In which I regret not keeping up with the news

I just discovered, oddly enough through WordPress.com’s Tag Surfer feature, with the tag “Miscellany,” that one of my two favorite authors died last week. Which also means I discovered that up until a week ago, he was still alive.

If you’ve never read any Kurt Vonnegut, try some this week, or month, or year. You might hate it, you might like it, you might hate some of his ideas and absolutely love the way he writes about them, you might find some comfort and catharsis in his cocktail of absurdity, meaninglessness, kindness, humanity, beauty…

And so it goes.

An old story

A little over a year ago, I was looking through some old journals and found this story, which I’d written in December 1999. At that time I was working my first real job — teaching high school math part-time — and working through some difficult and painful stuff about myself, God, and my relationships.

The story is called “The Crow and the Pitcher, or, A New Narcissus”

“The Crow and the Pitcher” was one of my favorite Aesop’s fables. A crow wants a drink out of a pitcher, but the water level is too low for her beak to reach. So she drops pebbles in until the water level rises enough.

The myth of Narcissus tells of a boy who becomes so enamored of the “person” he sees in a pond, a person he can’t have, that he dies of sorrow at the water’s edge. In psychology there’s a concept of healthy narcissism, in the sense of proper self-love, partly developed through mirroring, which is getting information about oneself from other people and one’s environment.

For my story, it’s helpful also to remember Jeremiah 2 and the image of God as a spring of living water.

Here’s the story:

A girl was thirsty, and alone. Oh, she believed in water; she had seen pictures, had heard of others’ experience. But she had none, herself. She spent her days wandering, alone, as the forest creatures and city people milled about their business. Sometimes her steps meshed with theirs, so that it appeared she was dancing with them. But her steps were only her own. In the dance of the others she could make an appearance, but she did not belong, and was not understood.

Whenever she found a hole in the ground, her hope and fear rose to her throat. Reaching hurriedly into herself, she took out rocks, jewels, dirt, straw, and all sorts of things, and threw them as deep as she could into the hole. She felt if only she had enough things to throw down, surely the water would rise, displaced by the pebbles. If she only had enough, she could drink. And as she drank she would look, and see her treasures held and caressed by the water.

But time after time, her efforts proved fruitless. No water rose for her to drink, no water bathed her pebbles. Each one disappeared as she threw it, and was gone. Every hole was empty, receiving her treasures only as a black hole absorbs stars. It does not keep and cherish them, only devours.

And for a while she would stand, or kneel, there at the edge of the hole, searching the darkness for some sign of response, hearing the emptiness of the echoes. Perhaps a tear, a single tear, would glisten on her cheek as she rose bravely to walk on. Or perhaps she would lie there for days, alternately crying out and beating the ground, or lying still, tightly curled, holding her breath against the ache. But however she reacted, time continued; and soon enough she was wandering again.

In another old journal entry (3/24/2000) I found this quotation from Anne Lamott’s novel All New People:

…it was Camus, I think — that Narcissus was transfixed by his own reflection, because he was searching for something lovable in it.

About a month later (4/19), I remembered a song called “So Much Mine,” by The Story; something one of my junior year college roommates would often play:

Where’d you get that dress?
Where’d you learn to walk like that?
Don’t talk back
Tell me where you’ve been - maybe I don’t want to know
Oh, Lord, why me?
You were so much, so much mine, now I reach for you
and I cannot find you
So much, so much mine, now I reach for you
and I cannot find you
So much mine
So much mine
So much mine

It’s about mothers and daughters — and now I’m one of each — and it could also be me, singing to my lost self.

It’s funny — until the post partum stuff hit, most of this blog — and even my journaling during pregnancy — was fairly upbeat and superficial. I wonder how much I was subconsciously avoiding subconscious depression and anxiety, and if I had not avoided it, would the post partum stuff have hit me less hard.

The Box

Somehow, some time ago, I stumbled across Ellen’s blog. One of my favorite things is her artwork — on her main blog page, in the left margin, there’s a great series of a girl with a balloon…

Here is a link to a little book she’s drawn and written, called The Box. It feels a lot like me, what it’s like to let anyone try to be my friend. Do you know, I think two or three people in the last two days have told me they loved me, and all I can say back is thank you? — although I mean the thanks sincerely… Afterwards I find myself just bewildered and surprised — why do they love me?

If you’re new to the idea of depression as a medical thing, you might also check out her depression primer book.

The rules

In Operating Instructions, Anne Lamott tells about the “five rules of the world as arrived at by this Catholic priest named Tom Weston.”

