Come along my friends...

Well, I'm moving.

After much convincing from various opinionated people, I am taking myself and my joy over to Wordpress. Everything remains the same, in fact, all the old posts moved with me. You'll just have more site now to see. So come and see my new home. I think it is quite a step up in the world!

Christ Plays

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies dráw fláme;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves - goes itself; myself it speak and spells,
Crying Whát I do is me: for that I came.

Í say móre: the just man justices;
Kéeps grace: thát keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is -
Chríst - for Christ play in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men's faces.

-Gerard Manley Hopkins

Where The Trees Stand Still

I always liked that Bebo Norman song (see title) and it fits my present set of mind. I'm home! And staring quite contentedly out my window at a decidedly unmoving forest of wet pines. The act of travel is a strange dance that can leave the mind dizzy and I am heartily glad to be back in CO just in time for the brooding, stormy days of spring and the new burst of green all over the mountainsides.

I have flowers in my window today; a gladsome riot of pink carnations sitting on my sill and they embody my resolve as I enter this month and a half at home. I am determined to enter life at the level of the present moment. More than a resolve, it is a conviction, especially after the crazy days of my trip. Finally, I am here, fully present in my home, alive to the mercy of another day. No longer needing to look just ahead, or jump on the next plane, but here, with God and the tangible goodness of his growing earth. The whirlwind craze of my journey brought me a quick delight, but also a good sobering-up and I am here now thinking thoughts quite different from what I expected on my return.

The eternal gypsy in me thought that this trip would bring some sort of fulfillment to my yearning after ideals. I thought perhaps that seeing cities of beauty, encountering people living radically different lives, even glimpsing the green of different hills and strange forests would satisfy the hunger I so constantly carry for that something more. And I did see many things, I saw a myriad of lives being lived in startling diversity, saw pain, saw laughter, saw people being taught and lovely homes being scratched out of struggle and children being raised in a dozen different varieties of goodness. Yet I still hunger.
There is an itenerant idealist in me that cannot shake the conviction that one extra mile might bring me the ideal for which I yearn. Since childhood I have had a hunger to seek; to find that one perfect place, or situation, or friend, wherein I could live the fullness of my imagination, embody the pervasive beauty that comes so readily to my thought. My picture of what reality should look like is vivid, my desire to find it intense, and in many ways it has driven my decisions even as I have entered adulthood. Travel has always represented that search to me and so I have often sought it out, inarticulately hoping that my journeys might thrust me upon the incarnation of my ideal.

But something about the whirlwind of my travels this time began to teach me that it is not a thing to be found. In all their beauty, the great cities of Europe still don't have the mystery for which I long at each dawn and dusk. There is no cathedral whose very walls can answer my hunger for transcendence. No single home or way of life to satisfy my thirst for rhythm, for beauty, for love. The earth, with all it's splendor, is still just that, our own fallen world. It echoes with a goodness lost just as my heart echoes with an advancing redemption. But there is no part of it to fulfill my hunger.

So what is a crestfallen gypsy to do?

Build, I think. If the ideal doesn't exist in the tangible realm, then it must have its being in the spiritual. When it comes right down to it, everything I believe lies just beyond my touch, why shouldn't my ideals as well? But my convictions as a believer in Christ drive me to live in a certain way, compel me to picture my hope in my words, my actions, the set of my face as I encounter the daily world. I may not grasp the kingdom of God on earth, but I picture its reality. So I must with these ideals of beauty, of quiet, of life lived in a lovely way. I know that God created his earth with its startling beauty to reflect the richness of existence he intended for us. And though the world is fallen, the picture of goodness is still there, and the promise of it being restored is the centerpoint of my hope. I must not search any longer for a perfection that doesn't exist in the earth bound realm. Instead, I must craft a picture of that for which I hope; give life to my thought by enfleshing it as much as possible. Picture hope through what I create. I can't drift anymore; my only hope for finding an ideal is in planting my flag, and beginning the well-living of my life. Right here, in the chronos reality of my springtime day.

So I guess I've come home, because the trees really are standing still.
Even in my soul.

William Holman Hunt

I didn't expect to be able to do any serious blogging on this whirlwind journey beyond an erratic bit of travelogue. But the unexpected boon of constant internet access has enabled me to putter around a bit on the web, and I have discovered an article that I am eager to share.

In keeping with my hope to profile some of my beloved artists, I want the world to know more about William Holman Hunt, both for himself as a superb artist, and for the part he played in the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. The Pre-Raphaelites were a group of artists who bucked the artistic trends of their time, desiring instead to return to an artistic way of thought before the Renaissance that saw art as full of symbol and meaning, marked by an almost fanatical attention to detail. Their driving ideas included the conviction that art ought to be objectively meaningful, well-executed, deeply beautiful. Even in the beginning years of modern and postmodern thought, they were already beginning the call back to an objective beauty, an attention to the loveliness of nature and the need for meaning in all forms of creation. I think they are a pretty powerful inspiration to all artists today. Their epic, richly beautiful pictures adorn several of my walls and are such constant companions of beauty that I feel the richer for their presence in my life. I find that their pictures have a staying power in my mind that much modern art lacks entirely.

