"We are wound with mercy round and round as if with air..."

Sometimes the beauty of language just halts me flat -- causing eyes and brain and heart to pause at a turn of phrase, a paragraph or, in this instance, practically the entire poem -- and veritably begs that whatever it is be read aloud, even if only to the empty room.
And as it's the memorial of Our Lady of the Rosary...

The Blessed Virgin Compared To The Air We Breathe, Gerard Manley Hopkins

Wild air, world-mothering air,
Nestling me everywhere,
That each eyelash or hair
Girdles; goes home betwixt
The fleeciest, frailest-flixed
Snowflake; that's fairly mixed
With, riddles, and is rife
In every least thing’s life;
This needful, never spent,
And nursing element;
My more than meat and drink,
My meal at every wink;
This air, which, by life’s law,
My lung must draw and draw
Now but to breathe its praise,
Minds me in many ways
Of her who not only
Gave God’s infinity
Dwindled to infancy
Welcome in womb and breast,
Birth, milk, and all the rest
But mothers each new grace
That does now reach our race—
Mary Immaculate,
Merely a woman, yet
Whose presence, power is
Great as no goddess’s
Was deemèd, dreamèd; who
This one work has to do—
Let all God’s glory through,
God’s glory which would go
Through her and from her flow
Off, and no way but so.
I say that we are wound
With mercy round and round
As if with air: the same
Is Mary, more by name.
She, wild web, wondrous robe,
Mantles the guilty globe,
Since God has let dispense
Her prayers his providence:
Nay, more than almoner,
The sweet alms’ self is her
And men are meant to share
Her life as life does air.
If I have understood,
She holds high motherhood
Towards all our ghostly good
And plays in grace her part
About man’s beating heart,
Laying, like air’s fine flood,
The deathdance in his blood;
Yet no part but what will
Be Christ our Saviour still.
Of her flesh he took flesh:
He does take fresh and fresh,
Though much the mystery how,
Not flesh but spirit now
And makes, O marvellous!
New Nazareths in us,
Where she shall yet conceive
Him, morning, noon, and eve;
New Bethlems, and he born
There, evening, noon, and morn—
Bethlem or Nazareth,
Men here may draw like breath
More Christ and baffle death;
Who, born so, comes to be
New self and nobler me
In each one and each one
More makes, when all is done,
Both God’s and Mary’s Son.
Again, look overhead
How air is azurèd;
O how! nay do but stand
Where you can lift your hand
Skywards: rich, rich it laps
Round the four fingergaps.
Yet such a sapphire-shot,
Charged, steepèd sky will not
Stain light. Yea, mark you this:
It does no prejudice.
The glass-blue days are those
When every colour glows,
Each shape and shadow shows.
Blue be it: this blue heaven
The seven or seven times seven
Hued sunbeam will transmit
Perfect, not alter it.
Or if there does some soft,
On things aloof, aloft,
Bloom breathe, that one breath more
Earth is the fairer for.
Whereas did air not make
This bath of blue and slake
His fire, the sun would shake,
A blear and blinding ball
With blackness bound, and all
The thick stars round him roll
Flashing like flecks of coal,
Quartz-fret, or sparks of salt,
In grimy vasty vault.
So God was god of old:
A mother came to mould
Those limbs like ours which are
What must make our daystar
Much dearer to mankind;
Whose glory bare would blind
Or less would win man’s mind.
Through her we may see him
Made sweeter, not made dim,
And her hand leaves his light
Sifted to suit our sight.
Be thou then, O thou dear
Mother, my atmosphere;
My happier world, wherein
To wend and meet no sin;
Above me, round me lie
Fronting my froward eye
With sweet and scarless sky;
Stir in my ears, speak there
Of God’s love, O live air,
Of patience, penance, prayer:
World-mothering air, air wild,
Wound with thee, in thee isled,
Fold home, fast fold thy child.

Overbooked

A friend posted the above to my Facebook page several days ago, and -- while it is a bit of an exaggeration -- I had to laugh at how accurate it is. I almost always pack more books than necessary whenever I travel, inevitably overestimating how much reading time I will have and (apparently) forgetting that when I go somewhere I will be doing other things besides sticking my nose into books. For my recent week at the beach, I packed four and read one, for instance.

In fact, I usually start a trip book pile before I even begin the packing of clothes. I found myself doing just that today, building a stack for my six-day D.C. trip, which is still 12 days out. Thanks to a crazy-cheap flight, I'm heading up to visit my cousin Carrie, friend Kim and others and, hopefully see Pope Francis during his visit -- tickets are required for the Mass where he will canonize Bl. Junipero Serra, and two of the three Kim, Carrie and I need have been acquired. I'm not sure what will transpire if we can't get a third, but I'm sending up all sorts of prayers that we do; tickets aren't needed for when the Holy Father is scheduled to appear after he speaks to Congress. But even if we only manage the latter, how amazing would that be?! I'm beyond excited to possibly see (and potentially receive a blessing from) another pope, not to mention catch up with family and friends.  

Anyway, I'm currently reading two books, one a thriller/art heist mystery and the other on praying with the saints for the Holy Souls in Purgatory, so I'm not sure what exactly inspired me to begin book planning (especially when I haven't even thought about pre-trip laundry), although part of me thinks that we'll have to arrive early to places where the Pope will be, so I might as well have some reading material with me just in case, right?

I have a rather diverse group of potentials going so far: science fiction ("The Martian"); a bibliophile's humorous recollections of working in the rare-book trade ("Tolkien's Gown," which was among the books I bought in Scotland); St. JPII's "Love and Responsibility" that I've wanted to read for a while now; a reprint of an 1897 history of Catholic nuns who worked as battlefield nurses during the Civil War; and a book of natural history essays that I picked up at a local library book sale for next to nothing.

Of course, I could decide to read one or more of these before I leave. Or I could decide to bring Dante with me, once Amazon delivers "The Divine Comedy" (I haven't read the whole thing, just the Inferno back in high school, and for the last several weeks have had a yen to read it in its entirety) to my doorstep.

I tend to buy books on vacation, too, whether or not I run out of the reading material I bring with me. Last summer when mom and I went to Scotland, we visited so many used bookstores (which I should write about at some point, shouldn't I, seeing as how it's been more than a year now?), we found such amazing and fun books that, between the two of us, we had to buy extra luggage to bring the books back. There's apparently quite a nice used bookstore not terribly far from my cousin's place on the Hill in D.C., too... :)

Beach break

I recently returned from a too-short but much needed week at the beach. I had, not intentionally, waited until the end of August to use the first few days of my 18 days worth of vacation time, and I never should have held out so long. It actually took me two of those five days to really relax.

But once I did, I began to feel so much more peaceful than when I arrived at the small pale blue cottage one street off the beach. There is just something about being by the water that is rejuvenating. Regardless of what I really look like while I'm there: salt-sticky, sweaty and covered in sand with crazy wind-blown hair, hardly the most glamorous woman on the beach whether I've shaved my legs that morning or not, I still always feel more beautiful when I'm by the sea. Stronger, too, from all the walking, the sand rising up beneath the high insteps of my feet.

