Life of Pride
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
I have absolutely nothing to say.
That is, I haven't come across any pithy philosophical thoughts that other people have not thought before, I am sure. I often feel like this. When I "get" something at last, it seems so obvious that I am sure I am the last person in the world to understand it. Thus, I usually only think to communicate these thoughts when I am in the company of other people who somehow, inexplicably, have not yet discovered them.
I suppose I could write about free verse. Apparently, some of my friends at PHC have been arguing about its validity. I still don't know much about poetry in general, but I know that free verse seems to work its way into my soul a lot deeper than, say, most sonnets. It's strange. I think in free verse when I want to communicate an intense feeling. I think there is no way to communicate a situation in fixed form, because actual experience is too ragged. Fixed form fits the general aspect of things. The funny part is that, when I want to communicate wry humor at a situation, I think in rhyme. Is that because rhyme implies regularity that does not actually exist in the world as it is, so that it is easier to surprise people? It sets up expectations, where free verse leaves one completely open for... anything... to come next.
Hm. I don't know. I guess I should finish with the short poem I wrote on scrap paper from my purse in the 20 minutes I was waiting for Annapolis to start on Friday evening:
Awake,
Fresh in bed, new day ahead.
Hello, day.
I'm ready to meet you.
Some days, they treat me well -
Work dances through my fingers, to the
Music from my stereo.
Others seize me by my roots,
Every second a yank.
But my delight is to love each dawn
As vividly,
Passionately,
As itself.
That is, I haven't come across any pithy philosophical thoughts that other people have not thought before, I am sure. I often feel like this. When I "get" something at last, it seems so obvious that I am sure I am the last person in the world to understand it. Thus, I usually only think to communicate these thoughts when I am in the company of other people who somehow, inexplicably, have not yet discovered them.
I suppose I could write about free verse. Apparently, some of my friends at PHC have been arguing about its validity. I still don't know much about poetry in general, but I know that free verse seems to work its way into my soul a lot deeper than, say, most sonnets. It's strange. I think in free verse when I want to communicate an intense feeling. I think there is no way to communicate a situation in fixed form, because actual experience is too ragged. Fixed form fits the general aspect of things. The funny part is that, when I want to communicate wry humor at a situation, I think in rhyme. Is that because rhyme implies regularity that does not actually exist in the world as it is, so that it is easier to surprise people? It sets up expectations, where free verse leaves one completely open for... anything... to come next.
Hm. I don't know. I guess I should finish with the short poem I wrote on scrap paper from my purse in the 20 minutes I was waiting for Annapolis to start on Friday evening:
Awake,
Fresh in bed, new day ahead.
Hello, day.
I'm ready to meet you.
Some days, they treat me well -
Work dances through my fingers, to the
Music from my stereo.
Others seize me by my roots,
Every second a yank.
But my delight is to love each dawn
As vividly,
Passionately,
As itself.
Monday, January 30, 2006
I haven't been able to write so very much of Erthe since I arrived home - maybe 3000 words in six weeks. Still, it satisfies me whenever I am able to give time to writing. Today I was listening to the Narnia soundtrack, which is beginning to grow on me. One scene from much later on in this first book struck me, as it has occasionally been wont to do. I decided I would write it at last. It is about the death of one of my secondary main characters. I thought I might post it here, especially seeing as my plot has a way of changing completely by the time I reach the actual point of writing it. Who knows if this will end up in the final product?
--
The old faerie found himself lying on his back, breathing in fluttering, quick breaths and blinking rapidly up at Susan. He lay in a puddle of cold rain, but he felt neither the falling drops nor the warmth of Susan’s tears on his face. He had the vague notion that she was pressing something onto his side, trying to keep his life from pouring out. It was no use; they both knew that. Don’t waste your efforts, he wanted to say, but he was breathing too quickly to speak. Oh little Susan, don’t cry, don’t cry… And then his eyes closed, and with one last shudder, he was still.
But he could still see. All at once, there was no rain, and everything shone with reflected, silvery-white light. “This is my second sight,” thought Dr. Amosoph, “but so bright!” His eyesight felt wider and clearer, as if the world had expanded and deepened. He looked down. There was his body, lying on the ground with its eyes closed. Susan was sobbing across its chest. He wanted to put his hand on her shoulder, but, he realized, examining himself, he didn’t have a hand – or, apparently, anything else. Perhaps he was a set of floating eyes alone, because he could see very clearly indeed, and yet he could not hear the sounds of the battle any longer. How curious.
“Paul Amosoph,” called a voice from far overhead, “come here.”
The old faerie gazed upward. In place of the moon, an opening in the sky’s ebony blanket poured out light like liquid silver. The stars, out in full force, danced and whirled in swift patterns. But under all of this, a large silver bird circled in the air.
“Pharr?” called Dr. Amosoph, but he already knew that was wrong. This bird was much too large to be the phoenix.
“No, neither Pharr nor Wyde. The King has sent me to lead you in. We have been waiting for you since you were born, Paul Amosoph. You have fought hard, but now it is time for joy.”
“And them?” Dr. Amosoph looked down at Susan.
“You will see them again, when their own battles are over. Now come.” The bird banked and flew straight up, toward the opening in the sky.
Dr. Amosoph bent over. He whispered in Susan’s ear, “Farewell; don’t cry for me.” Then he sprang into the air and followed the bird.
This was no exertion. He flew swiftly and strongly. Ahead of him, the silver bird steadily beat its wings, always drawing a little farther away, until it flew into the stream of silver light and disappeared against it. Dr. Amosoph followed. Wind whipped past so fast that it turned into light, and then into music. He didn’t need skin, eyes, or ears, for the air was pure sensation. He could eat it; he could drink it. It held all sorrow, all thankfulness, and all laughter. There was no room for speaking, only for singing. And then he flew through the door into the heavens, and there we must leave him.
--
The old faerie found himself lying on his back, breathing in fluttering, quick breaths and blinking rapidly up at Susan. He lay in a puddle of cold rain, but he felt neither the falling drops nor the warmth of Susan’s tears on his face. He had the vague notion that she was pressing something onto his side, trying to keep his life from pouring out. It was no use; they both knew that. Don’t waste your efforts, he wanted to say, but he was breathing too quickly to speak. Oh little Susan, don’t cry, don’t cry… And then his eyes closed, and with one last shudder, he was still.
But he could still see. All at once, there was no rain, and everything shone with reflected, silvery-white light. “This is my second sight,” thought Dr. Amosoph, “but so bright!” His eyesight felt wider and clearer, as if the world had expanded and deepened. He looked down. There was his body, lying on the ground with its eyes closed. Susan was sobbing across its chest. He wanted to put his hand on her shoulder, but, he realized, examining himself, he didn’t have a hand – or, apparently, anything else. Perhaps he was a set of floating eyes alone, because he could see very clearly indeed, and yet he could not hear the sounds of the battle any longer. How curious.
“Paul Amosoph,” called a voice from far overhead, “come here.”
The old faerie gazed upward. In place of the moon, an opening in the sky’s ebony blanket poured out light like liquid silver. The stars, out in full force, danced and whirled in swift patterns. But under all of this, a large silver bird circled in the air.
“Pharr?” called Dr. Amosoph, but he already knew that was wrong. This bird was much too large to be the phoenix.
“No, neither Pharr nor Wyde. The King has sent me to lead you in. We have been waiting for you since you were born, Paul Amosoph. You have fought hard, but now it is time for joy.”