William Holman Hunt was a well-known member of the Brotherhood, but is of particular interest because of his faith. A faith powerfully expressed in his painting Light of the World. A painting of Christ, lantern in hand, knocking at the door of the human heart, it was a painting that drew the admiration and love of Hunt's own time, and has retained its meaningful beauty for the present. Christianity Today has a recent article having to do with that particular work and several books recently published on Hunt's life and art. You can go here to read it. You can also go here for a short history of the Brotherhood, and here for a list of the museums and websites housing his works and offering prints of his paintings.

Even in the midst of my crazy travel days, I have been strengthened in heart by stumbling across this study on the life of a man who so valued beauty and was so committed to bringing the rich mystery of the Biblical story to life in his art. It's what I want to do in my writing. It's what I want to do in my life. So enjoy this artist. May he enrich your days as well.

And Ever On...

Iwas greeted by the mountains; heaped hills of verdant green and smoky blue, etched by the white-walled, red-roofed ropes of small villages. It is unexpectedly beautiful here in the Balkans and it seemed a perfect fairyland to my travel-weary eyes when I stumbled off the plane yesterday afternoon. My exhausted friends and I were greeted by the sparkle of spring sun and the hugs of new and old friends. After almost forty-eight hours of nonstop travel (with a paltry four hours of sleep) we had finally reached a place of rest. It is night now, and I have just arrived home from a day spent wandering the delightfully old and very cobbled streets of this city. Our friends have been generous with their time and car, ferrying us all over the city for an unforgettable tour. We've feasted on cheese pastry with sour yogurt, bought tiny hand woven shoes at a bazaar and wandered up to a crumbling fortress to watch a storm amble in over the mountains. It's been a welcome respite after five very crazy days.

Our time in the middle east was an experience that eludes description at points; it was hot and bright and barren, rich in wonderful people even while confirming every imagination I've ever had of the wild desert. In spite of the occassional oasis with its sudden shock of fuchsia flowers and palm trees, it was the people, in my mind, who brought such richness to the place. First of all, the families we visited; faithful and dear, full of great ideas and persistent hope. It was a privelege to speak to them, encourage them in their ideas and work. We were a small, cozy group who enjoyed great discussions over hummus and pita (it is indescribably delicious) during the three days we spent together. They will be in our thoughts so often in the coming days.

Secondly, the native people themselves were generous with friendship and laughter and we made some crazy friends on our long taxi drives to and from the city. In between maneuvering the outrageous roads (or rather, the outrageous drivers) we had some fascinating discussions with our drivers about their customs, beliefs and general outlook on life. Hidayat in particular had us in stitches as he braved traffic to get us in some shopping at the "Blue Souk" in our last available hour. I wish we had hours and some Turkish coffee to continue in talking with Hidayat, even in our few minutes he widened our perspectives and gave us a glimpse into his thought that changes the way I will think about many things in the future.

As for the camels, while not exactly friendly, they obliged us with a rollicking good ride. We slipped into the pink dawn on our second day to clamber onto the humps of some very obliging camels. Roped together (so that none of us would end up on a wild gallop across the sand dunes), they had elaborate get ups of saddles that sat us just high enough for them to nibble at our toes as we swung along. Our guide didn't speak a word of English, but our garrulous driver had fully informed us to watch out for lizards, other wild camels and the "very poisonous" snakes who left lace-like ribbons of tracks in the red sand. It was a ride to remember. I felt like Miss Rumphius, right down to the nearly plunging headfirst over the camel's ears when he knelt to let me off. Exciting.

Tomorrow we will begin a new round of talks with the dear people here. This is a place of contrasts; colorful markets and laughing people set in a scene of communist era blockies and precarious old buildings. There is tradition and poverty, richness of history and bitterness of old grudges. I feel like I am walking through dream scapes at times, unable to fully process everything I am seeing. I am storing it away to be considered; the beauty, the cultures, the souls of friends and native peoples. For now, I will bid you goodnight from this sort of travel journal. For now, the cold has come and I will take my own advice, curling up to take a bit of joy before the morning with its new adventures.

Goodnight to you, my friends!

A New Place...

It was two am in the small hours of this morning when we stepped into the heavy heat of the Middle East. We were sleepy, yet bright eyed with travel and fascination at the multitude of colors and sights that met us as we stumbled out to our waiting taxi. We walked carefully round groups of people from a myriad of different countries, fascinated by the turbans and veils that brushed against us. As we stepped out to our car, we glimpsed the strange and lovely lettering of this country, in calligraphic curls and and dashes. Our driver dashed us to our hotel, where we peered out over a sprawling cityscape of jeweled lights. And then fell senseless into bed. Exhaustion doesn't quite describe the feeling.