My mom and I rose before the sun and watched the beach brighten or, conversely, darken at the end of the day. One morning, we even were able to catch some volunteers excavate a sea turtle nest (they count both the hatched and unhatched eggs and rescue any living hatchlings that haven't managed to dig their way out of the nest). Another evening, we watched a storm role in, and I even managed to catch a photo of distant lightning striking.

See it? Waaay far out there to the left of center? Nevertheless, I am inordinately proud of my first lighting capture.

The multi-faceted beauty of God's creation was all around.

We shelled on the beach early and late, collecting cockles, augers, scallops, pens, Florida fighting conchs, turkey wings, whelks, calico clams, sharks teeth and so much more (I found four cents -- mom found a dime -- along with a nearly foot-long bird's skull bleached by the sun), all of which appealed to the teenage me who (briefly) wanted to be an oceanographer.  Although I found some truly pristine shells, what fascinated me most this time were the worn ones, or those that had holes bored in them by other creatures, perhaps barnacle-clad or spiral shells halved somehow so the typically secret inner whorls were visible
.

I kept finding live things, too: purple-green sand dollars; more occupied conch shells than I could count; a gray, geometric-patterned fancy brittle starfish; and even a live scallop about as big around as a silver dollar, one side covered in barnacles, which opened slightly in my hand, just before I tossed it (as I did all the live things) back into the sea.

We barely turned on the TV, only a few times to check the weather and then one night when we watched "Casablanca" and "Gaslight" while cooking spaghetti. I re-read "Sense and Sensibility," the daily Mass readings and prayed morning and evening prayer.

I did manage some writing, although not that which I'd originally intended. Instead of the two fictional themes I was hoping to expand on, I found myself reflecting on shells, both literal and then figurative ones, on forgiveness and beauty and brokenness and strength. And I finally at least started a letter to a friend who is a nun (which I still need to finish and mail soon).

Part of every day but one was spent on the sand, alternately walking the shore and cooling off in the waves. Like a kid, I stayed in until I was pruned -- fingers and toes and hands just completely wrinkled. Floating in the bathtub-tepid Gulf, the only sounds in my ears my own breath, gentle waves rocking me and the occasional mechanic hum of a boat or jet ski farther out to sea, was blissful. If I believed in signs of the Zodiac I could say it's my Piscean nature coming out, but more likely it's all the vitamin D I soaked up (this is the first decent tan I've had in a decade. No, really, I actually look like I live in Florida for the first time since 2005, when my cousin Matt and his wife were married in Hawaii 10 years and, for them, four kids ago).

Verre eglomise of the Annunciation

The one day it rained pretty much all day, we went to the Ringling Museum, checking out both the circus museum -- I loved circuses as a kid, too, and the combination of that with some displays including, posters, costume sketches and the models used in the great train wreck from 1952's "The Greatest Show on Earth" ticked both my classic movie and circus boxes -- and the more classical works, including some really inspiring religious pieces, many of which were totally new to me.

I am so grateful for the time away. I need to do it more often, or at least earlier in the year! Also, to  head over to the beach for an afternoon on a random weekend, if only to keep up my tan. ;)

When can I go back?

Staycation all I ever wanted

Five days stand between me and a week at the beach, and I can't wait. The last time I went to the beach was for about two hours on a cloudy March day. March 2014, that is.

I grew up less than an hour from Disney, and many people, when then learn that, typically say, "Oh, you must have gone all the time!" Nope. It's the same with the beach. Every now and again, I'll pack up stuff and go by myself for an afternoon but, despite the fact that being by the sea is just good for the soul, I don't often go until I have someone to go with me.

Cue my mom. Earlier this summer, she spent a week with my brother Daniel just outside L.A. and then another week with my brother Ethan in Oklahoma City. Then she surprised me by saying since she'd spent time with them, she figured it was only fair she spend time with me, too (even though I live less than two hours away). So she's rented a cute cottage on Manasota Key, which has some of my favorite beaches in the area. It's the beach I'd take her and dad to when they'd come down to visit, and mom often mentioned wanting to rent some place and spend time, just like she did every other summer growing up, when my grandparents took her and my late Uncle John to alternately either the beach or the mountains. But it never happened, until now.

Needless to say, I am so excited for this little stay(ish)cation. Even though it's so close to my own place, I won't have to think about work for five days. I can wake up watch the sunrise and take a morning swim, say morning prayer on the beach and maybe catch some dolphins swimming by. I hope to read, and write (there are two story ideas fermenting that I've jotted down some notes for and want to explore further) and color (yes, I have a coloring book of Impressionist paintings. Don't mock. It's relaxing.). Mom and I will undoubtedly play some Scrabble, and spend part of at least one day at The Ringling. 

I'm just hoping Hurricane Danny doesn't interfere.

Some thoughts on "Watchman"

Well this has certainly been languishing, hasn't it?

Anyhow, I've just finished Harper Lee's "Go Set A Watchman," and felt the need to write some things down.

First, I have to confess that this book had my Alabama roots showing: I read the whole thing (including some parts aloud to myself) -- without even a glimmer of conscious thought, really -- in what my Granny B liked to call a "refined Southern lady" accent, where, as she once told me, "You pronounce the H in every word whether there is an H in that word or not." And every bit of Atticus' dialog was, naturally, in the voice of Gregory Peck. :)

First of all, the fact this book even exists is wonderful. Despite the various hints at nefarious lawyers and whatnot involved in its discovery, simply being able to read another Harper Lee novel was a joy, the chance to revisit a loved, familiar place, but at the same time, glimpse it in a different way.

And that's where a lot of people seemed to have problems. Even before the book came out a week ago today, there were all sorts of reactionary blog posts about a chapter released in advance. I didn't read the chapter then, because I didn't think it was fair to read the chapter out of context. But other people don't share my patience, apparently, and quickly were up in arms about how it made Atticus Finch sound like the most bigoted of racists, and how dare he be that way? I didn't read the blog posts either (because spoilers, sweetie), especially the one titled, "This is not the Atticus Finch I named my son for." Honestly, if you think a different side of a fictional character is somehow going to change your son, you're nuts. Also, you named your son Atticus, so I'm not sure I can take you seriously. You might as well name your child Demosthenes or Polycarp if you wanted something ridiculously original (sorry St. Polycarp).

But I was not offended by Atticus. Yes, he is different, yes, the sad realities of racism in the Jim Crow South rear their ugly heads, but some of his attitudes (which pale in comparison to that of several other characters) are actually imagined as worse than they are by Scout. Ultimately, the fact that I'm not overly bothered by it probably has a lot more to do with the fact that Mockingbird, while a book I very much enjoy, isn't and never has been my Favorite. Book Of. All. Time. as it is for some, who have put a person they apparently forgot was fictional up on a pedestal. No doubt there will be a number of scholarly dissertations contrasting "To Kill a Mockingbird" and "Go Set a Watchman," and picking the latter apart.

Anyway, I very much enjoyed the book overall. It's a rare thing to be able to see characters we think we know at a time 20-plus years on. They have changed, certainly, but so has the world. The Jean Louis we see here seems, at least to me, to be a natural progression  and completely the product of the prickly tomboy Scout. I found myself at some points wondering how much of Nell Harper Lee was in her and, in a way, too, comparing how the reactions and responses of the now grown Jean Louise reflect the sad and offended nature of many of the people who have been so riled and even betrayed by how her father is different than their expectations...but I also wonder whether, like Scout, who grows in understanding as the novel progresses, other readers will be able to see beyond their own knee-jerk reactions?