“And them?” Dr. Amosoph looked down at Susan.
“You will see them again, when their own battles are over. Now come.” The bird banked and flew straight up, toward the opening in the sky.
Dr. Amosoph bent over. He whispered in Susan’s ear, “Farewell; don’t cry for me.” Then he sprang into the air and followed the bird.
This was no exertion. He flew swiftly and strongly. Ahead of him, the silver bird steadily beat its wings, always drawing a little farther away, until it flew into the stream of silver light and disappeared against it. Dr. Amosoph followed. Wind whipped past so fast that it turned into light, and then into music. He didn’t need skin, eyes, or ears, for the air was pure sensation. He could eat it; he could drink it. It held all sorrow, all thankfulness, and all laughter. There was no room for speaking, only for singing. And then he flew through the door into the heavens, and there we must leave him.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
I know now why ascetics in the Middle Ages would go off into the desert to be alone. It wasn't because they liked solitude or because they were extreme introverts who were more comfortable alone. Their solitude was like fasting, a self-imposed emotional loneliness that forced them to God. How do you pray for hours at a time? It is simple when there is nobody else to talk to. Prayer is the only option, an absolute necessity.
This is a revelation for me - that people would choose, not only to be alone, but, purposefully, to be lonely. I suppose that I have done the same thing, though I didn't know that's what I was choosing when I did so. I only knew that my mom wanted me to come home to help, and that I needed to do what she wanted. Sure, I knew that I always missed people terribly over breaks, and I assumed that this would be worse, because it would be longer, and because everyone else would still be busy together and moving on without me. But I didn't really know what I was getting myself into. I have to trust God day by day.
This is a revelation for me - that people would choose, not only to be alone, but, purposefully, to be lonely. I suppose that I have done the same thing, though I didn't know that's what I was choosing when I did so. I only knew that my mom wanted me to come home to help, and that I needed to do what she wanted. Sure, I knew that I always missed people terribly over breaks, and I assumed that this would be worse, because it would be longer, and because everyone else would still be busy together and moving on without me. But I didn't really know what I was getting myself into. I have to trust God day by day.
Friday, January 27, 2006
This week, I have discovered that there are different sorts of tiredness. One is good; one is not. The bad kind seeps into your bones, drags down your muscles, and depresses you. It is the result of your mind skittering in circles and pushing against its boundaries for three years without stop. It forces you to nap in the middle of the day because you can't not sleep, and then it keeps you awake at night. It is malevolent and controlling.
The good kind settles in as a warm, comfortable lethargy an hour or so before bedtime. It is the result of hard physical exercise and a good day's work. When you wake up in the morning, it helps you yawn to the very bottom of your lungs and satisfactorily stretch your limbs. This is a feeling that works in concert with your own desires; it brings you peacefully to sleep at the appointed time and releases you gently in the morning.
Sleep is not the enemy, something that keeps me from my appointed tasks. It is a gift, a blessing - one of my appointed tasks in itself.
The good kind settles in as a warm, comfortable lethargy an hour or so before bedtime. It is the result of hard physical exercise and a good day's work. When you wake up in the morning, it helps you yawn to the very bottom of your lungs and satisfactorily stretch your limbs. This is a feeling that works in concert with your own desires; it brings you peacefully to sleep at the appointed time and releases you gently in the morning.
Sleep is not the enemy, something that keeps me from my appointed tasks. It is a gift, a blessing - one of my appointed tasks in itself.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
I just wanted to add to today's postings to say that my roomie is officially courting. I guess that she has therefore been pre-courting for the previous two months. Note also that she is not actually physically my roomie right now, since we are in different states. But once a roomie, always a roomie, right? Anyway, yes... *ahem* The lovely Emily Holmes is now courting the not-so-lovely-but-no-doubt-handsome Kendell Asbenson. Much happiness to the two of them!
I've been mulling over a science-fiction story idea for a few days now. Suppose that it is 1000 years from now, and humans are all dead. Suppose that aliens came to Earth and found the remains of ancient cultures that died around 900 years before. These aliens try to make sense of the archaeological data. Now, these aliens use only biological technology. They grow their spaceships, etc. So they have no idea what to make of computers and machinery. Therefore, they conclude that the machines made the biological life on the planet.
Reasons why this would work:
- The main dark humor of the situation would arise from the fact that our archaeologists now really have very few ideas about what many of the artifacts they dig up were for. They interpret them based on their own assumptions about the past.
- The imagined human society of 2100 does much genetic engineering, meaning that there are huge labs of biological material that is "managed" by machines. Furthermore, many elements of people's homes are mechanized, so that in many ways, they live inside huge machines.
- These aliens would believe in evolution, and they would know the geological column is bogus. Therefore, instead of digging down through "layers," they would look for obvious intermediate steps between creatures. There really aren't intermediate steps for biological creatures. Many, however, are readily available for all things mechanical and technological. Thus the conclusion: Machines evolved and created organic life to serve them.
- Human souls leave the bodies when they die. Who can tell from looking at bones and a rusting car side-by-side, which one had the soul?
I could turn a short story into a book, by the simple means of having a community of humans still alive, living in nature, unable or unwilling to use the technology. Then the aliens find them and, though they are highly "ethical" creatures, don't believe the human community should keep them from colonizing Earth - because obviously the humans do not own the planet, but were made by the machines. Could be an interesting story. Too bad I won't have the time to write it. Possibly I will be able to do the short-story version, at least.
Reasons why this would work:
- The main dark humor of the situation would arise from the fact that our archaeologists now really have very few ideas about what many of the artifacts they dig up were for. They interpret them based on their own assumptions about the past.
- The imagined human society of 2100 does much genetic engineering, meaning that there are huge labs of biological material that is "managed" by machines. Furthermore, many elements of people's homes are mechanized, so that in many ways, they live inside huge machines.
- These aliens would believe in evolution, and they would know the geological column is bogus. Therefore, instead of digging down through "layers," they would look for obvious intermediate steps between creatures. There really aren't intermediate steps for biological creatures. Many, however, are readily available for all things mechanical and technological. Thus the conclusion: Machines evolved and created organic life to serve them.
- Human souls leave the bodies when they die. Who can tell from looking at bones and a rusting car side-by-side, which one had the soul?
I could turn a short story into a book, by the simple means of having a community of humans still alive, living in nature, unable or unwilling to use the technology. Then the aliens find them and, though they are highly "ethical" creatures, don't believe the human community should keep them from colonizing Earth - because obviously the humans do not own the planet, but were made by the machines. Could be an interesting story. Too bad I won't have the time to write it. Possibly I will be able to do the short-story version, at least.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
I played Ultimate Frisbee last night. I found that the St. Louis metro area has a club that meets all through the week in different places. So I did a little web surfing and discovered where they were planning to play last night. And I joined them.
These people are pretty good, but then, they've been playing at least twice a week for a very long time. The other two ladies out last night were almost as good as the guys - small, wiry, and tough. One of them had grey hair and a strongly lined face, but she tossed that frisbee like nobody's business. So I was the worst of the bunch - but not by much. Just enough to tantalize me. I learned a few things about basic tactics already, things we don't understand at PHC, since we play in mass confusion. This is going to be really good for me. Lynn, the grey-haired lady, also said she is forming a ladies' traveling team in order to attend a tournament in AL in February. That could be fun. Depending. The tournament I went to in KY in Feb. last year was simply miserable - sleet, freezing hands and feet, and ankle-deep mud that gave my knees problems for months. Still, I guess I wouldn't give up the memory for anything.