Six hours of sleep, two hours of driving and one rescheduled camel ride later, we are here in the town where we will stay for the next few days. Our hosts met us with delightful welcomes and a traditional middle eastern dinner. We laughed as we sat around our table at an old restaurant lodged in the fort near the old oasis. We were feasted on hummus and pita bread, grilled lamb and chicken and delightful salads of fresh vegetables and spicy dressings. The favorite treat though was the fresh juices; pineapple and mango, guava and lemon, mixed fresh and served in chilled glasses. Our friends are so lovely and so generous and the next days promise much grace. I hope we can bring as much as they have given us already.

This is the farthest I have ever been from home both in miles and culture. And it is fascinating. As we were waiting for our food tonight, we heard a strange cry echoing through the darkling sky and several of us leapt up the old stairs to stand on the lookout and listen. It was the call to prayer. Haunting and eerie as an old tale, the strange voice echoed through the pink haze of the hot dusk sky in a tone almost otherwordly. It was compelling and present. We listened until the last horn died away and then turned wide eyed to eachother. It is not to be forgotten.

Tomorrow begins the bulk of our time here and we must be up at five thirty sharp to redeem our canceled camel ride before the sun comes out in full, so I will bid you goodnight from this hot and strange, yet fascinating place. More will come soon. And tomorrow, perhaps you will get a glimpse of an obliging camel with one of us perched precariously on its back...

Auf Wiedersehen

We leave Vienna today, lugging our suitcases down to the Ubahn and then off to the next country.

It's been a blessed time. We had Sacher Torte yesterday, sipping our melanges (cappuccinos) in the red velvet lounge and enjoying every bit of our famous cake. There is so much tangible beauty here in the paintings and streets, the old buildings with their statues and ironwork, the flower shops and cobblestones and music being played at every street corner.

I want to take time to consider what beauty does for the soul, because this place is richer in touchable loveliness than almost any place I have been, and I think that somehow, it makes God's grace tangible to human eyes.

I'll have to mull that one as I'm flying.

For now, Guten Tag von Vienna (good day from Vienna), I'm on the road again!

Gruss Gott!

Or, as the German has it, "Greet God" which basically means "hello"!

I greet you from the springtime streets of Easter Vienna. We arrived here a night and a half ago after a train ride from Munich through the Austrian Alps. We are cozily situated right on the Ring in downtown Vienna, ten minutes walk from Kaertner Strasse and the Graeben, the two pedestrian streets that make up the heart of Vienna. It has been a wondrous time thus far; miles of walking down cobbletone streets, coffee at Mom's old favorite haunt of Heiner's, a long stroll through the Ostermarkt (Easter Market) to buy fragile, handpainted eggs in every hue of the rainbow.

These are our days of rest; our respite before we head out on Tuesday. Easter especially will be a gift as we are spending the day with old friends and ending with a midnight performance of the Messiah in St. Stephens. It will be wondrous.

So, from streets flower-bedecked and cobblestoned, from the city of music and old beauty, I wish you a lasting grace from the Lord. May you have peace on this joyous day. May the beauty of God be heartbeat close as His joy suffuses our souls once again.

Happy Easter from Vienna!

The Road Goes Ever On and On...

Down from the door where it began,
Now far away the road has gone,
And I must follow if I can.
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet,
And whither then, I cannot say.

Bilbo Baggins said that, and I'm humming the tune of it under my breath as I stuff the last coat and zip the last zipper on my woefully overstuffed bag. You see, we are off again on a gypsy adventure. There will be a fellowship of four this time, traipsing through five countries in Europe and beyond. (If I can only remember a single greeting in each language I'll be ridiculously proud.)

We will be staying with families, pouring as much new courage and zest into their hearts as we can. There is an indescribable thrill to travel; a sense of newfound treasure as one travels from place to place, gleaning the vast myriad of beauties that God has made. I welcome any trip for the way it expands my soul. Each new mountain, each bustling city, each blessed new meeting of a kindred heart enters into my spirit and stretches it, enlarges my comprehension of God's infinite beauty.

So I'll hopefully be able to post a few pictures or thoughts along the way so that you can join in the gypsy quest. Pray for us, that we will be kept and protected, that we will leave gladness behind us, and that God's spirit would be strong around us as we go. We'll return in three weeks, just as spring comes home to the mountains. I'll greet you from the road, hopefully share some tidbits from camel rides to coffee in Vienna. Our first planned adventure is an Easter midnight concert in St. Stephen's Cathedral in the heart of Vienna. So look for some travel journals soon. For now here's a token farewell on my last (much too late) night from home.

Watch out o' windy world, we're coming!

His Life

Seven times a day, as I work upon this hungry farm, I say to Thee, 'Lord, why am I here? What is there here to stir my gifts to growth?What great thing can I do for others-I who am captive to this dreary toil?'
And seven times a day Though answerest, 'I cannot do without thee. Once did My Son live thy life, and by His faithfulness did show My mind, My kindness, and My truth to men. But now He is come to My side, and thou must take His place.'