The one thing that really did bother me was Jem's fate, which was more surprising than anything else. The flashbacks to the children's childhoods were fantastic, though, as were the additional history of the Finch family. I loved the character of Uncle Jack and his penchant for Victorian literature, and Aunt Alexandra with her tendency to speak emphatically in All Capital Letters. The scenes from the Coffee Zandra throws are brilliant, and I have decided that from now on, whenever I have to fill out a form that asks my marital status, I will instead of "Single," record myself as a "Perennial Hopeful." ;)

One year later

Not too long ago, I was cleaning out my voice mail and, as I went through them (there were something like 21 just hanging out; clearly the chore needed doing), I found messages from my Mom and both of my brothers, but not one from my Dad. At first, it made me a little sad that his voice wasn't there. But then I got to thinking (and laughing), Dad wasn't a big leaver of voice mails. He'd call (this happened typically after he was retired and had a question about something -- usually computer related -- in the middle of a workday), and not leave a message. Then, two minutes later, he'd call again. Sometimes, he'd even call a third time, say 10 or 12 minutes after that. I can't tell you how many times I told him, exasperated, "Dad, just leave me a message the first time. I'm not ignoring you, there's a reason I'm not answering the phone." He'd say ok, but then of course do it again, although after the third (or, miraculously! sometimes after the second) then would leave a message. It was usually very short and along the lines of, "Hey, Anne, it's Dad. Can you call me?" Hence, why I probably didn't save any of them.

Somehow, today marks a year since he died. It doesn't seem that long ago, truly.

Ironically (fortuitously?), a year ago this morning -- but several hours before his death -- Mom and I had visited the funeral home to make arrangements while my Uncle Joe sat at the hospital with Dad. We also had an appointment at the church later in the afternoon to discuss the funeral mass, at that point not knowing when it would be.

Leaving the funeral home (my brothers were at the house), Mom returned to the hospital, Joe went and got lunch and I went to my friend Michele's to pick up a food basket. She'd baked all sorts of things and put them into a care package with fruit and snacks we could grab on our way out the door to the hospital, since we didn't know how long Dad had. I was sitting at her kitchen table when mom called me just after noon to tell me he was gone, sooner than anyone expected. Despite the suddenness, Mom said she was ok to go ahead and keep the church appointment. After I hung up, Michele held on to me as I cried, then, being a practical Louisiana native, poured me a fortifying shot of tequila, the only liquor she had in the house at the time. She then (also practically) made me a turkey sandwich so I wouldn't be driving with only liquor in my belly. I'm pretty sure I was a bit stunned, because it wasn't until I was in the car, driving to the church, that I remembered to pray for Dad's soul.

Anyway, in picking out readings and music (which went smoothly), there was one song I wanted in particular, "The King of Love My Shepherd Is." The priest and deacon didn't know the tune, so I pulled out a hymnal and sang the first verse. My Uncle, who had joined us (Daniel was manning the fort at home and Ethan, who had actually been on the way to the hospital when Mom called him with the news, stayed with Dad's body until the funeral home came to collect it. It was a three-hour wait, and I have always been grateful he kept that vigil), suggested I sing it at the funeral. Reticent to do it alone (although I love to sing and have sung with choirs, I'm fairly self-conscious about singing by myself. I don't think I'd sung a solo in church since high school), I persuaded Joe to sing it with me for the presentation of the gifts.

I'm so picky about liturgical music, and a lot of people tend to play the cadence far too slowly. I suppose they're being reverent, but it's a Celtic tune and should be somewhat lively, to my mind, especially as the funeral mass is one of resurrection, and I didn't want it to be dirge-like. Fortunately, Bill, the retired music minister who played at the funeral mass (and who traditionally played everything super slowly), played it perfectly, without my even having to ask. This man, too, gets it just right:

 ****

 A couple of weeks ago, the date of Dad's death had actually slipped my mind. I was driving home from work and trying to remember, and it took driving past my doctor's office to jog my memory, "My doctor's appointment was the 5th, and then he died five days later." I wasn't sure if it was incredibly lame that I couldn't remember, or a (sort of) good and healthy thing, in that I wasn't completely fixated on it.

There are days when things he would like surround me, days when I can hear his voice, so clearly in my head, reacting to some sort of news item. There are days when I mourn with tears, and then there are days when I barely think of him at all, so caught up am I in work and preoccupied with my own thoughts.

But part of that last, too, is my confidence in the Father. Though we none of us can really know the fate of those who have passed, I know as surely as I type this that Dad is with God, and there is no need for worry, only continued prayer. As I pray for him, I hope he prays for me.

May the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.

Daring to dare

It seems I have yet to find a way to balance journaling and blogging, because it seems while I'm perfectly capable of doing one (to the detriment of the other), I can't manage both. I blame my pesky job. ;)

I did spend the majority of last Wednesday writing, though, and I have six and a half pages of fiction to show for it. I was off work that day, having worked the previous Monday in the absence of two coworkers, and it was rainy, windy and a bit grim all day: absolutely perfect writing weather. I'm not saying it's particularly brilliant prose, but it's more creative writing than I've done in a while, and I am not dissatisfied with it. In fact, I felt ridiculously proud of myself afterwards. I often feel like my creativity has atrophied, and the fact that it hasn’t gone completely gave me a sense of victory (and, after a lazy reading day yesterday involving nothing beyond that and mass, today between laundry and yard work managed some more. I've even written out a timeline, which is something I NEVER do).

I have a motivating factor now, you see and, as a procrastinator by nature, deadlines are helpful. :)

Early last week, my mom called me up. She subscribes to the Florida Humanities Council magazine and noticed an ad for the Eckerd College writers' conference, which will be held in for a week, mid-January, in St. Pete. She thought maybe I'd be interested, and gave me the URL.

I went to the website and checked it out. As I was reading over the FAQs page, I felt my heart beat a little faster, and not just because of the (quite expensive) associated cost, or the fact that applicants have to submit a 25-page draft of an unpublished manuscript - fiction or non, and applicants can submit both - for review before they're accepted. It dawned on me that I was not only nervous about the prospect, but downright terrified of even trying.

Do you know what my very next thought was?

I have to at least apply.

I came across a Maya Angelou quote recently where she said, "I believe the most important single thing beyond discipline and creativity is daring to dare." While I think there are, in fact, some things more important (faith, hope and love come to mind), I agree about the daring. I haven't dared much in too long.

I have become stagnant, complacently. Yes, I've said it before. Yes, I write here, but I am completely aware of the limited number of readers who visit it. And, too, I write every day for work, but the majority of the stories I write are completely lacking in challenge and require little to no creativity. But I think, too, about my dad, who always talked about writing novels, who dabbled in poetry, who came up with sometimes brilliant plots but never did anything about them, and I know he regretted it. I'm not trying to be vainglorious when I say I know I have talent. I don't want to waste this God-given gift, to lament efforts unmade, to leave the field, as it were, unchallenged. And while there is another writers' conference being held closer, and sooner, for cheaper, I don't have enough vacation time to go this year and still have time for the holidays.