I was surprised to note how scared I was to drive out by myself, find the park, and play Frisbee for the first time with these people. I guess it was something outside my comfort zone. Often, though, things outside one's comfort zone are some of the most satisfying occupations one can do.
These people are pretty good, but then, they've been playing at least twice a week for a very long time. The other two ladies out last night were almost as good as the guys - small, wiry, and tough. One of them had grey hair and a strongly lined face, but she tossed that frisbee like nobody's business. So I was the worst of the bunch - but not by much. Just enough to tantalize me. I learned a few things about basic tactics already, things we don't understand at PHC, since we play in mass confusion. This is going to be really good for me. Lynn, the grey-haired lady, also said she is forming a ladies' traveling team in order to attend a tournament in AL in February. That could be fun. Depending. The tournament I went to in KY in Feb. last year was simply miserable - sleet, freezing hands and feet, and ankle-deep mud that gave my knees problems for months. Still, I guess I wouldn't give up the memory for anything.
I was surprised to note how scared I was to drive out by myself, find the park, and play Frisbee for the first time with these people. I guess it was something outside my comfort zone. Often, though, things outside one's comfort zone are some of the most satisfying occupations one can do.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Oh, what a beautiful Tuesday! It's not precisely what I would call warm, but it is sunny. This is good. And I can breathe through my nose again, which is also helpful.
You know, it has occurred to me for a while that I have no idea who could be reading my blog without posting any comments. Lurking. Hey, I lurk on other people's blogs. Why not? So hello, potential lurker-people.
Today, I have decided to describe a typical Tae Kwon Do class. I'm back into my martial art now, but I am out of practice (though still fairly used to exercise in general). So I entertain myself with my puny efforts. Last night's class makes a prime example of this. We began by jogging around the mat for a few minutes, which I always enjoy. I run faster than everyone else, but that is because I have a hard time jogging slowly. I'm much more of a sprinter than a distance runner. So that's fine. Stretching and preliminary kicks are also great, because I am pretty flexible. But then we hit the calisthenics. Crunches for a minute - I did 70, taking care to contract my abs every time. 30 pushups - 30? We normally do 20! But that's ok. I did the first 10 off my feet, as normal, and the other 20 off my knees. I have to do it like this, or I can't keep up with the guys and still finish all 30. So then, at this point we would usually be done with our calisthenics. On to class, right? Wrong. We turned over again and did 20 "lemon squeezers," an exercise in which you lie on your back on the floor and then lift both upper and lower body off the floor, so that you can touch your hands to your legs. Unfortunately, I had very carefully exhausted my abdominal muscles during the crunches, so I completed 10 reps of the exercise properly and 7 very weakly, and then I lay on my back and laughed because my head and shoulders absolutely refused to lift from the floor. Then we turned back over and did 30 more pushups! Even off one's knees, it is difficult to do 60 pushups in close succession.
After this "warm-up," our head instructor, Mr. Moore, took over, and we did kicking drills the rest of class. These involve such homely exercises as someone chasing you down the mat with kicking paddles so that you have to run backward and jump off backward every few steps in order to kick a paddle. Or you stand between two people with paddles and, for a 30-second stint, kick back and forth, constantly changing direction.
I completed everything without too much difficulty, but not as handily as I would have preferred. Still, I loved it. My brothers and I emerged in a happy, sweaty glow. I definitely miss TKD at school. Not that I have to think about that for a while, because I am not at school. I am here. :)
You know, it has occurred to me for a while that I have no idea who could be reading my blog without posting any comments. Lurking. Hey, I lurk on other people's blogs. Why not? So hello, potential lurker-people.
Today, I have decided to describe a typical Tae Kwon Do class. I'm back into my martial art now, but I am out of practice (though still fairly used to exercise in general). So I entertain myself with my puny efforts. Last night's class makes a prime example of this. We began by jogging around the mat for a few minutes, which I always enjoy. I run faster than everyone else, but that is because I have a hard time jogging slowly. I'm much more of a sprinter than a distance runner. So that's fine. Stretching and preliminary kicks are also great, because I am pretty flexible. But then we hit the calisthenics. Crunches for a minute - I did 70, taking care to contract my abs every time. 30 pushups - 30? We normally do 20! But that's ok. I did the first 10 off my feet, as normal, and the other 20 off my knees. I have to do it like this, or I can't keep up with the guys and still finish all 30. So then, at this point we would usually be done with our calisthenics. On to class, right? Wrong. We turned over again and did 20 "lemon squeezers," an exercise in which you lie on your back on the floor and then lift both upper and lower body off the floor, so that you can touch your hands to your legs. Unfortunately, I had very carefully exhausted my abdominal muscles during the crunches, so I completed 10 reps of the exercise properly and 7 very weakly, and then I lay on my back and laughed because my head and shoulders absolutely refused to lift from the floor. Then we turned back over and did 30 more pushups! Even off one's knees, it is difficult to do 60 pushups in close succession.
After this "warm-up," our head instructor, Mr. Moore, took over, and we did kicking drills the rest of class. These involve such homely exercises as someone chasing you down the mat with kicking paddles so that you have to run backward and jump off backward every few steps in order to kick a paddle. Or you stand between two people with paddles and, for a 30-second stint, kick back and forth, constantly changing direction.
I completed everything without too much difficulty, but not as handily as I would have preferred. Still, I loved it. My brothers and I emerged in a happy, sweaty glow. I definitely miss TKD at school. Not that I have to think about that for a while, because I am not at school. I am here. :)
Monday, January 23, 2006
You know what I like? Letters and emails and calls from my friends. They make me happy. Also, not being tired. I find that makes the whole day look better. I was not tired on Friday through Sunday, and I was practically giddy, I was so happy. That, and lying in the grass for an hour on Friday and Saturday, looking up at the sky and talking to God. Today I'm tired again, probably because I didn't give myself enough sleep. Silly me. But I'm still at least moderately happy.
Of course, through all this I still have a people-size hole. Since classes started at PHC again this past Wed., the number of ASEs has picked up. I receive them, of course, so I can gather little tidbits of PHC life here and there. But not enough. Most people don't know just how much information I'm gathering when I'm in an area with people. If I'm in "wide-receiver" mode, I'm bringing in teensy tiny little clues about everyone from every direction, and my brain instantly collects all these and tells me what is going on with everyone and everything. I used to think such knowledge was normal, until I realized when I was driving that my siblings quite often announced the information on road signs or noticed something two seconds after I had consciously or subconsciously recorded it and moved on. I paid items of note so little visible attention that they assumed I had not seen them. In reality, I took it for granted that everyone else had seen things, so it didn't occur to me to offend their intelligence by pointing them out.
So when I'm at PHC, I pretty much know what's going on there (though of course, some things evade my analysis). Right now, I don't. It's hard to gauge a day's temperature without going outside, after all. And the things I most want to know, I can't really ask about, because I have to analyze them for myself. My brain is constantly feeling around in the direction of PHC, but it can't sense anything. I'm blind.
In short, PHC people, post to your blogs! And give news! Trivial bits of things, human info, anecdotes. I want to know!
