love. What is it exactly? I dislike that question because it is so quickly abused as a cut and paste piece of “philosophy.” But I like it, too, because it is easily the deepest question known to man. This is a topic very near and dear to my heart. If you ask anyone about love, there is never little to say. Perhaps, while one may initially have a brief summary of what they think love is, it only takes a minor stoking of the fires of this surprisingly controversial topic to initiate a complex conversation about love. In fact, of the many conversations I had about love, I have never completed any of them.

            I enjoy writing about love. I almost feel dutifully called to do so. God is love after all, what is more important than learning about than Him? There are many different ideals of love in this world, from many different perspectives. In the field of Psychology, for example, some see different forms of love as various combinations of intimacy, passion, and commitment. I like to research these different ideas and concepts of love and see how they interact with one another, all the while working towards my own theories about love. Because of this little passion of mine, I absolutely loved reading this piece from Ray Carver.

            What is Carver’s hidden message? What is he trying to say? What is the symbolism here? Is this story like a traveling onion or a French feast in anyway? These were the questions I approached my blog with. This was wrong of me. I realize now that there isn’t really “the right thing” to get out of this story. To respond properly, I must consider what exactly I thought about as I read this story:

           

            What do we talk about when we talk about love?

            This seems like a silly question. This answer is love, of course, right? Maybe the it’s not so simple. The problem with discussing love, is its mystery. Few agree about the many aspects of love, so what are we really talking about when we talk about love? We’re talking about our ideas, very likely heavily influenced by our experiences. When we talk about love, we discuss possibly the most biased topic around. Carver shows this splendidly. Even just the differences in the concept of love between the two lovers, Mel and Terri, illustrate this well. Both of their ideas of love stem from largely the same person, but they each have very different perceptions because of their very different perspectives.  When Terri thinks of Ed, she thinks of a man that loved her, but was troubled and misguided in the manifestation of his affection. When Mel thinks of Ed, he thinks of a man that troubled and misguided about most things, hardly capable of love.

            Nick and Laura seem nearly to be quiet observers on the outside of this “struggle” about what love is between Mel and Terri. Nick and Laura often communicate silently with glances or touches, almost as if they know something, but they know better than to interject. Terri seemed much like a confused infatuated youth in her idea of love. Mel, while he did have a number of ideas about love, seemed to be yearning for truth. At times, Nick and Laura seemed to quietly have all the answers. Perhaps, they were hoping to lead Mel and Terri to an epiphany with their guided questions. Then, at the end of their drinking, they sit at a silent impasse, each waiting for the other to succumb to their ideas. Nick and Laura are slightly uncomfortable with some of what has been said. Mel and Terri and both a little frustrated behind their cool facades. Laura finds Mel captivating, but cynical at times. Nick thinks Terri could learn to offer her input in more appropriate ways, and finds her sarcastic. Mel fantasizes about loving Laura, and explores his theories about love coming and going. He gets a small bit of satisfaction when he isn’t harshly disagreed with, and it allows him to imagine a life with Laura. Terri often pushes Mel’s button, but only because she likes it when he is harsh towards her. Ed made her feel alive by physically controlling her. Mel won’t do the same, so she elicits verbal control from him by acting slightly annoying.

            No one wants to go to out to eat. They all feel strangely uncertain of themselves.

            This is indeed how many feel after difficult discussions of love. After all, if your idea of love has been completely wrong, your life is likely quite upside down from where you thought.

            If I had the time (I mean weeks, not hours), oh, how I would like to write more about this story. But, I will instead save that and my further thoughts for other writings. I write about love as it is, this story is simply fuel to my fire. Someday, if your interest is piqued here and maintained, you can discuss with me what I think of love. Either directly or through actively reading what I write about it. Until then, 1 Corinthians 13:4-13.