So, last Wednesday, I pulled out a quasi-comedic mystery story I'd started in 2010, added a bit to in 2012 but hadn't touched since then. I thought I'd had about 10 or 11 pages, but there were nearly 19! The story still stands up, too, in terms of not being dated at all. So now that I'm very close to the 25-page requirement (not that I'm going to stop at 25...or not edit it), I'm also contemplating writing something in the non-fiction category as well. There are several incidents of family history I've wanted to write about for a while now, and I think this might be the place to start with at least one of them.

Or maybe that's too ambitious and over-reaching. :)

***
And yes, there will be a Scotland post forthcoming...

A brief note on writing and photos

I wrote 70-plus pages in a journal during the two weeks Mom and I were in Scotland (despite our breakneck pace through the country and essentially staying at a different B&B every night), and nary a word (minus stories FOR work, naturally) since I've been back in the office.


But I think I've come up with the solution to how I can generally get more (creative) writing done: I just need to find someone who will support me while I write... ;)


And I have so much to write about from the trip. Hopefully I will get to some of it this weekend. Inevitably, I think of observations I still need to write down about Scotland while I'm either driving or in the shower, so more will be done eventually.


Oh, and the photos! There are more than 5,000 (though, to be fair, since I've started sorting through them, some are blurry, at weird exploratory angles or a second -- or third -- version of the same shot, or things I took that I knew likely wouldn't turn out, and then didn't), and people are already clamoring to see them on Facebook.


I will not be posting all of them. I'm not that obnoxious. :)

Leaving, on a jet plane...

And that's just one side...

Departure day, T-minus 5 hours and 10-odd minutes, give or take. The reality that Mom and I are leaving for Scotland today, despite the silent witness of the packed suitcase and carry-on backpack sitting at the foot of the bed, it still doesn't seem quite real just yet. I'm about to head off on a trip that will check off one of my childhood (or teenage, to be more precise) dreams off my bucket list (>>> Not it. My bucket list has far fewer crossed off items!) just hasn't sunk in...but since we leave for the airport in about two and a half hours, it probably will shortly. :)

"Faith is the realization of what is hoped for and evidence of things not seen."

Everything is done, both at work and on my personal to-do list. >> Ok, not exactly everything. I didn't get around to vacuuming my house, but I think it will survive until I return.

I have quite probably over packed (even after subtracting two pairs of jeans, an extra pair of PJ pants, a third pair of shoes and several pairs of socks from my suitcase last night).

I'm taking three books (five if you're counting the guidebooks), instead of my previously decided on two, mostly because my old paperback copy of "Persuasion" weighs next to nothing, and because I haven't read it in a while (the Amanda Root/Ciaran Hinds movie version is a fairly loyal adaptation and generally satisfies my craving for the story). My other books are "The Four Loves" by C.S. Lewis, which I've wanted to read for a while, and the collected Lord Peter Wimsey short stories by Dorothy L. Sayers (who I only recently learned was friends with C.S. Lewis and also wrote on some Christian themes when she wasn't writing mysteries. I'm looking forward to investigating that more at some point). I've very much enjoyed the Wimsey novels (including the witty byplay between him and scrappy Harriet Vane; their characters eventually marry), and I figured short stories would be easy to digest, so to speak, while on the move.

I'm also taking a laptop, as some of our B&Bs offer free Wi-Fi, although I'm not planning on hitting email and Facebook too often (just often enough to appease and reassure people (*cough*BestFriend*cough* that I'm still alive. She texted me this morning "Omg, what am I going to do without being able to call you for two weeks???!!!!!!!") that we're still truckin.'). I'm going to try and do some writing while we're there, and will be christening a new journal for the occasion.

It's looking a little cloudy out now, so I'm hoping the early evening storms that have been rolling in lately won't delay our take off at all, since we do have a layover in New Jersey before crossing the Atlantic. It's also the celebration of the Feast of the Ascension today, which seems like a nice day to take off into the sky.

(insert rim shot here).

Ok, yes, that was ridiculous, but I most certainly prayed for safe travels at Mass this morning.

Mom is super-excited, too. She keeps saying things like "pinch me, and "I can't believe we did all of it (the planning) ourselves." I hope everything goes according to plan, or at least that nothing gang agley, as Robert Burns would say. We're really doing this!

Renewed... and a reading recommendation

It had been far, far (vastly!) too long since I was last on a retreat, and so last (Memorial Day) weekend's Florida State University Catholic Student Union alumni reunion retreat (the group holds them every two years), held in Orlando, was so needed. I feel centered and so spiritually refreshed (or, as my friend Marie said, "It's like spiritual Draino."). I was so blessed to have this community when I was in college, this group of people who prayed for and guided me, who do so still.

Mass daily with plenty of adoration and praise and worship time, talks and fellowship with nearly 200 other CSU alums and multiple children (It was an amazing witness to life. One of the hotel employees asked one of us if the group was at the hotel for a baby convention) who attended from all over the country was priceless.

Having just been on the retreat, I found a neat connection in the book I'm almost finished reading. It's called "These Beautiful Bones: An Everyday Theology of the Body," by Emily Stimpson. I read her other book, "The Catholic Girl's Survival Guide for the Single Years," when it came out two years ago and really enjoyed both it and her smart, relatable writing style, so when I found this one, it seemed like a no-brainer for several reasons. First, I still can't seem to manage to get beyond the first 125-odd pages in ToB and, secondly, Stimpson's book takes Saint JPII's work and (while not neglecting the sexual aspect) filters it toward practical, everyday behaviors to show how our manners and how we treat others, our work and how we do it and how we eat and dress also reflect the theology of the body: the body's ability to communicate who we are and who God made us to be.

Anyway, at the end of Chapter 3, which addresses ToB and work, Stimpson tacks on an addendum called "The digitalization of leisure," which talks about how the way we relax has changed. "A century ago," Stimpson writes,

"a good day of rest for the average American would have involved a long walk, a fine dinner, some neighborly conversation, and perhaps ... some music on the piano or fiddle. There might have been dancing. Or storytelling. Or perhaps and outing to a museum or play. ... and enjoyed in the company of others."

She goes on to say that today the opposite is often true. That we come home from our jobs and spend time watching screens, and our leisure time has become more passive than active and often spent along. I'm guilty of it, certainly, of dropping on the couch to watch a movie after work instead of challenging myself to be more creative or tackle postponed projects.

Not that she says all this technology is bad. Far from it:

"... although those technologies can lead us to encounters with the true, the good, and the beautiful, they are, by their nature, mediated encounters, not embodied encounters, with sonatas, paintings and evening chats ... Our greatest experiences of joy are never mediated. They're always experienced from the body. ... Media technology is at its best when it facilitates rather than replaces embodied experiences of truth, beauty and goodness, and when it helps us become creators rather than consumers during our leisure hours. ... Media technology can never give us the same kind of joy that comes from being on the mountaintop or hearing our favorite band live. It can't forge the bonds of love and friendship forged over a good meal and equally good wine. It can't mediate the glory and love and presence of God to us that being with someone or at some place in our bodies can."