Meanwhile, don't think I'm pining away. I found a church that looks to be very fulfilling, though I miss Loudoun Baptist Temple in VA dreadfully. This church has a fairly good choir, which I am joining. That ought to ease two of my largest pangs of college separation - church and Chorale. Nothing can soothe some of the other, larger pains, however - missing the people. Some days it feels like an unbridgeable hole in my heart. Don't get me wrong; I'm usually pretty happy. But I'm still living with an open wound. :) That's ok. It would happen at some time, no matter what. Perhaps time will heal it.
Of course, through all this I still have a people-size hole. Since classes started at PHC again this past Wed., the number of ASEs has picked up. I receive them, of course, so I can gather little tidbits of PHC life here and there. But not enough. Most people don't know just how much information I'm gathering when I'm in an area with people. If I'm in "wide-receiver" mode, I'm bringing in teensy tiny little clues about everyone from every direction, and my brain instantly collects all these and tells me what is going on with everyone and everything. I used to think such knowledge was normal, until I realized when I was driving that my siblings quite often announced the information on road signs or noticed something two seconds after I had consciously or subconsciously recorded it and moved on. I paid items of note so little visible attention that they assumed I had not seen them. In reality, I took it for granted that everyone else had seen things, so it didn't occur to me to offend their intelligence by pointing them out.
So when I'm at PHC, I pretty much know what's going on there (though of course, some things evade my analysis). Right now, I don't. It's hard to gauge a day's temperature without going outside, after all. And the things I most want to know, I can't really ask about, because I have to analyze them for myself. My brain is constantly feeling around in the direction of PHC, but it can't sense anything. I'm blind.
In short, PHC people, post to your blogs! And give news! Trivial bits of things, human info, anecdotes. I want to know!
Meanwhile, don't think I'm pining away. I found a church that looks to be very fulfilling, though I miss Loudoun Baptist Temple in VA dreadfully. This church has a fairly good choir, which I am joining. That ought to ease two of my largest pangs of college separation - church and Chorale. Nothing can soothe some of the other, larger pains, however - missing the people. Some days it feels like an unbridgeable hole in my heart. Don't get me wrong; I'm usually pretty happy. But I'm still living with an open wound. :) That's ok. It would happen at some time, no matter what. Perhaps time will heal it.
Friday, January 20, 2006
The world is fantabulously splendiferously gloricent! I woke up this morning, and for the first time in a very long while, I was awake. Just like that, like I used to be before school - *poof*. Awake. I felt rested and alive. I savored the feeling for a minute or two, and then I looked out the window. The birds were twittering and flying about, and they were eating bits of something off the ground. I wanted to know what it was! There were dried leaves lying all over. I wanted to hear the *crunch* of walking on them! I wanted to pick them up and feel them crumble between my fingers! I felt as though I had only just noticed them. Oh, what a beautiferous thing life is!
Thursday, January 19, 2006
I feel sorta like I've been reborn, and I'm about as hungry. I've been sick since Sunday, you see, and I finally feel fully alive. :) Yesterday I slept until 11am, worked from noon to 5pm or so, slept from 5-9pm, ate some food and had family Bible reading time, and went to sleep again from 11pm until 11am this morning. This means that I slept around 25 out of the last 48 hours. Finally, a couple hours ago I got really sweaty and shaky, and now I feel much better.
This physical regaining of health is matched by a spiritual and mental. I was reading G.K. Chesterton's Orthodoxy this afternoon while I was lying in bed. He goes on and on about fairy tales, which he read and loved as a boy. Naturally, this caught my interest, for I, too, weaned myself on fairy tales. I'm writing a book about a faerie now, for Pete's sake!
But as I put my head over the hedge of the elves and began to take notice of the natural world, I observed an extraordinary thing. I observed that learned men in spectacles were talking of the actual things that happened - dawn and death and so on - as if they were rational and inevitable. They talked as if the fact that trees bear fruit were just as necessary as the fact that two and one trees make three. But it is not. There is an enormous difference by the test of fairyland; which is the test of the imagination. You cannot imagine two and one not making three. But you can easily imagine trees not growing fruit; you can imagine them growing golden candlesticks or tigers hanging on by the tail. . . . When we are asked why eggs turn to birds or fruits fall in autumn, we . . . must answer that it is magic. It is not a "law,m" for we do not understand its general formula. It is not a necessity, for though we can count on it happening practically, we have no right to say that it must always happen. . . . It is the only way I can express in words my clear and definite perception that one thing is quite distinct from another; that there is no logical connection between flying and laying eggs.
I have my wonder back. As a child, I drank up the short science-fiction stories of the 1950s and 1960s. I used to look at everything as I rode along in the car and think, "I could create a science-fiction story out of anything. Absolutely anything." And I could, too. I could turn anything into a plot, simply by asking, "What if...?" With adulthood, however, comes a certain dreadful sanity. Some things are possible; others are not. One falls into the pattern and forgets the wonder of each individual occurrence. One forgets to ask why things are possible and others not. One loses curiosity for the sake daily existence. And what sort of existence is that?
I had plenty of time to think of all these things as I stared out my bedroom window at the street outside and listened to the walls creak in the chilly wind. I used to throw myself passionately into everything, but I have been so tired for so long... And I've been growing up and changing at the same time, without stopping long enough to determine which changes are needed and desirable. Now I feel suddenly awake and strong again. :)
This physical regaining of health is matched by a spiritual and mental. I was reading G.K. Chesterton's Orthodoxy this afternoon while I was lying in bed. He goes on and on about fairy tales, which he read and loved as a boy. Naturally, this caught my interest, for I, too, weaned myself on fairy tales. I'm writing a book about a faerie now, for Pete's sake!
But as I put my head over the hedge of the elves and began to take notice of the natural world, I observed an extraordinary thing. I observed that learned men in spectacles were talking of the actual things that happened - dawn and death and so on - as if they were rational and inevitable. They talked as if the fact that trees bear fruit were just as necessary as the fact that two and one trees make three. But it is not. There is an enormous difference by the test of fairyland; which is the test of the imagination. You cannot imagine two and one not making three. But you can easily imagine trees not growing fruit; you can imagine them growing golden candlesticks or tigers hanging on by the tail. . . . When we are asked why eggs turn to birds or fruits fall in autumn, we . . . must answer that it is magic. It is not a "law,m" for we do not understand its general formula. It is not a necessity, for though we can count on it happening practically, we have no right to say that it must always happen. . . . It is the only way I can express in words my clear and definite perception that one thing is quite distinct from another; that there is no logical connection between flying and laying eggs.
I have my wonder back. As a child, I drank up the short science-fiction stories of the 1950s and 1960s. I used to look at everything as I rode along in the car and think, "I could create a science-fiction story out of anything. Absolutely anything." And I could, too. I could turn anything into a plot, simply by asking, "What if...?" With adulthood, however, comes a certain dreadful sanity. Some things are possible; others are not. One falls into the pattern and forgets the wonder of each individual occurrence. One forgets to ask why things are possible and others not. One loses curiosity for the sake daily existence. And what sort of existence is that?
I had plenty of time to think of all these things as I stared out my bedroom window at the street outside and listened to the walls creak in the chilly wind. I used to throw myself passionately into everything, but I have been so tired for so long... And I've been growing up and changing at the same time, without stopping long enough to determine which changes are needed and desirable. Now I feel suddenly awake and strong again. :)
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
It is a curious feeling to read through my school email and find all the messages about everything that's happening back at PHC. It causes me to think about the paths not taken. If I had remained a Writing major instead of switching to History, I would have been creating all my stories, etc. for practicum. I would have graduated this past December. That was the original plan when I came to college - to graduate a semester early. But in doing so, I would manage to graduate still ignorant about most of this world's history. That would have been the easy path, utterly suited to my former talents, relatively unpaved by challenges.