• The first rule, he says, is that you must not have anything wrong with you or anything different.
• The second one is that if you do have something wrong with you, you must get over it as soon as possible.
• The third rule is that if you can’t get over it, you must pretend that you have.
• The fourth rule is that if you can’t even pretend that you have, you shouldn’t show up. You should stay home, because it’s hard for everyone else to have you around.
• And the fifth rule is that if you are going to insist on showing up, you should at least have the decency to feel ashamed.

Then she says that she and her therapist “decided that the most subversive, revolutionary thing I could do was to show up for my life and not be ashamed.”

Books

I’ve read two books to Amy so far.

One is The Giving Tree — a beautiful picture of sacrificial love.
One is The Scarlet Ibis — a sad look at the damage pride can do, and how impossible it is to have love unmixed with sin.

I’m currently reading Anne Lamott’s Operating Instructions (to myself, not to Amy). It’s a journal of her son’s first year. Anne Lamott is great for her brutal frank funny honesty about all the darkness, the bits of light, and the deep realities of the self.

Other books I’ve set out for myself include another Lamott book and C. S. Lewis’ Till We Have Faces — another good mirror for us dark proud souls. And a great promise, too, that we will have faces some day.

I don’t think I’m in the mood to read it again right now, but I’ll close with a quotation from another favorite book, Forster’s Howards End:

“To have no illusions, and yet to love.”

G. K. Chesterton

I’ve been reading G. K. Chesterton for several weeks now. Back in “Chance” I mentioned that I was reading Malory’s Works; don’t worry, I haven’t finished it. I’m just taking a break for two Chesterton books I borrowed from the church library. Oh, and I’m just getting back into those books after taking a break to read Terry Brooks’ Shannara trilogy, which I got for my birthday. Mmmm.

Anyway, the first book is just a collection of bits and pieces, called As I Was Saying, put together by some editor. The other one is Heretics / Orthodoxy; I’m on Orthodoxy now. It’s basically an explanation of how and why Chesterton came to be a Christian.

I found out about Chesterton through C. S. Lewis, who mentions him and George MacDonald among his influences. Since I admire and enjoy Lewis, I figured it would be interesting to check out the folks he admired and enjoyed. I started with fiction by both authors. I especially like Chesterton’s Father Brown mystery stories. How he manages to put fascinating and clear-cutting theology into mystery stories without sounding like a preacher — ! It’s great stuff.

Some of the ideas I’ve gotten from these books:

Additional challenges to understand self rightly. In particular, the challenging idea that to be always a self-observer, always conscious of appearances, is to live life like an actor, and not like a self at all. I’m often tempted to think that not being self-aware is akin to not being a self, and Chesterton makes it seem clear that being self-aware can at times be akin to not being a self. On the other hand, I’ve never really understood how to go about shutting down that internal self-observer.

A similar challenge about being an artist. Chesterton suggests that real art is something that needs to be expressed, and that real artists express it whenever it’s needed, and move on. It’s sort of an organic idea, like something that builds up within, and expressing it relieves a burden. On the other hand, he suggests that people who are always thinking about their art, and talking about it, as a thing about which one should theorize and develop principles and such, don’t really have art in them. I don’t think I’ve done this idea justice; it sounds more negative than I think he meant it. But this idea is a little cutting as well; I’m not sure what to do with it in my own life as a musician. Do I do music as just a part of my life, something organic and necessary and without need of theories and careful thought? Or do I do music pretentiously, as a way to obtain something else like the approval of others, as something I put on like a mask or an affectation?

Careful thought in general. He suggests that we are only careful when there is weakness or danger. Good healthy life is careless, he says; it’s just plain lived. It’s the unhealthy who must take care what they eat or what they do and how and why.

Chesterton is bracing. He cuts, but it’s like the welcome cut of cold water in the summer, or the good burn of orange juice on a sore throat. He’s also witty and clever and amusing, without being contemptuous or ridiculing his opponents. I may not agree with everything, and I certainly don’t understand everything, but it’s great exercise and refreshment to read him.

Chance

Remember Yahtzee? How if your dice didn’t amount to anything in particular, you could just total them up and put the sum in “chance”? Today my dice don’t amount to anything in particular…

Yahtzee is not one of my favorite games, but I can enjoy playing it. I love word games, like Scrabble, Password, Taboo, Pass the Bomb, Catchphrase, etc. The husband, on the other hand, hates word games. We’re both tired of the games we have, and we also feel silly playing a game by ourselves. Word games or games of chance or strategy, they’re all more fun with more than two people. Chess would probably be a good one for us, but neither of us knows how to play, and my impression is that you need to learn by playing with someone who knows the game.