-Hebridean Altars

Life in Cadence

It was Anne of Green Gables who began it. I was fifteen with the romantic drama of the world unfolding at my feet when I discovered the riches of poetry. I was reading Anne of the Island when I realized how often my heroine would quote the perfect bit of classic poetry to set the tone of an adventure. And then there was her recital of The Highwayman; a dramatic feat of memorization and romance that I simply couldn't resist. If Anne could memorize it, why not me?
Ah, the thrill of walking barefoot over the hills of Colorado while whispering;
The wind was a torrent of darkness,
Among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon
Tossed upon cloudy seas...

From there I progressed to Stevenson, Shakespeare and Yeats. I discovered Wordsworth and Coleridge, Burns and Browning. And this year, thanks to the help of a book friend, Auden and Whitman. My new ally in the exploration of poetry is John Hollander's lovely book: Committed to Memory. It is a collection of what he considers the hundred best poems to memorize. They are companionable poems, fit to aid every season of life. I've memorized three in the past month. I find an unexpected pleasure warming me when these words come unbidden to my mind, setting an inner song to my mundane hours. There is grace and drama, new courage and old beauty in the classic poetry.

So Anne began it. But I'm keeping it up. Because poetry adds just a bit of song to life, adds a gracious cadence to my work and play. Poetry reminds me to follow the example of the poets to cup my hands and wait for wonder to fall.

Artist: Jessie Wilcox Smith

Since I have received several requests for the identity of the artist who painted the little girl reading by a window, (several posts back) I've decided to make that woman the first of my featured artists. So, o curious world, I present the talented and lovely, Jessie Wilcox Smith.

One of the most beloved artist/illustrators in the children's book world, Jessie Wilcox Smith was one of three women who studied under famed illustrator Howard Pyle. She become known for her delightful illustrations of the children's classics as well as her tender portrayal of childhood. You will find her illustrations in such classics as Little Women, At the Back of the North Wind, Heidi, and The Water Babies.

She loved children and families, and was part of the Victorian Era that so valued the home. Her art reflects this and I treasure her paintings for their tenderness, innocence and portrayal of an imaginative ideal.

To read more about her, you can go here.

For an online gallery of her work and a great source for prints you can go to PODkids. They make high quality, print on demand posters of most of her best known works.

So, enjoy this lovely artist. She has brought much beauty to the walls of my home.

And it was good...

I went reluctantly for a walk this evening. The chill was pervasive and I dreaded the keening of the mountain wind. The snow has crept back to our dusky hills and I shrink from the cold that holds the greening spring days captive. But I went for the evening stroll because something in me hungered for the wind; felt that it was necessary to foray back out into the freshness of the air, however chill. And it was true.
We walked hard, breathless at the cold and the exertion of up and downhill. But it set the blood to stirring so that my mind was fresh, elated, clear. And in its clarity, I saw how deeply I need the sting of wind and whish of winter leaves, my spirit longs to touch the reality of my Creator through the tang of fog that makes these dusky mountains blue. I stood out after we had gotten home, perched on the edge of the deck and loved the goodness that still pervades God's creation. Loved his presence, potent in every vein of this broken, yet relentlessly beautiful earth.

The Friendship of Art

Long ago, I decided that if my stubborn heart wasn't so dead set on being a writer, I would have loved to be a great artist. (Having a generous portion of talent wouldn't have hurt.) But I think that is partly because of how much art and literature combined to influence my growing up years. There is something mysterious and sweet in the way that the pictures lining the walls of my home, and the illustrations beaming up at me from my books have shaped me, befriended me, and created a touchstone of beauty to which I am always turning back in my mind. From the great children's illustrators, to the classic artists of history, to the odd artist I have discovered here and there in my travels, their work has inspired and companioned me in all I have accopmlished. If you could come to my room today, you would find a merry myriad of pictures old and new staring brightly down at you from my walls.

Sometimes it seems to me that people suppose a taste in art to be an intellectual pursuit. I disagree. A taste in art is simply a taste for beauty. As the art historian Fred Ross said, "all of the great art in history is Art about life". Amen. And it's not all that hard to delve right into it. I am keen to spread the lovely word about art; especially as some of my most beloved artists are only slightly known. So I will be posting a new (or old, as the case may be) artist every so often, with links to their sites and recommendations of where to get their work. My little "art gallery" at the top of this blog is also a beginning. I'll post a new picture daily. For today, I'll simply list a few of my favorite sources for posters and prints so that you'll have a place to go when you're itching to get your hands on something lovely.

PODkids
This site specializes in making on demand posters of the work of the great children's illustrators; Jessie Willcox Smith, Arthur Rackham, Edmund Dulac. Probably my favorite place to waste time. I already have great plans to use their gorgeous prints in my future children's rooms.

ARTcyclopedia
This will give you info on just about any artist you encounter, as well as link you through to every museum carrying their work, and any posters availalbe at art.com.

ART.com
A huge selection of almost any artwork imaginable. I prefer small companies that specialize in particular artists as they tend to have more selection, but this is good for general searches, especially of well-known artists.

So, look for the first featured artist soon! Hopefully, you will discover a new treasury of color and imagination to bring a life-strengthening beauty to your days and home.