This lengthy end note on the book's chapter struck me because I'd just spent a weekend rekindling some old friendships usually maintained online, but also because I'm about to embark on vacation with my mom to Scotland. It's a place I've wanted to visit for so long, have read so much about. You can look at all sorts of pictures of a place in books and online, but I'm beyond excited to have the opportunity to really experience it, as Stimpson say, in an "embodied encounter" shared with my mom. Like the movie "Up," "Adventure is out there!"

As for Stimpson's book, it's only 160-odd pages and a quick read packed with goodness, and I encourage you to read it.

"The Poet," By T.A. Daly

The Poet

T.A. Daly

The truest poet is not one

Whose golden fancies fuse and run

To moulded phrases, crusted o'er

With flashing gems of metaphor;

Whose art, responsive to his will,

Makes voluble the thoughts that fill

The cultured windings of his brain,

Yet takes no soundings of the pain,

The joy, the yearnings of the heart

Untrammeled by the bonds of art,

O! poet truer far than he

Is such a one as you may be,

When in the quiet night you keep

Mute vigil on the marge of sleep.

If then, with beating heart, you mark

God's nearer presence in the dark,

And musing on the wondrous ways 

of Him who numbers all your days, 

Pay tribute to Him with your tears

For joys, for sorrows, hopes and fears

Which he has blessed and given to you,

You are the poet, great and true.

For there are songs within the heart

Whose perfect melody no art

Can teach the tongue of man to phrase.

These are the songs His poets raise,

When in the night they keep

Mute vigil on the marge of sleep.

Vacation: two weeks and counting

I only have today off for my "weekend" since I subbed out working Monday in exchange for having next Saturday off for the CSU reunion retreat, and I have to tackle both laundry (this means the laundromat: such a time suck) and yard work to get done before church later.

My grand vision of coming home from work last night and sorting laundry so I could leap from bed today and be the first one through the laundromat door? Yeah, that didn't happen. Naturally, I'm sitting on my couch, enjoying a (unusual for me) second cup of coffee reading and writing this instead. A procrastinator to the core, that's me!

Of course, the day's still young.

In addition to next weekend being booked with the retreat (which I'm very much looking forward to, by the way), these next two weeks are so packed with work assignments (my desk calender at the office is a sea of blue ink) and projects to tackle that if I wasn't going on vacation immediately after them, I'd be tempted to run away anyhow. That said:

Two. Weeks. Until. Scotland.

Two. Weeks.

Two!

It still doesn't seem quite real to me yet, possibly because there is so much I have to do in between times. But I have made a bit of progress with my to-do list: seven of the 19 items have been crossed off. And I've started tossing clothes in the direction of my suitcase (fortunately there's not much call for long-sleeved shirts in Florida at the moment) so, I'll have less to search for and can, at some point next week, start culling the herd. While it could be tricky, I'm determined to pack as light as a woman going overseas for two weeks can without living from a backpack, so I decided to take the small suitcase, rather than the behemoth I could probably pack myself into: for one, we're going to be on the move quite a bit and I don't want to have to haul the thing up flights of stairs at B&Bs, not to mention the big one would likely take up the entire back seat of our rental car (which is supposed to be a Vauxhall Astra, which looks (online) small but sorta snazzy. I do like saying Vauxhall. I am such a complete dork...).

I've also dug out of my change jar the £11.75 leftover from the unforeseen layover of 2009, when an Italian baggage handler's strike caused us to miss our UK connection from Rome back to the States. Though belied by the stamp in my passport that says I have actually been to England, 24 hours spent largely in a hotel, on the tube and in Heathrow Terminal 5 does not a visit make. I suppose I could have traded it in for dollars long since, but I knew I'd have the opportunity to use it eventually. :)

I only have a hundred pages to go in Sir Walter Scott's "Rob Roy," (I felt compelled to reread one of his books before heading over there) so will finish that before it's time to leave. I've been very much enjoying looking up many of the archaic words in it, and I'm not sure how I managed to read it as a teenager without having access to the (shorter, two-volume) OED. I have to say, too, that the Internet has failed me on several counts when I've tried Googling the odd word instead of immediately hitting the dictionary.

Speaking of books, that's one thing I need to add to my to-do list: determining the reading material I'll take with me. As a general rule, I have a tendency to over-estimate the amount of books I'll need on trips (and generally just end up hauling them around without cracking the majority), so will limit myself to no more than two: one fiction, one spiritual reading. The problem is, which two? I should definitely begin that process so I can start eliminating! Many would say this problem could be solved by some sort of e-reader but A) I can't afford one and B) even if I could (and call me a Luddite if you want) I prefer actual books, thank you very much. You can't scrawl margin notes on a Kindle.

And as an amusing conclusion, this past week Historic Scotland's Facebook page offered a "Who In Scottish History Are You?" quiz, which I took just for fun. Apparently (according to the no-doubt-completely-accurate quiz), I am St. Margaret. I was quite pleased with that result, actually, since I've always liked her story (and I didn't think I was much like Flora McDonald or Mary Queen of Scots, two of the other female results possible). I'm looking forward to visiting both her chapel (built by one of her sons, King David I, it's the oldest building in Edinburgh) and saying a prayer at her grave site (at Dunfermline Abbey).

Now, on to the chores...

We're all called to motherhood

One thing I love about Ann Voskamp's writing on her blog, "A Holy Experience," is her honesty.

I try to be honest when I write, but don't always say everything I want to, mostly because, well, this isn't my journal, not everything should be on the Internet, and I want to hold onto that little bit of myself, that yen to preserve myself from judgment.

But Voskamp doesn't pull punches. In a pre-Mother's Day post last week, she wrote about how no woman is the perfect mom, because that woman, the "Hallmark mother," does not exist.

"If we’re honest — and what else is there really — there were burnt dinners and yelling mornings.
And neck strained words over lost shoes and scattered Legos and unfinished homework and there were crumpled tears behind bathroom doors.
Not to mention the frozen pizzas and no clean underwear and the wild words no one would want the cameras rolling for.
And the realization — that a mother’s labor and delivery never ends and you never stop having to remember to breathe."

She has six kids, so she knows of what she speaks. A couple of sentences down, she writes about womanhood, regardless of motherhood. These sentences struck me as both an acknowledgment and, in a small way, a benediction:

"The deal is — Motherhood isn’t sainthood and we’re all a bunch of sinners here and don’t let anyone tell you any different — pushing something out of your womb doesn’t make you a better woman.
Real Womanhood isn’t a function of becoming a great mother, but of being loved by your Great Father. Someone write that on a card with a bouquet of flowers. We all need that."

Amen.

I know women who have six beautiful children, have struggled with infertility, experienced (sometimes multiple) miscarriages, but regardless, we are all called to be mothers, whether it's as aunts, sisters, friends, godmothers, or adoptive mothers, and to nurture those we love.

I'm not a mother, and while I want to be, I sometimes toy — unpleasantly — with the idea that maybe I should give that particular dream up because, even if I'm blessed with a husband, will I even be able to have children? I don't know. And I do terribly with not knowing (and with being patient, and being wrong. Hi, I'm human. *Waves to the group*).

Women joke about biological clocks ticking, but the idea I may not ever be a mother is, without being able to explain exactly how, a physical ache (yes, I would adopt, but not without a husband. Children need fathers). And I have a (stupid) tendency to discount being a spiritual mother, thinking of it as somehow less, forgetting that, "motherhood is a hallowed space because children aren’t commonplace, that anyone who fosters dreams and labor prayers is a mother..."