But no, I switched to History and began to fill in my gaps in knowledge. Huge, gaping holes they were, too. Makes me wonder how I survived so long, with dark, raggedy abysses in my mind. Quickly I found, though, that I needed more. I needed my writing back. So I added in Literature to give myself a double major. Now I have an extra year of study.
I believe this was the right path, just as I believe it was the right path to come home this semester. The semester with only the History major felt very needed. Very rational. But I had cut off my true joy, my dance, my writing. To live like that forever would be to live palely, with a permanent, debilitating wound. God didn't ask that of me. He gave me back my writing. At the same time, for me only to be a Literature major would be to skitter blithely on the wind without an anchor. Either major alone, and I would be incomplete.
Of course, I didn't know this before I did what God wanted me to do. I've discovered slowly, as I've stepped along the path I needed to follow, exactly how perfect it is. I have to trust, therefore, that this semester at home will yield the same joy.
But no, I switched to History and began to fill in my gaps in knowledge. Huge, gaping holes they were, too. Makes me wonder how I survived so long, with dark, raggedy abysses in my mind. Quickly I found, though, that I needed more. I needed my writing back. So I added in Literature to give myself a double major. Now I have an extra year of study.
I believe this was the right path, just as I believe it was the right path to come home this semester. The semester with only the History major felt very needed. Very rational. But I had cut off my true joy, my dance, my writing. To live like that forever would be to live palely, with a permanent, debilitating wound. God didn't ask that of me. He gave me back my writing. At the same time, for me only to be a Literature major would be to skitter blithely on the wind without an anchor. Either major alone, and I would be incomplete.
Of course, I didn't know this before I did what God wanted me to do. I've discovered slowly, as I've stepped along the path I needed to follow, exactly how perfect it is. I have to trust, therefore, that this semester at home will yield the same joy.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
This post is dedicated to Miranda. Miranda is a pink, pear-shaped pillow, to which is attached two skinny pink arms and two long legs, painstakingly weighted in the feet so that they dangle and swing to wrap around one in a startling manner if one should happen to hug her. At the top of this body-pillow, a round, pink head, about 9" in diameter, smiles placidly out of its embroidered eyes and mouth. A fringe of yarn-hair emerges from the base of her skull, giving her a startling decaying look, as if huge clumps of hair have fallen out. This contrasts oddly with her peaceful, almost dim-witted expression.
I began sewing Miranda with my youngest sister two summers ago, as an experiment. We didn't have a pattern or anything, which is just the way I like it. I'd made a few such dolls when I was younger - on a much smaller scale, of course. I wanted to create this one almost as large as my sister, because then she could clothe it with her old shirts and shorts.
By the time I sewed on the arms and head, I realized that they were proportionally too small, and the legs too long. But who cared - it was a doll, right? I didn't understand the true horror of my creation until my brother and his fiancee (now wife) arrived from CA. He and their "chaperone," Amir, one of Naomi's friends, slept in the living room on the floor. The first night, Amir awoke midway to find a pink, placid face staring at him from inches away. His loud yelp awoke several of us, and suspicion immediately fell on Naomi. She had greeted Miranda the night before with a startled look of disbelief that had quickly turned to hysterical laughter and the comment, "She's perfect!"
I thought it was pretty funny, until I woke up the next night to find Miranda lying on top of my chest, arms stretched toward my throat, as if caught in mid-act. My natural reaction was, "Good thing I woke up then! Who knew what would have happened in a few minutes?" Ridiculous, yes, but... She was so very placid-looking, and just a little misshapen. Just enough.
My parents thought it was pretty funny until, one afternoon, they discovered Miranda sitting in their bathroom and calmly reading a magazine. Naomi and Joe thought that was hilarious. The rest of us did too, but we kept it mostly to ourselves.
About then, I decided that Miranda had to go. "It's too bad, Lillie," I told my sister, "but she didn't come out very well. We'll do better next time." Then I deposited the misbegotten doll in the garage trash.
I didn't give the doll another thought until this past summer. "Naomi wants us to bring Miranda out to California so that she can use her to play jokes on the youth pastor," Magda announced as we were about to drive west.
"Wh- NO!" I sputtered. "I threw that thing away! And besides, that's really stupid. No way!"
"Greg saved Miranda from the trash," said Magda smugly, "and how are you going to stop me from bringing her."
I narrowed my eyes. Magda is a good deal larger than me. She is three inches taller, has much bigger hands, outweighs me by at least 50 #s, and can tickle me at will. She had a point. But I had the authority.
"Because she's mine. I threw her away once already, which means I want her trashed. So please leave the hideous work of my hands behind!"
One way or another, to my relief, Miranda did not accompany us to CA. Surreptitiously, I delivered her to the garbage once more. I thought that was the end of the matter.
Until today. What should Magda cheerfully bear into the kitchen as I was baking cookies - but a malformed pink pear with legs, arms, and a placid smile. My eyes bugged. Would I never be free?
"Wh-what?" I gasped.
"Guess where Miranda has been while you were gone?" asked Magda brightly. "Among other places, she's been in a guy's apartment most of the night!"
"WHAT?" There is no way to communicate my horror.
"Oh yes! The youth group girls wanted to get back at Tim (youth group leader) for TP'ing Amanda's house. So I told Amanda about Miranda, and of course she wanted to see her. It was easy from there. When Tim and Jay returned to their room one afternoon, they found a teepee in the middle of one of their beds. Miranda was inside."
All I could do was stare at Magda and Miranda wide-eyed.
"I like Miranda," added Lillie from behind Magda. "She's cushy, like a pillow."
Maybe I should give up. But the more I see Miranda, the more my soul revolts. She should not exist. I could easily write a horror story about her, which is obvious from the mixture of amusement and disgust that her acquaintance instantly excites. All I know is that her life seems to be much more of an ongoing saga than I had ever intended.
I began sewing Miranda with my youngest sister two summers ago, as an experiment. We didn't have a pattern or anything, which is just the way I like it. I'd made a few such dolls when I was younger - on a much smaller scale, of course. I wanted to create this one almost as large as my sister, because then she could clothe it with her old shirts and shorts.
By the time I sewed on the arms and head, I realized that they were proportionally too small, and the legs too long. But who cared - it was a doll, right? I didn't understand the true horror of my creation until my brother and his fiancee (now wife) arrived from CA. He and their "chaperone," Amir, one of Naomi's friends, slept in the living room on the floor. The first night, Amir awoke midway to find a pink, placid face staring at him from inches away. His loud yelp awoke several of us, and suspicion immediately fell on Naomi. She had greeted Miranda the night before with a startled look of disbelief that had quickly turned to hysterical laughter and the comment, "She's perfect!"
I thought it was pretty funny, until I woke up the next night to find Miranda lying on top of my chest, arms stretched toward my throat, as if caught in mid-act. My natural reaction was, "Good thing I woke up then! Who knew what would have happened in a few minutes?" Ridiculous, yes, but... She was so very placid-looking, and just a little misshapen. Just enough.
My parents thought it was pretty funny until, one afternoon, they discovered Miranda sitting in their bathroom and calmly reading a magazine. Naomi and Joe thought that was hilarious. The rest of us did too, but we kept it mostly to ourselves.