Pied Beauty

Glory be to God for dappled things-
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced-fold, fallow, and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckle (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

Essential Reading

Well, reading is essential. And this is essential reading on the subject of reading. Got it?
It's highly enlightening (and convicting and frightening) to read the current research on the declining literacy of our culture. It's probably good for me, added impetus for the writing of my book. However, it seems a pity not to be able to use the full articles I am finding, so I'll at least post them here. Perhaps you'll find them as fascinating as I.

Reading at Risk. This was one of the largest studies every conducted into literacy in America. It was headed by Dana Gioia, the director of the National Endowment of the Arts and a man I truly respect for the work he is doing to revive a value for literature and beauty in America.

Endangered Minds. As I searched the web, a name that came up over and over again was that of Jane Healey, a professor and writer who has done extensive research into the impact of reading on the mind and life of a child. This is a sample chapter from her book.

The Dramatic Effect of Shakespeare on the Brain. Last, but not least, a slightly more enjoyable piece on the dramatic effect that the reading of Shakespeare has on the brain. I knew there must be a reason I feel smarter when reading Hamlet!

A Dream

I've been dreaming today, and it has been bad for my productivity. But good for my heart. An old dream, coddled since girlhood keeps knocking at the door of my thought and I can't seem to turn it away. Maybe its insistence has something to do with the research I am doing for my current book. I have been up to my elbows in reports on the effects of technological media on a child's brain and imagination. The findings are stunning. And heartbreaking. Seems we're going to have a generation entirely void of meaningful thought if something doesn't change. But as I read, I am accosted by a desire to somehow create a holding place for all the beauty being so quickly tossed out the door. I can't change an entire culture, but I wish that somehow I could be a keeper of the old ways, the old grace, so that those who still desire it could find it. And that desire dovetails with my insistent dream: I want a home. A small kingdom of my own. I want it to be a keeping place for all the art, literature, morality, grace, being so heedlessly abandoned in our time.

When I look at culture, look even, at me, and my peers and friends, I have an almost immobilizing sense at times of how unspeakably wrong we are in the way we live. Without thought we are selling our souls because we are spending them heedlessly on media and technology, on lives spent in cars on freeways and in houses entirely insulated from the living earth. We work, we are entertained, but we no longer taste or see the goodness of God in his creation. We struggle after meaningful relationships but are constantly lonely because we have forgotten how to be deep and how to share not just chit-chat, but souls. We can't read because we are too distracted. We can't be quiet because there is no escape from the clamor of modernity. I have been guilty of it too. I have been guilty of an exhausted immersion in TV, in wasted hours on the internet, on a mindless pursuit of pop culture and acceptance. But that's what makes me rear so violently away from it. If I, the romantic idealist of idealists can so easily compromise, who will hold up the old ways and point the way back to life; real, free, and abundant?

And so this dream for a home, is really a dream to craft an alter reality. Not a hermit's escape, or a fearful retreat, but a purposeful building of a small, tangible world where the old ways still exist, where what is precious and what is ancient isn't forgotten. It must have art, books, music, and God's green earth free around it. And it must be available to those who hunger for the beauty and meaning so increasingly absent in our culture. In its essence, it is a shelter, a fortress, a keep, for the goodness of God made touchably present to people hungry to know him. Who knows when I'll manage to find my little kingdom. Who knows where it will be.

No matter. It is a strong dream. A living dream. And I am determined to hold it close because somehow, I know it is wondrously right.

St. Teresa

It is a singular pleasure to read really old books; they seem to have a special quality of endurance to have survived the fitful seasons of changing taste and opinion. There is an indefinable comfort in encountering the thoughts of people who loved God nearly half a century before me. After all, to have survived so long their thoughts must contain some pretty hearty truth about walking with God through his good earth. That is how it is with St. Teresa.

I was sitting in Border's one day, and reached up to glance at the cover of a brightly colored book titled The Interior Castle. Next instant my hand faltered, my coffee jostled, and there were two dark stains on the crisp whiteness of the twenty dollar book. What was there to do but buy it?

Turns out God knew how dear a friend good St. Teresa would be to my soul as I journeyed along a path of prayer. The Interior Castle is St. Teresa's vision of the mysterious castle of the soul and the journey of prayer we each make into it's deepest rooms where the Beloved of our souls is waiting.


St. Teresa was a delightfully fiery bit of a woman who, upon having her supplies for a long journey lost in a swollen river, sat down on the bank, cocked her head to heaven and said, "if this is how God treats his friends, it's no wonder he has so few". And yet, it was she who spoke of God as the beloved of her soul, "His Majesty", the great king, urging those around her to humility and gentleness as they sought him. Her humble, personal voice as she speaks of the mystical reality of prayer has been a close companion to me as I have sought God. Simply written, calling all Christians to journey deeper into the interior castle, this book has challenged me to examine my heart, and to seek God more purely. But it has also comforted me; for St. Teresa is quite convinced of the general frailty of humans in general and even more confident in the mercy of the Beloved who seeks to be known by them.