I have five godchildren, some I see frequently, others less often. They all have moms (and dads) who care for their daily needs, but they are in my heart, in my prayers. Small as my occasional cards and gifts may be in the grand scheme of things, that doesn't make my love, or its impact, less. I need to remember that. 

"Oh, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?"

I'm generally an up-beat, positive person overall, but, like most people, I definitely have my moments of angst, and that whiny quote from Romeo tends to pop into my head often when I'm feeling frustrated about life, along with Juliet's reply, "What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?" Their balcony exchange is all about romantic declarations and frustrated passion, but could easily (at least to my odd-ball brain that makes these weird, out-of-context connections: I was thinking about links between the "Lord of the Rings" and "Star Wars" trilogies last night) be inserted into any conversation I have with God about why my life doesn't seem to be moving like I want it to. Only in those dialogs, I'm woe-is-me Romeo, and God is Juliet, basically telling me to be patient.

Oh, my brain! :)

Anyway, the other morning, while getting ready for work, I was talking on the phone to my best friend, Sarah, who was herself in the middle of her hour-long morning commute to the Georgia college where she's a science professor. We do this now -- have morning conversations -- because things are often too busy for her after work between the kid's soccer practice and dinner prep, my work schedule is sometimes unpredictable even in the evenings, or she, not one to stay up late like night-owl me, often falls into bed before 10, her energy sapped by both her daily responsibilities and the human she is currently growing.

In large part, our conversation centered around the fact that she and her husband had just found out their third child, due in September, is the hoped-for girl (yay!) and possible name choices for said daughter. Their sons, 5 and 3 (the youngest one of my godsons) were also excited about the prospect of a sister. But I was also having a whiny morning and needed to vent.

At 36, I'm at an advanced age (I write ironically) which used to connote mid-life but doesn't necessarily anymore. I was thinking about all the things I'm "supposed to" have accomplished by now: fabulous job, wonderful house, a passport filled with stamps, an amazingly romantic husband, kids, etc... and I am nowhere near that point in life. I have been able to do some traveling, largely through the beneficence of others (the whole trip to Scotland next month? Mom's paying for it, a gift I can never repay. The airfare alone is more than I make in a month), yet on my own I can't even afford the cost of a hotel for a weekend getaway, and sometimes (stupidly) I feel ashamed by that, that despite all my time spent working, it still yields so little, and that I am somehow less because of it. Then, I feel guilty because, in comparison to so many others, I AM well off. I have a job, no debt (a gift in its own right!), own my own car and a roof over my head. But, like so many, I live paycheck-to-paycheck, and I wish I knew when things would stop being a struggle. Job applications I send out, hoping for something new, something that pays better, yield nary a whisper in reply.

Like Romeo, I'm selfish and get so caught up in wanting, wanting, wanting.

So, back to the phone conversation the other morning: Sarah's driving, I'm trying and failing to pick out a shirt that suits my mood for the day, and she says, "I just want to be settled. Shouldn't that have happened by now?"

It's a feeling I am so familiar with. And, just like that, the bubble of my own selfishness popped.

One of the many, many things I love about my friend is that by trusting me with her own trials, she reminds me, even after you unlock certain life levels -- marriage, children, career -- there will always be worries and things will still continue, in a way, to be unsatisfactory. She's attained all those things, and loves her life and family, but still stresses about choosing the right school for her boys, the need for finding a mini-van they can afford before the new baby comes, having enough space in their current house and whether they should stay where they are or move and, if so, when? She questions how she'll juggle teaching with three children.

As I heard myself reply "It's life. I don't know that we'll ever be 'settled,'" I thought, almost simultaneously, "Do you hear the words coming out of your own mouth, woman?!" And, thankfully brought out of myself, I laughed.

There is a whole other life waiting for us, one that is not here, and that is what we yearn for -- for God. The sometimes (who am I kidding? the ALWAYS) hard part is to not be caught up in the wanting of things, the near-constant worrying this life -- the push to achieve, to win, for Manifest Destiny -- inspires. We live in the world, but can't let its worries and wants consume us. My Dad, though he fought it, tended to be caught up in the negatives so often, it practically became his default setting, and I don't want  --  and cannot allow -- that for myself. As St. John Vianney said "You either belong wholly to the world or wholly to God."

Lord, help me live in the world, but belong wholly to you!

A cautionary note

I'm female, so over-analyzing things is in my nature.

Worse still, my B.A. is in Creative Writing, so I essentially have a degree in exceptionally in-depth analyzation. ;)

Ergo, this reminder from C.S. Lewis is an important one to remember as a general rule of thumb:

"‘Reading between the lines’ is inevitable, but we must practice it with great caution, or we may find mares’ nests."

Truth, C.S., truth. :)

First ever 7QT: Car talk, fiesta & favorite foods, Twitter and good red lipstick.

I've wanted to take part in Jennifer Fulwiler's 7 Quick Takes link-up for a while now (and have no discernible reason for why I haven't up to this point), so here goes.

#1: I talk to other drivers when I'm alone in the car. Now, I know I'm not the only one who does this, but somewhere in the not too distant past (I can't recall when), I started using pet names for them. To wit, I'll be alone in my car and say to the driver of car in front of me: "Ok, honey/sweetie/darlin,' the light's green" when they need to move off the dime.

Ummm, wow, that sounds even more ridiculous when I write it, but I think I tend to lose my patience less when I'm calling the driver of the car in front of me "dear" while encouraging them to at least use their turn signal before cutting me off, rather than cursing at them instead.

#2: We had a Mexican fiesta potluck for lunch today in the newsroom. Not everyone was going to be in on Cinco de Mayo, so we filled up today on chicken and beef tacos with all the fixin's. I'm not sure what it's like in other newsrooms, but none of us will ever starve so long as we work here.

In honor of the celebration, and to look a smidge more flamenco-esque/Hispanic (which I'm not, but people sometimes think I am), I pinned a couple of fake flowers in my hair, wore a peasanty looking shirt with a bright yellow sweater and glammed it up with bold red lipstick (not evident in the photo, as it had worn off from taco eating), the latter of which I don't do very often. A bit cheesy, yes, but it's Friday, and sometimes a girl just has to do something fun and different, even if only for herself. :)

#3: Do you know how hard it is to find a really good bright red lipstick? So many are too orange, whereas I need one with more blue in it because of my olive skin tone. The one I have is great, just the right shade, with the smallest hint of sparkle to it (Revlon Super Lustrous Lipstick in Berry Allure frost). But it's old, as in the-smell-has-changed-and-I-know-I-should-probably-toss-it(there are rules about these things)-but-they-don't-make-the-color-anymore-and-I-love-it old. I did say I don't wear it very often.Whenever I do, though, it makes me think of 40's-era, old Hollywood glamour.

#4: If I were to have some sort of retro makeover and could pick the time period (yes, I think about these things), late 1930's or wartime Hollywood is the look I'd want. The clothes were so classy and feminine, and I'm fairly certain I could rock those war-era Victory Rolls.