About then, I decided that Miranda had to go. "It's too bad, Lillie," I told my sister, "but she didn't come out very well. We'll do better next time." Then I deposited the misbegotten doll in the garage trash.
I didn't give the doll another thought until this past summer. "Naomi wants us to bring Miranda out to California so that she can use her to play jokes on the youth pastor," Magda announced as we were about to drive west.
"Wh- NO!" I sputtered. "I threw that thing away! And besides, that's really stupid. No way!"
"Greg saved Miranda from the trash," said Magda smugly, "and how are you going to stop me from bringing her."
I narrowed my eyes. Magda is a good deal larger than me. She is three inches taller, has much bigger hands, outweighs me by at least 50 #s, and can tickle me at will. She had a point. But I had the authority.
"Because she's mine. I threw her away once already, which means I want her trashed. So please leave the hideous work of my hands behind!"
One way or another, to my relief, Miranda did not accompany us to CA. Surreptitiously, I delivered her to the garbage once more. I thought that was the end of the matter.
Until today. What should Magda cheerfully bear into the kitchen as I was baking cookies - but a malformed pink pear with legs, arms, and a placid smile. My eyes bugged. Would I never be free?
"Wh-what?" I gasped.
"Guess where Miranda has been while you were gone?" asked Magda brightly. "Among other places, she's been in a guy's apartment most of the night!"
"WHAT?" There is no way to communicate my horror.
"Oh yes! The youth group girls wanted to get back at Tim (youth group leader) for TP'ing Amanda's house. So I told Amanda about Miranda, and of course she wanted to see her. It was easy from there. When Tim and Jay returned to their room one afternoon, they found a teepee in the middle of one of their beds. Miranda was inside."
All I could do was stare at Magda and Miranda wide-eyed.
"I like Miranda," added Lillie from behind Magda. "She's cushy, like a pillow."
Maybe I should give up. But the more I see Miranda, the more my soul revolts. She should not exist. I could easily write a horror story about her, which is obvious from the mixture of amusement and disgust that her acquaintance instantly excites. All I know is that her life seems to be much more of an ongoing saga than I had ever intended.
Monday, January 16, 2006
I am thorougly irritated.
Not the best way to start a blog post, but then again, I wasn't intended to post to my blog until a minute or so ago.
I think.
You see, that's why I'm irritated. I wandered up from my cave, grabbed some string cheese and a cup of grapes, then meditatively munched the grapes while perusing the shelves of DVDs in the kitchen. I'd been reading for quite a few hours, I thought, and perhaps I would watch something. But none of the kitchen selection looked appealing. I meandered over to see what we had in the pile leaning against the player in the living room, but none of them seemed a worthwhile way to spend an hour and a half either. Then I skimmed the titles on our living room bookcases, seeing if I wanted to read any of their offerings. LOTR... Narnia... Ivanhoe... Rebekah of Sunnybrook Farm... Complete Edgar Allan Poe... Hm, no. I thought about my new ISI books downstairs. I could start on them. Or I could do some research. I still have about eight library books to check through, after all.
But none of these ideas appealed. And then it struck me! Of course! I could go downstairs and do it! The perfect solution! I scurried down the steps and into the basement. Within seconds, I stood in the middle of my area, poised and ready to do...
What?
What had I decided?
I couldn't remember!
So here I am, posting to my blog instead. I am thoroughly irritated. And I can't even claim alien abduction. I surely hope this isn't the sign of some serious mental illness. You know, it probably is. And I was so happy with myself last night when I was falling asleep, because I could still mentally multiply three-digit numbers by each other. :P
It must be because I'm sick. Yes, that's it. That is also why I didn't post over the weekend, because my upper chest suddenly decided to congest itself. It should be all right, though, Nothing serious. I'll bet I'm back kickin' it in TKD class tomorrow evening. And meanwhile, all my friends are making their ways back to college. Hm. I don't envy them.
Not the best way to start a blog post, but then again, I wasn't intended to post to my blog until a minute or so ago.
I think.
You see, that's why I'm irritated. I wandered up from my cave, grabbed some string cheese and a cup of grapes, then meditatively munched the grapes while perusing the shelves of DVDs in the kitchen. I'd been reading for quite a few hours, I thought, and perhaps I would watch something. But none of the kitchen selection looked appealing. I meandered over to see what we had in the pile leaning against the player in the living room, but none of them seemed a worthwhile way to spend an hour and a half either. Then I skimmed the titles on our living room bookcases, seeing if I wanted to read any of their offerings. LOTR... Narnia... Ivanhoe... Rebekah of Sunnybrook Farm... Complete Edgar Allan Poe... Hm, no. I thought about my new ISI books downstairs. I could start on them. Or I could do some research. I still have about eight library books to check through, after all.
But none of these ideas appealed. And then it struck me! Of course! I could go downstairs and do it! The perfect solution! I scurried down the steps and into the basement. Within seconds, I stood in the middle of my area, poised and ready to do...
What?
What had I decided?
I couldn't remember!
So here I am, posting to my blog instead. I am thoroughly irritated. And I can't even claim alien abduction. I surely hope this isn't the sign of some serious mental illness. You know, it probably is. And I was so happy with myself last night when I was falling asleep, because I could still mentally multiply three-digit numbers by each other. :P
It must be because I'm sick. Yes, that's it. That is also why I didn't post over the weekend, because my upper chest suddenly decided to congest itself. It should be all right, though, Nothing serious. I'll bet I'm back kickin' it in TKD class tomorrow evening. And meanwhile, all my friends are making their ways back to college. Hm. I don't envy them.
Friday, January 13, 2006
I said, "What do you think, what goes through your mind, when the teacher asks you a question and you don't know the answer?"
It was a bombshell. Instantly a paralyzed silence fell on the room. . . . Finally Ben . . . answered my question, by saying in a loud voice, "Gulp!"
...
I asked them why they felt gulpish. They said they were afraid of failing, afraid of being kept back, afraid of being called stupid, afraid of feeling themselves stupid. Stupid. Why is it such a deadly insult to these children, almost the worst thing they can think of to call each other? Where do they learn this? (John Holt, How Children Fail, 71)
My parents never, ever let us call each other "stupid." It was the worst insult possible. Why? Why does the Bible say that calling somebody a "fool" is akin to murder? Does mentally negating another person's intelligence render him less of a human being in our minds? Does it, essentially, mean that we are negating his value as a human being?
It was a bombshell. Instantly a paralyzed silence fell on the room. . . . Finally Ben . . . answered my question, by saying in a loud voice, "Gulp!"
...
I asked them why they felt gulpish. They said they were afraid of failing, afraid of being kept back, afraid of being called stupid, afraid of feeling themselves stupid. Stupid. Why is it such a deadly insult to these children, almost the worst thing they can think of to call each other? Where do they learn this? (John Holt, How Children Fail, 71)
My parents never, ever let us call each other "stupid." It was the worst insult possible. Why? Why does the Bible say that calling somebody a "fool" is akin to murder? Does mentally negating another person's intelligence render him less of a human being in our minds? Does it, essentially, mean that we are negating his value as a human being?
Hooray! Excitement and joy! People are posting to their blogs again. Or, at least, they have posted. This is naturally no guarantee that they will continue to do so, particularly as the PHC semester is about to start in less than a week. Still, I enjoy these occasional windows into the lives of my friends.