The Interior Castle is a classic that deserves the enduring respect it has retained through the years, and St. Teresa is a friend worth keeping. If you are looking for a quiet voice to companion you in prayer, St. Teresa will share your journey toward the Beloved. She has certainly shared mine. Turns out those stray drops of coffee were the beginning of a precious friendship, the first steps of a journey with a companion who has led me deep into the castle of my own soul.

Be glad of life...

because it gives you the chance to love and to work and to play and to look up at the stars; to be satisfied with your posessions; to despise nothing in the world except falsehood and meanness, and to fear nothing except cowardice; to be governed by your admirations rather than by your disgusts; to covet nothing that is your neighbor's except his kindness of heart and gentleness of manners; to think seldom of your enemies, often of your friends...and to spend as much time as you can, with body and with spirit. These are the little guideposts on the footpath to peace.

-Henry Van Dyke

This Good Day

The sky is blue. It is warm enough for a long walk. And I can actually hear birds singing. I think I may have to run outside rejoicing. After the incessant storms of this Colorado winter and the endless march of bone-chilling days, we have had a string of sun dappled days as precious to me as a string of pearls. My window is open as I type, the fresh air seeping into every corner of my room. Lord be praised! Winter is over and gone, at least for the moment.

Just in case you're interested on this lovely day:

I'm guest posting a Lenten reflection over at Alastair.Adversaria; a blog I have enjoyed lurking about lately.

The C.S. Lewis Foundation has just announced their newest conferences. I'm determined to make at least one.

And finally, in case you are looking for some good springtime reading, I am greatly enjoying a book of nature drawings and reflections that I got for Christmas and am just now getting around to reading: Letters From Eden. I'll probably write about it at some point because it has that quality of thought about simplicity and nature that I so long to pursue in my own life.


And now I must scurry away and enjoy the sunshine. I will leave you with a bit of springtime rejoicing via Wordsworth:

There’s joy in the mountains;
There’s life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;
The rain is over and gone!

David, Eric & Me

We watched the movie Chariots of Fire last night. I decided that it is the old story of David and Goliath relived and told again for another time.

I should probably explain that I have found myself contemplating that old story quite often of late. I have been studying the life of David in my devotions to begin with, and then happened to chance in as my sister was finishing up, of all things, a cartoon retelling of the story. I stood for a moment to watch and found myself held until the end because of something that caught my eyes in the movie's portrayal of Goliath.

I realized that I was used to thinking of Goliath as a sort of stupid giant, a brawny puppet of the Philistines used to threaten the Israelites. But as I watched, I saw him in an entirely different light and gained a keen sense of how formidable an enemy he was, spiritually as well as physically. He was unassailable in every aspect. Handsome, with a tanned and tawny strength, he had a hard energy clothed in the best armor, armed with carefully crafted weapons. He was intelligent and articulate, mocking the Israelites with eloquence, using his words as well as his strength to cow them and convince them of their frailty. Steeled by his own strength, keenly aware of the superiority of his country, his armor and his own self, he strode out onto the battlefield and dared God's people to challenge him.

Into that reality strode David, the plucky shepherd boy, too young to feel the weight of the impossible, too full of the goodness he had seen in the wilderness with God to waste time on fear. He was absurdly unprepared, with his single strap of a leather sling and a few river smoothed stones. Not a scrap of armor or glint of weapon. He too was handsome, but it was a "ruddy" charm accompanied by "beautiful eyes". In David, there was no steeliness of countenance, no mask of strength to conceal his heart and soul. He was not even disciplined enough to mask his excitement. All he had was the spirit of the living God, coursing in blood, brain and heart, not to be hidden, but simply to be declared with bright eyes and flushed face and an outrageous courage.

There they stood, giant and boy, and I felt as if I were seeing the story for the first time. I am so used to it that I think it had become trivialized in my mind, for quite suddenly, far beyond being the comfortable old favorite I considered it, I knew it to be a living picture of the power of man vs. the spirit of God. It wasn't a matter of an clever shepherd boy outwitting a clumsy, fumbling bully. It was the strongest man alive armed with the best the world could offer in weapons, armor, training and strength, pitted against the foolhardy faith of a young boy.

And it was that picture that came to my mind last night as I watched Chariots of Fire. Once again, it was the story of an unlikely man with a crazy love for God, set up against the best training, provision and strength the world could offer. If you've seen the movie, you know that there is a double story line, one following the life Eric Liddell in his two passions; service of God and running, the other following that of Harry Abrahams, another runner in the olympics at which Eric competed. Harry, who, while certainly no Goliath, was yet the epitome of all that the world could offer. Driven, rich, disciplined, trained by a professional, perfect in technique and equipment, educated at Cambridge, aided by everything that money and discipline could buy him, he was the best to be found in his field. Opposite him stood Eric; humble son of missionary parents. Simple, committed to preaching the gospel, quite decidedly not rich, his training accomplished in large part by running through God's green hills, his running technique rather flawed because of its passion. He was a man who loved God first and rather stumbled into competition, ultimately running not to gain honor for himself, but to feel the "pleasure" of his God and to prove His glory.