#5: I love fresh tomatoes, and sometimes just eat them plain. In fact, after I had both a chicken and beef soft taco at lunch, I grabbed a bowl and just filled it with chopped tomatoes and a little bit of guacamole and went to town.

#6: Speaking of things I like, I am currently out of milk. This is a sad state of affairs, as I use it in tea, coffee, hot cereal, cold cereal, hot chocolate, chocolate milk... Seriously, I'm like a teenage boy when it comes to drinking milk (this, by the way, is the only way in which I resemble a teenage boy). I buy a gallon and bring it home and by the end of the day or the next morning, half the gallon will be missing. And I'm the only one in the house. At least I'll probably never suffer from osteoporosis.

#7: I followed G.K. Chesterton on Twitter this morning so I could get the hook-up on some awesome, faithful/witty quotes. Shortly thereafter, I received a "Matched contacts suggestion" on my phone for good old G.K., like now that he knows how to get ahold of me, he's gonna call. That would be pretty awesome, come to think of it, if not just the least bit miraculous. ;)

As for Twitter, I go through stages with it. I will post a flurry of tweets one day, and then there will be a trickle more over the next couple of days, then I tend to forget about Twitter entirely, sometimes for months at a time. I feel like I should be better about it, but also at the same time like I don't need more distractions or another social media site to maintain. Some people seem to be on there constantly, and I just can't.

Head over to Conversion Diary for more quick takes!

A gallimaufry

Unpacking
This past weekend, I bought a new lawn mower. I'd tried to keep my lawn maintained with an old-school reel mower (which also kept me from having to buy gas), but with more weeds than grass in large portions of my yard, it wasn't cutting it (a sad, sad pun. My apologies). I've mentioned before that I started mowing my parents' quarter-acre when I was 12, so I'm no stranger to gas-powered push mowers and how they operate, but this was the first time I'd put one together out of the box. I didn't have any real problems with the assembly, although another hand would have been helpful (note to self: buy a vice grip), and ratchet sets are a lifesaver. When I finished I posted a pic of the completed machine on Facebook, proud of my handiwork, then went about my mowing. While it wasn't an arduous process, I have to say it's incredibly satisfying to put something together and then have it work properly.

The next day, one of my coworkers, who'd seen the photo online, asked me how mowing went. After I told him the mower made short shrift of my lawn,  he said he was impressed with my handiness at putting the mower together and that I was "the total package" because he didn't know many people, male or female, who'd done so. I thanked him and kind of laughed, but it got me wondering: while I'm not on the receiving end of those sorts of compliments often, this isn't the first time an older, married man has said something like this me. Why is it that they are the only ones who seem to think so? Or is it because they don't have a vested interest, so aren't intimidated by expressing the idea? I'm not agonizing over this by any means, just pondering it.

Song, sung, blue
"Ode to Joy" is a beautiful song. It was the closing hymn at mass on Divine Mercy Sunday, and, for the first time, it almost made me cry, but not because of it's beauty. Even as the first strains reverberated through the church, I could feel my face start to crumple and tears start to well. I thought to myself as I tried to fight it off, "hold on, you don't want to be the weird woman crying during a hymn of triumph," but the choir only sang the first two verses so I was able to pull it together -- I might have been in trouble if we'd sung all four.

Dad's marker when first installed.

It was my dad's favorite hymn, you see, and while not tone deaf, he couldn't sing if his life depended on it. But this he always sang loudly, with feeling, and Sunday was actually the first time I'd heard it since he passed. Back in August, when making funeral arrangements, we even used the (slightly paraphrased) last line on his grave marker, my mom and I coming up with it at practically the same time, though at opposite ends of the house. If that wasn't meant to be, I'm not sure what is.

Social graces and dance skills
I didn't watch "Big Bang Theory" from the beginning of its run and don't always catch it regularly on Thursdays, so I enjoy watching reruns when I find them. Earlier this month I finally caught the episode that showed how the elevator in the guys' building ceased to function. Not three days later, I was covering a school board meeting. After proceedings concluded, one of the members joked with me about BBT, because the elevator in the board's administrative office building was out of service, complete with caution tape. It was a funny coincidence.

Then last night I saw the episode that included this clip (Blogger won't let me embed it for some reason. Grr), which gave me a pretty good laugh, considering I took six years of Cotillion (Unlike Sheldon, I enjoyed it, can still waltz and set a formal dining table with ease. My brothers, who didn't last nearly as long, would probably agree with him, though). At least it's good to know, should the situation ever arise, that I'd fit in in 18th century Vienna. :)

May
This is going to be an exceptionally busy month for me.

Work wise, it's filled with end-of-the-school-year events, so there will be lots to cover in terms of awards ceremonies and graduations. I also have to put together practically all of my grad tab, a 32-page special section I compile for the high school's graduating class filled with photos, articles and all the senior portraits, which is then inserted into the paper the week following the ceremony. I'm starting early since I'll actually be leaving the country before the pub(lication) date, so I want to have as much complete and leave as little to others as I possibly can.

Mother's Day is the 11th. Mom (in addition to giving me life) is taking me to Scotland, so at the very least I need to get her a card. ;)

Labor Day weekend, I'm off to Orlando for the biannual Florida State University Catholic Student Union Reunion Retreat (yes, it's a mouthful!). The last one I was able to make was in 2008, so I'm really looking forward to this one. Not only will it be an opportunity to see some friends I normally don't see (keeping up with them via Facebook, while nice, isn't ideal), but also some of the Brotherhood of Hope, who were (and are still) CSU's campus ministers. It's also been far too long since I went on retreat in general.

That same weekend also sees Mom's birthday and a celebration for my twin goddaughters, who are turning 5 and having a Star Wars-themed birthday party (at their request. I'm so proud of the little geeks!) to mark the occasion. So, presents must be bought.

Plus, there's trip prep. Tomorrow marks the one-month countdown to Scotland, and I've already got a fairly sizable list of things I need to do or remember in preparation. Things on it so far include "buy another SD card," "investigate a better travel backpack," "inform bank I'll be overseas," "find a lector sub for June 15th mass" and (the so-completely-obvious-it-shouldn't-need-to-be-listed-but-I-did-it-anyway) "don't forget my passport."

I keep my passport in my scarf drawer. Don't ask me why. And yes, I have an entire (smallish) drawer worth of scarves. I do realize I live in Florida, thanks. I never said I made sense. ;)

Set your old heart free...

At mass yesterday, the pastor at my church, Fr. John, started off his homily by telling us about the part he played in an eighth-grade love triangle. Girl A, he said, was enamored of him and, while he was friendly with her, he wasn't interested, instead casting his eye toward Girl B.

Apparently Girl A thought all her future happiness (like you do at that age. Oh, the drama!) was encompassed in the now-married-to-the-Church Fr. John, and wrote him many love letters in which she called him the handsomest, most intelligent boy she knew (which Fr. John joked at least proved she had good taste).

He went on to say that he tried to ignore it for a while (which didn't help), and did his best to make sure Girl B knew where his affections were placed. Then one day things came to a head. He told Girl A, in no uncertain terms, that he didn't like her in that way.

"I was quite cruel about it," he said, adding Girl A subsequently wrote him many poison pen letters and tried to spread rumors to his detriment as a way to get back at him for rejecting her. Decades later, he said "I still feel a little bit guilty about how I handled it."