Right now I am reading John Holt's 1965 classic, How Children Fail, ostensibly as research for my history project. This is one of the formative works for the school reform movement that began in that decade; later, Mr. Holt gave up entirely on public schools and turned to homeschooling. He is the founding voice of the "unschooling" movement, in which children, all potential geniuses, are directed into the paths that they wish to follow to education. I don't really need to finish this entire book, though, because it speaks very little to the "public opinion" of homeschooling. But it is fascinating, and I cannot stop. A quote on the back cover says that "Holt's empathy for the child's mind is extraordinary." That about sums it up. He observed children in his own classroom and many others, and got into their heads in an uncanny way. This quote made me think:
Not long after the book came out I found myself being driven to a meeting by a professor of electrical engineering in the graduate school of MIT. He said that after reading the book he realized that his graduate students were using on him, and had used for the ten years and more he had been teaching there, all the evasive strategies I described in the book - mumble, guess-and-look, take a wild guess and see what happens, get the teacher to answer his own questions, etc.
But as I later realized, these are the games that all humans play when others are sitting in judgment on them.
Holt describes several classroom situations in which teachers, looking only for the answers they want, totally miss the fact that their pupils do not understand the actual concepts. These students dupe their teachers into complacence so that they will leave them alone. The funny part that I'm analyzing is my own incredulity at the instructors. I've noticed all these behaviors in children I've tutored one-on-one or taught in groups at Civil Air Patrol meetings. They never fooled me. Why not? And why could the teachers not see? My answer is that I have six younger siblings. Further, I remember my own success with similar strategies. I therefore take for granted that children will be trying to pass one off more often than not. Perhaps some teachers do not understand the full limit of what kids are capable of doing. They underestimate their subjects' innate cunning.
I don't know. But this book is an intriguing, easy read. I highly recommend it, if your library has a copy. Mostly, Holt tells stories about individual situations and children.
Right now I am reading John Holt's 1965 classic, How Children Fail, ostensibly as research for my history project. This is one of the formative works for the school reform movement that began in that decade; later, Mr. Holt gave up entirely on public schools and turned to homeschooling. He is the founding voice of the "unschooling" movement, in which children, all potential geniuses, are directed into the paths that they wish to follow to education. I don't really need to finish this entire book, though, because it speaks very little to the "public opinion" of homeschooling. But it is fascinating, and I cannot stop. A quote on the back cover says that "Holt's empathy for the child's mind is extraordinary." That about sums it up. He observed children in his own classroom and many others, and got into their heads in an uncanny way. This quote made me think:
Not long after the book came out I found myself being driven to a meeting by a professor of electrical engineering in the graduate school of MIT. He said that after reading the book he realized that his graduate students were using on him, and had used for the ten years and more he had been teaching there, all the evasive strategies I described in the book - mumble, guess-and-look, take a wild guess and see what happens, get the teacher to answer his own questions, etc.
But as I later realized, these are the games that all humans play when others are sitting in judgment on them.
Holt describes several classroom situations in which teachers, looking only for the answers they want, totally miss the fact that their pupils do not understand the actual concepts. These students dupe their teachers into complacence so that they will leave them alone. The funny part that I'm analyzing is my own incredulity at the instructors. I've noticed all these behaviors in children I've tutored one-on-one or taught in groups at Civil Air Patrol meetings. They never fooled me. Why not? And why could the teachers not see? My answer is that I have six younger siblings. Further, I remember my own success with similar strategies. I therefore take for granted that children will be trying to pass one off more often than not. Perhaps some teachers do not understand the full limit of what kids are capable of doing. They underestimate their subjects' innate cunning.
I don't know. But this book is an intriguing, easy read. I highly recommend it, if your library has a copy. Mostly, Holt tells stories about individual situations and children.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
A few exciting things so far today... I received free books from the Intercollegiate Studies Institute. I was expecting them, of course, because I had requested them from J. Shanley, the new Honors Director. But I was happy to receive them, nonetheless. I have: Remembered Past: on History, Historians, and Historical Knowledge, by John Lukacs, and Uncommon Dissent: Intellectuals Who Find Darwinism Unconvincing, by miscellaneous. Mr. Shanley also enclosed a handwritten note, informing me that the book on Dewey that I had requested is coming at a later date.
These people spoil us Honors Fellows shamelessly. We may ask for up to five books per month - for free - and they pay for us to attend cushy conferences. I cannot tell you how much the experience of being an ISI Honors Fellow has expanded my perspective on PHC and its place in the history of the United States.
Second exciting thing: I received Dr. Bouchoc's email about the trip to Turkey in May and showed it to my mom. She highly approves. Looks like I'm going, so long as I earn the money! I am excited already, both at the prospect of eliminating a history elective from my courseload next year, and at the idea of visiting some of the holy cities. I want to go to grad school to study ancient and/or medieval biblical history, so this trip should help me enormously by giving me a feel for the area. I hope and pray it will work out.
These people spoil us Honors Fellows shamelessly. We may ask for up to five books per month - for free - and they pay for us to attend cushy conferences. I cannot tell you how much the experience of being an ISI Honors Fellow has expanded my perspective on PHC and its place in the history of the United States.
Second exciting thing: I received Dr. Bouchoc's email about the trip to Turkey in May and showed it to my mom. She highly approves. Looks like I'm going, so long as I earn the money! I am excited already, both at the prospect of eliminating a history elective from my courseload next year, and at the idea of visiting some of the holy cities. I want to go to grad school to study ancient and/or medieval biblical history, so this trip should help me enormously by giving me a feel for the area. I hope and pray it will work out.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
First, people aren't posting to their blogs! This disturbs me.
Second, I took the personality types test on Human Metrics again. I am now solidly an ENFJ. 44% Extroverted, 50% Intuitive, 12% Feeling, 78% Judging. This makes me a Teacher Idealist. This is me:
"Teachers expect the very best of those around them, and this expectation, usually expressed as enthusiastic encouragement, motivates action in others and the desire to live up to their expectations. Teachers have the charming characteristic of taking for granted that their expectations will be met, their implicit commands obeyed, never doubting that people will want to do what they suggest. And, more often than not, people do, because this type has extraordinary charisma."
This is interesting, because when I first came to PHC I wavered on the edge between extroverted and introverted, and I had a slight preference away from "feeling" and to "thinking." Thus, I was an ENTJ:
"ENTJs are decisive. They see what needs to be done, and frequently assign roles to their fellows. Few other types can equal their ability to remain resolute in conflict, sending the valiant (and often leading the charge) into the mouth of hell. When challenged, the ENTJ may by reflex become argumentative. Alternatively (s)he may unleash an icy gaze that serves notice: the ENTJ is not one to be trifled with."
Of course, all these personality tests only go so far. They cannot describe how a person actually will act when modified by moral and societal considerations - only how a person is naturally inclined to act. For me, it seems there is indeed a fine line between inspiring and enforcing action. I think I have learned the change as I have learned people. Most folks do not like to be forced into action, even if it is the most rational and sensible thing for them to do. They want to be led and excited to act by someone they trust. Appeals to the heart and to reason both have their place.
Second, I took the personality types test on Human Metrics again. I am now solidly an ENFJ. 44% Extroverted, 50% Intuitive, 12% Feeling, 78% Judging. This makes me a Teacher Idealist. This is me:
"Teachers expect the very best of those around them, and this expectation, usually expressed as enthusiastic encouragement, motivates action in others and the desire to live up to their expectations. Teachers have the charming characteristic of taking for granted that their expectations will be met, their implicit commands obeyed, never doubting that people will want to do what they suggest. And, more often than not, people do, because this type has extraordinary charisma."