For breakfast, I’ve been eating Quaker Oat Squares for a long time now… whole grain oats, no hydrogenated fat, no corn syrup. But the other day I noticed that there’s 14 grams of sugars in a one-cup serving. That’s not exactly helping me avoid sugar. I think I might try making a batch of waffles once a week and freezing them, and alternating oatmeal or waffles for breakfast… might also look at the ingredients list for generic Cheerios, so as to have something to eat on days when I don’t want to do any preparation.

I’m in the middle of knitting a sweater. The back is done, and I’m maybe halfway through the front. I’m using a mohair-blend yarn, which is interesting to knit with — very hard to count stitches — and the pattern involves cables, which are not all that difficult but hurt my hands. I’ve knit some rectangular things before, but this is my first attempt at something with increases and decreases and various pieces which will have to be sewn together. I’m very curious to see if the pieces will fit one another, and if the whole sweater will fit me.

I’m tired of all my books. And I don’t feel like going to the library either. So the other night I picked out Malory’s Works, which I haven’t read since college. That’s right, the 15th Century collection of Arthurian stories. I’m a little bogged down right now in a series of paragraphs about who saw who on foot, then knocked someone else down in order to give the horse to the guy on foot, then who else saw who else on foot, etc. My favorite Arthurian book is White’s The Once and Future King; maybe I’ll re-read that if I ever get through Malory. Generally I prefer modern literature… modern writers tend to flesh out the psychology that older writers only barely hint at.

American Idol held absolutely no appeal for me in the first two seasons. But when I was volunteering with a youth group, the kids kept talking about the show and their favorites, and I decided to watch the third season so I could join in the conversation. And I got hooked. I still think that the show may do as much harm as good, if not more…. the music industry has enough over-hyped, overly molded artists and I’d rather see more emphasis on original music and developing not just an image but a real sense of self and real artistic vision. But it’s still a lot of fun to watch the show.

Speaking of TV shows, I’ve also gotten hooked on House. For one thing, I really love the theme music for some reason. And I love House, a doctor who’s great at what he does but who is a jerk who says whatever he wants. When you’re an irksome girl, it’s nice to be reminded that there are other jerks out there.

“To have no illusions and yet to love”

Have you ever read Howards End by E. M. Forster? It’s one of my all-time favorite books. There’s finely crafted characters and an interesting and involved plot, dealing with topics like whether practical business minds or cultural relational souls are better, or whether or not it’s possible to connect the two. One of the heroines, Margaret, has become engaged to Henry, a widower. She discovers that he once cheated on his first wife, and he offers to release her from their engagement. But after thinking about it for a few days, she decides to forgive him and marry him anyway. This is where the quotation comes in. It’s not that she turns a blind eye to his waywardness, or excuses it; she simply accepts it as part of who he is. She decides to love him even with his flaws.

Too often we think that discovering our spouse’s or significant other’s or even friend’s or family’s flaws means we’re with the wrong person and need to find someone else instead. Do we really think we’ll find someone without flaws? Are we unaware that we depend on other people accepting us with our own flaws? We may think we hide them well, but I think our people know better. Alternatively, we think we’ll accept this person by ignoring or excusing the flaws; the “love is blind” approach. Or, we demand change. “To have no illusions” means we see the flaws for what they are, without ignoring or excusing them, and without expecting them to be changed.

What makes this kind of love possible? A position of security… not needing the other person’s perfection to validate ourselves. A position of strength… not being susceptible to hurt from the flaws. A position of sufficiency… having enough generosity and kindness that they can’t help but spill over into the lives of our friends. Personally, I believe there’s only one position that provides these three things — the position of a child of God, secure in her identity as one of the Father’s adopted, strong with the knowledge of his sovereign care, and sufficiently filled with his love and forgiveness for her that they flow out into her relationships.

Did you know that the prophet Hosea married a prostitute, and loved her, and wooed her back every time she ran off to be with another man?

Have you heard the parable Jesus told once about a man who owed a huge debt? When he begged for more time and for mercy, the other forgave the debt entirely. Then the forgiven guy turns around and beats up a fellow who owes him a few coins…

Did you know that in Forster’s book, Henry can’t receive Margaret’s forgiveness for what it is? He convinces himself that he deserved to be forgiven; he treats the forgiveness as if it were excusing. Later, when Margaret’s sister is found to be pregnant, Henry can’t see that her sin is the same as his; he can’t forgive her even enough to allow her shelter in their home.

“Only connect!” (Forster)