"We've all been rejected," he continued. "But that doesn't mean we should build walls around our hearts, because we lose out on love and friendship." Those walls keep us safe, but don't let anyone else in, either.

And for the rest of his homily, while I was listening, this song was also running through my head:

The homily struck a chord with me for another reason, too. There's a saying girls and women are often told in Catholic and Christian circles, that we should "guard our hearts." While I certainly want to give my heart to a man who is worthy of it, I sometimes wonder if I've been too diligent in that regard in the past. Not that I'm encouraging abject recklessness, but I've never once, for example, told a man I was interested in him -- well, I shouldn't say never, because I have, but not until ages after the fact and I was long over him, ergo, safe from heartbreak, and the point completely moot -- and occasionally give a thought to what, if anything, would have been different had I done more than moon from afar.

Perhaps nothing, but I write this to illustrate the care I've taken to keep my heart from being ill-used. I recognize that particular wall especially, the yearning for self-preservation, and know it's something I need to work on. I have never been brave enough to hold my heart in my hands and give it to a man. Not romantically, at least, though I've wanted to. Or, if I've been considering it, sometimes circumstance and timing (and God, wiser that I am) takes a turn and the opportunity is lost...which are stories for another day. :)

But we give our hearts to family and friends as well, and they, too, can have the power to hold or scorn us. Family especially, as the ones closest to us, knows all the right ways to hurt us, all the buttons to push. It's not always consciously done, but that doesn't necessarily change the sting. Friends, too, can sometimes betray us in ways both large and small.

And that's where forgiveness comes in.

At the close of his homily, Fr. John went on to say that Jesus, too, is holding His heart in His hands, offering to entrust us with it to do what we may. He knows that there will be times when we will reject it, stomp on it, grind it into dust at our feet, and yet He holds it toward us still. That, Fr. John explained, is Jesus' Divine Mercy -- which we celebrated yesterday -- forgiving us all we've done and all we've yet to do, even though He knows we might not be worthy of that trust, hoping just the same that we will give our heart in return.

Books to reread

I have this running list in my head of books I'd like to reread and figured it was about time I set the list down somewhere before it becomes too bulky.

In the last couple of years, I've reread several books that I wanted to experience as an adult, namely "War and Peace," "Our Mutual Friend," "The Screwtape Letters" and "Brideshead Revisited." But there are others I haven't gotten around to yet. Most are books I read as a teenager, and the impetus to reread is essentially me wondering if I'll feel the same way about them now (and hoping to undoubtedly catch more nuance) than when I read them initially. Some I just want to see if I still dislike as strongly.

Watership Down, by Richard Adams
I practically never say I hate a book. I've disliked many, but this book is one I truly despised after forcing myself to finish reading it (and it wasn't often I balked at any kind of assigned reading) in either seventh or eighth grade. Vicious, war-like bunny rabbits tearing each other to bits? Really? I've gotten into debates with friends who adore this book, which mystifies me, as I recall nothing adorable about it (we watched the animated film in class after reading the book, and that, too, turned me off). This is definitely one I want to read again just to see if my attitude toward it remains the same. By the same token, I should probably also tackle "Animal Farm" again as well, as I was not a fan.

The six Anne of Green Gables books, by Lucy Maud Montgomery
Yes, there are actually six of them, with the trio beyond the original three novels (Green Gables, Anne of Avonlea and Anne of the Island), continuing Anne's story as a wife and mother. There are also two additional books (which I haven't read), sometimes counted, that tell the story of one of Anne's daughters.
Anyway, I haven't read them since I was a girl, and have always been fond of them. Yes, the heroine is an imaginative girl with whom I share a name (and the correct spelling with the E on the end), but they're also just fun and well-written. At the time, I (of course) developed a crush on the fictional Gilbert Blythe, although I don't know many girls who read these books who didn't on some level (though I was probably one of the only 12-year-olds you'd have found in 1990 who thought Gilbert was a cool name. I still do, come to think of it. Given the opportunity, I'd totally name a son Gilbert. You know, unless my married last name ends up being something like Gilbertson. But I digress...).

Both Aldous Huxley's Brave New World & 1984, by George Orwell
I has also been quite a while since I read either of these dystopian novels, although I recall liking both of them. And watching "Man of Steel" last night, the Genesis chamber on Krypton reminded me in a way of the factory-like hatchery where babies gestate in "Brave New World." The fact that that particular image from the book has stayed with me this long, almost 20 years later, is striking, perhaps because the concept was so shocking to me initially. And unlike "Animal Farm," "1984" didn't leave me with a bitter taste in my mouth upon first reading, so, you see, I don't abjectly dislike Orwell.

Something by Sir Walter Scott

One of these, perhaps?

While we're in Scotland in June, Mom and I plan to visit Sir Walter Scott's home, Abbotsford, near Melrose (fun fact: there's a Catholic chapel attached to the house. Scott's granddaughter and her husband were both converts, and the grandson-in-law was also friends with the now-Blessed John Henry Newman. Some of Newman's possessions are on display in the chapel), and the Scott monument in Edinburgh. It only seems fitting that I reread (or if I don't get to it beforehand, take one with me. Or would that be too cliche?) at least one of his Scottish novels. 

There are other books, I know, that aren't immediately coming to mind. Not that I don't have plenty else to read in my to-be-read-piles. And, lest people think all I read are classics, I'm actually at the end of a reread of Diana Gabaldon's Outlander series, in anticipation of book 8 coming out June 10. I might have to buy it while I'm in Scotland, although they're generally tome-like novels, and it would probably add weight to my suitcase on the way home.

We are an Easter people

I hope you had a wonderful Easter Sunday with friends and family! As my mother was out of state visiting one of my brothers, I spent Easter with friends and my twin goddaughters. It was a great long weekend. My goddaughters, Paige and Claire, are a month shy of 5, and when they learned that I'd given up cheese for Lent they insisted (apparently they asked their mother, in the blunt way kids have, "Momma, is she crazy?) I have several kinds of cheese -- cheddar, Gouda and Havarti -- in my Easter basket.

There were also several fun-sized Kit-Kats and four(!) Cadbury Cream Eggs in there, so between chocolate and cheese, the Easter basket portion of my holiday was darn near perfect. :)

Anyway this afternoon, we went to the store and wandered down the Easter aisle looking for bargains (my friend Michele sells Mary Kay and was looking to re-purpose some pastel things for various events and classes she teaches). Already, it was stripped practically bare, and almost every other aisle end cap was filled with Mother's Day cards, gifts and decorations.

Mother's Day is, of course, wonderful, and it's no secret that stores always jump the gun when it comes to marketing holidays and other events throughout the year. For pretty much everyone, Easter is over.

But not for us. Blessed (soon to be Saint!) John Paul II said "We are the Easter people and hallelujah is our song.” And as the priest who said the Mass I attended yesterday morning (the first time in about five or six years I haven't been to an Easter vigil) reminded the congregation, for us, Easter is 50 days long. When you think about it, why wouldn't we have a length of days dedicated to celebrating the Risen Christ? For what He did for us, it seems the least we could do is live our lives as a joyful reflection of the Resurrection.

Resurrexit Sicut Dixit (He has risen as he said)!