Eric Liddell and the shepherd boy David were both humble, both unarmed and unprepared according the the standards of the world. And yet, full of a vim and love that could not be concealed, bursting with a faith that was ridiculed by country and friends, they challenged the most powerful, the most prepared, the best that the world had to offer. And they won.

For it was the brave boy with the joy flushing his face and the faith brightening his eyes who brought down the fearsome giant. It was Eric, a man of integrity who refused to run on the Sabbath, who ultimately triumphed both in conviction and competition, running with head thrown back for the sheer gladness of running for his Creator. There was no reason, according to rational understanding, why either of those men should have won against the incredible odds they faced. No reason except for the spirit of God. The strongest forces on earth could not prevail over the bright-eyed, pulse-pounding glory of God's spirit beating in the heart of his child.

And so it seems that God is never bound by the things we humans think he ought to be. Physical strength and worldly prowess, prestigious credentials and the best in material goods; he pays them little heed, choosing instead to use the most unlikely people simply because they love him. It is his spirit, whirling through our human hearts and earth-formed bodies that accomplishes the miracles, the victories, the feats of thought, will and emotion. From shepherd boy to runner to me sitting here at my computer in the twilight; it is his glory to fill our weakness and our frailty with the rushing strength of his spirit. And it is a glad spirit, an exuberant life that fills in the corners of our frailty and breaks out into our words and even onto our faces, proving to the world how beautiful a thing it is to love, and be loved by God.

It did my heart good last night, to see that story, to remember how it was that David and Eric triumphed. Because so often I feel frail compared to the strength of the world. I am not the strongest, or the brightest, I don't come from a rich family (in money anyway) and I tend to walk a bit counter to popular culture and its measure of success. But one thing I do have; like David, like Eric, I have the pulsing spirit of God present in me.

And those stories teach me that it is enough.

Dear God...

You have prepared for those who love you such good things as surpass our understanding: Pour into our hearts such love towards you, that we, loving you in all things and above all things may obtain your promises, which exceed all that we can desire; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen

(Book of Common Prayer)

Glimpses of Earth

At heart, I believe I'm a gypsy.

There is so very much adventure and such an abundance of beauty just waiting to be found in the wondrous world and I am always wanting to foray out to discover it. However, it seems that it's necessary to live a somewhat normal life at least part of the time. I have gladly resigned myself to this, but I have my ways of keeping a bit of gypsy spice even in the midst of every day life. And one of them, funny though it be, is to be constantly searching for new pictures to grace my computer desktop.

I find it endlessly entertaining to open my lovely little apple laptop every day and find a glimpse into some other enchanting world staring up at me, challenging me to someday find it. (And I fully intend to!) So, in my endless search for new windows into the wide and windy world, I have recently found an endless supply of fascinating photos over at National Geographic. You can go here to see their picture of the day and all their downloadable wallpapers. The archives are a treasure trove of glimpsed adventures and so far I have found such pearls as a cathedral in the morning mist, a wild Irish coast, a Slovakian country landscape (for all you Prices) and my current beauty, an imp of a little girl in the rosy ocean of a flower market.

This is just too much fun for this travel hungry girl!

From the green mountains of North Carolina...

Well, at the moment, it's actually the Charlotte Airport, but for the past week it's been Asheville and various perches in mountainside cabins. It's been a glorious week. There is something utterly soul-altering in separating oneself from "normal life" and spending a week immersed in the decided peace of a hidden mountain home. It provides the soul with an abundance of hours to fill with the rare delights of really good relaxation; i.e., mountain sunsets, winter gardens, great books, long movies, good food and lots of tea. Sometimes I feel that modern life with it's mindless rush almost siphons the energy, the vim for gracious living right out of my bones.

I want to live life in a dancing, wondrous-eyed sort of way. I want to know God's presence not just in my hungering prayers but in the tangible mercy of his creation. In my more spiritually lucid days I always feel that God is heartbeat close in music, that somehow nature mirrors the very fabric of his character, that stories tell a great tale about the epic of which i am part. But modern life with its freeways and technology and noise so frazzles me at times that I barely feel able to concentrate or be quiet and enjoy beauty even for a solid minute.

The lovely hush of these last few days has taken me by the hand and led me back to a peace of heart and a joy in God's tangible goodness that I have long missed.

A new story

Well, my inner seanachie (gypsy poet and teller of old tales) has grown restive under the colorless captivity of winter months and is restless for the release of coming spring. She is preparing to renew her roving ways with the spinning of some new tales, for they've been knocking at her mind's door and stirring by her fireside and she is ready to begin their telling. So, come and bide a bit over at Seanachie's Fireside and let your voice be heard in praise (or censure) of her new made stories. Which ones are worth the telling?

Charles Van Sandwyck

If you grew up on Tolkien and MacDonald and old fairy tales,

If you happen to enjoy Arthur Rackham and any other of the golden age illustrators,

Or if you simply delight in all things lovely, especially if there's a hint of enchantment...

Then you must check out one of my new favorite artists: Charles Van Sandwyck!

Happiness...or something like it

I used to think that godliness consisted largely in my ability to be happy.

I love God passionately. He is the heartbeat center of my thought and desire, the source of all the beauty I love. I run hard after him. But to my great irritation, I find that I am a struggler, a soul who grapples with questions, who flings needs and doubts up to God and then feels intensely guilty for her impertinence. There is a restless hunger at my core that is always driving me to question, always forcing me to strive. Jacob and I have quite a bit in common. But easy joy, and stillness of heart are rare feelings for me. And recently, I have begun to feel quite guilty about this.
I think it is a recurrence of my assumption as a new Christian that walking in the Spirit meant a sustained and daily spiritual euphoria. I got past that one real quick as I found that obedience wasn't always companioned by an easy joy, and an act of faithfulness, no matter how sincere, was no guarantee for lightness of heart. Of course as I grew, I learned to accept dullness of spirit and choices of will when emotion was absent to be simply part of the journey. But underneath it all, I think I still assumed that maturity, or a little more knowledge of spiritual life would eventual guarantee me a daily, almost giddy happiness.

But it's been quite a few years now. And nothing has changed. Or rather, things seem to be harder. Well, maybe not so much harder, as just a little more heartbreaking. Godliness still isn't easy and to make it worse, goodness sometimes seems to be inextricably linked with tears. I find a lot of grief lately in my own life and the lives of people near me. There is heartbreak stalking the days of the godliest people I know. Struggle and sorrow accost me, seeming somehow strongest when my heart is the most turned to love God. There are so many ways to know brokenness; in body, in relationships, in dreams unfulfilled. I can't help but grieve. But the grief is accompanied by a quick guilt because I feel that if I were truly loving the risen Christ, then I would walk in his victory, live effortlessly in his hope.

But a foray into the book of Psalms has brought me a cupful of relief in the past days. I don't know why I had forgotten them as I grappled with my unease, because they are full of a hearty and quite uninhibited lament. David never thought twice about stating to God just how dark he thought the world was looking and just how absent God seemed. I felt a long lost ease suffusing my thoughts as I read, a relief in these expressions of woe from some of the most worshipful souls in history. They reminded me of why I love what I'll call broken-souled music. I find a strange kinship in Sarah MacLachlan sort of songs that state in stark outline just how fragmented human reality is, and how keenly our spirits mourn that fact. Sometimes I feel a relief when listening to that sort of music, as if my soul takes a deep breath and stops pretending.

This is how it is. I love Christ, I believe in the coming of his kingdom, but I am still here. Still here in the shadows, still caught in the cords of human frailty, still doomed to grieve for everything that should have been and is not.

But it seems that God doesn't condemn me for my grief. The psalms pushed me to read on, to find this God to whom David cried. If David was a man after God's own heart, and God didn't strike him dead for his highly articulate complaint, then God must be much more tolerant of sorrow than I had thought. I searched my Bible with softer eyes and found that happiness was never an expected condition of the godly. I found that God in man Himself was called the Man of Sorrows. I found the presence of a God who lived my frailty. My guilt stemmed from the fact that I thought God expected me to happy, I thought it was my job to have enough faith to never feel sad. I find instead that God quite clearly expects me to be met almost daily with sadness. But I am not required to gut out a rush of positive emotion. Even Jesus wept. But Jesus, man of sorrow, and God of victory turned his face back to heaven and declared for all the world that God's would have his way in the end. I take my cue from Jesus. I weep. And I do it freely. But then, oh then, like Jesus at Lazarus' tomb, I turn my face back to the God who collects my fallen tears, and I tell him that my hope in his making everything whole again is the only way I can live. My task becomes a faithful belief in the promised, advancing redemption of God. It's not here yet. But it is coming, coming, coming...

And so is the joy. Not happiness, mind you. Just a shy, almost timid gladness. As I've lived my last few days in light of what I have found, the guilt has fallen away. The sorrow is still here, even the daily struggle for goodness. But there is an unobtrusive, very quiet joy that seeps into my thought and makes me glad to be living, thankful to draw breath even in the confines of this fallen world. I'm not happy yet, but maybe that's the point. Maybe that's what being a Christian is all about. My life is based on a day beyond this one.

And when that day comes, godliness really will equal happiness. Thank goodness.

Word Cloud!

That was fun, thanks Eucharisto!

The Prodigal Returns

There are some years when life feels like a train careening down a mountainside. I've simply held on for dear life. I'm working up to a book-length tirade someday on the hectic craze of modern living, and it got its start when I woke up about a month ago and had a stabbing realization that it had been a long time since I had actually read a full hour. Or written a good essay. Or taken a good walk, (rather impossible here with the strange and incessant snow), or...blogged.

Well, I'm back. Rather windblown and wild-eyed it must be admitted. But back in earnest and determined to plunge back into the work of great thinking. Which, of course, leads to the reading of the great thoughts of all you other bloggers and the writing of a few of my own.

It's good to begin again.