This is interesting, because when I first came to PHC I wavered on the edge between extroverted and introverted, and I had a slight preference away from "feeling" and to "thinking." Thus, I was an ENTJ:
"ENTJs are decisive. They see what needs to be done, and frequently assign roles to their fellows. Few other types can equal their ability to remain resolute in conflict, sending the valiant (and often leading the charge) into the mouth of hell. When challenged, the ENTJ may by reflex become argumentative. Alternatively (s)he may unleash an icy gaze that serves notice: the ENTJ is not one to be trifled with."
Of course, all these personality tests only go so far. They cannot describe how a person actually will act when modified by moral and societal considerations - only how a person is naturally inclined to act. For me, it seems there is indeed a fine line between inspiring and enforcing action. I think I have learned the change as I have learned people. Most folks do not like to be forced into action, even if it is the most rational and sensible thing for them to do. They want to be led and excited to act by someone they trust. Appeals to the heart and to reason both have their place.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Family is wonderful. Where else can one find the following exchange:
*I walk in the door*
Dad: "She's back!"
Brother from next room: "And bigger than ever, Super Chicken!"
And we all know exactly what he's talking about (quoting the "Super Chicken" show that is made by the same folks who created the George of the Jungle animations).
Besides this, my parents always say nice things about me. My dad tells me I am beautiful, and my mom recounts stories of childhood brilliance. Unfortunately, they do this even when I am feeling and acting the opposite, so I don't really believe them. But it is still encouraging to know that somebody is thinking such warm and fuzzy thoughts about me. :)
Then, better and better, there are younger people here who enjoy my company. They want to spend time with me, no matter what I'm doing! I had forgotten how fun it is just to hang out and be utterly silly with my little sisters.
So yes, life is good. I'm becoming happier and happier that I am not swinging straight back into exhaustion, artificial schedules, and student body politics. I was burning out, to tell the truth. God knew what He was doing when my mom told me she wanted me home to help.
*I walk in the door*
Dad: "She's back!"
Brother from next room: "And bigger than ever, Super Chicken!"
And we all know exactly what he's talking about (quoting the "Super Chicken" show that is made by the same folks who created the George of the Jungle animations).
Besides this, my parents always say nice things about me. My dad tells me I am beautiful, and my mom recounts stories of childhood brilliance. Unfortunately, they do this even when I am feeling and acting the opposite, so I don't really believe them. But it is still encouraging to know that somebody is thinking such warm and fuzzy thoughts about me. :)
Then, better and better, there are younger people here who enjoy my company. They want to spend time with me, no matter what I'm doing! I had forgotten how fun it is just to hang out and be utterly silly with my little sisters.
So yes, life is good. I'm becoming happier and happier that I am not swinging straight back into exhaustion, artificial schedules, and student body politics. I was burning out, to tell the truth. God knew what He was doing when my mom told me she wanted me home to help.
Monday, January 09, 2006
Listening to the Narnia soundtrack... Filled (a bit melodramatically, I'm afraid) with a weighty emotion... So I wrote this:
Somewhere, far overhead, a voice soars on a freezing cold stream of notes. It calls me to come somewhere that is unreachable, untouchable. I can’t see the singer, but I know he can see me, because he speaks right to me. I want to come, so badly. But for now I am held down here in my body. I try to sing too, but my voice is a pale mockery of the one above. I know, no matter how hard I strain, my music will never match the divine. I cry. Why do I exist if all my life is spent in impossible imitation?
Then I open my eyes and see the world around me. I realize that my ability to hear the holy voice is an incredible gift. Many of my friends cannot perceive these achingly beautiful strains. They can only hear each other. And me. They can hear me.
I still reach for something that is impossibly far away, but I know one day I will touch it. And meanwhile, I know my purpose. There is only one Divine. If I could reach Him, I would be divine as well, and that is not to be. But I am not a pale mockery. I am made just the way He wanted, and, as such, I have value. He didn’t create more gods. He created human beings, limited and finite. I will always be dissatisfied if I try to compete with God. The only fruitful competition is with myself.
Somewhere, far overhead, a voice soars on a freezing cold stream of notes. It calls me to come somewhere that is unreachable, untouchable. I can’t see the singer, but I know he can see me, because he speaks right to me. I want to come, so badly. But for now I am held down here in my body. I try to sing too, but my voice is a pale mockery of the one above. I know, no matter how hard I strain, my music will never match the divine. I cry. Why do I exist if all my life is spent in impossible imitation?
Then I open my eyes and see the world around me. I realize that my ability to hear the holy voice is an incredible gift. Many of my friends cannot perceive these achingly beautiful strains. They can only hear each other. And me. They can hear me.
I still reach for something that is impossibly far away, but I know one day I will touch it. And meanwhile, I know my purpose. There is only one Divine. If I could reach Him, I would be divine as well, and that is not to be. But I am not a pale mockery. I am made just the way He wanted, and, as such, I have value. He didn’t create more gods. He created human beings, limited and finite. I will always be dissatisfied if I try to compete with God. The only fruitful competition is with myself.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
I know, again I am posting twice in one day, but I thought I'd put up this picture I drew this evening. My little sisters and I wanted to spend time together... I haven't drawn anything for years. I hadn't realized how much I missed it. This is Susan, the protagonist of Erthe: The Faeries' Story, which is the first book of the trilogy I want to finish by the time I'm 30 years old.
I'm in the middle of research for my senior history project. I don't know if I mentioned on here that the topic is: "how the public opinion of homeschooling in the United States has changed since the modern movement's inception in the 1960s." Well anyway, I am reading a fascinating book, very well-written, made by a man from outside the homeschool movement. He spent ten years researching - spending time with homeschool families, visiting support groups, traveling the country. And he noticed something very interesting, which is the theme of the book: homeschoolers have divided themselves into two mutually exclusive groups, the secular/"inclusives" and the Protestant Christian. Stevens, the author, calls these latter the "believers." All through, I've been trying to put my finger on something. I think I finally got it. Listen to the following quote:
"The stereotypes invoked on the Internet that night indicated how their users understood some of the differences between home schoolers. The believers bake cookies, keep spotless houses, and get approval for much of what they do. The inclusives are freer spirits and social renegades with one foot in the counterculture." (Mitchell L. Stevens, Kingdom of Children, 149)
What I understood when I read that, all at once, is something about myself. Growing up, I've felt a conflict in myself and a frustration that the conflict exists. It is what Nathan Poe (one of my friends at PHC) calls the "pietists vs. intellectuals" conflict. You can also call it conservatives vs. libertarians, order vs. liberty, etc. In myself, it is the knowledge that I believe most fundamentally that the Bible is true, that God exists, that Jesus lived and died for my sins, and that I am going to Heaven when I die. Accompanying this, however, is the knowledge that I read and enjoy comic books, watch a large sampling of movies, and learn from good literature - including science fiction - that does not invoke God every few pages. Deep down on the gut level I know that these activities are fine. But a large section of the deeply conservative Christian community thinks these things are sinful and from the Devil. They believe that they have to be perfect on the surface, all the time, like they can't admit that they have any interests or desires that are different from everyone else. I share these people's hearts and feel much more comfortable with them than with the pierced, black-wearing, pagan counterculture I wound up spending time with in the year I was 17. But I hated the image. I didn't want to be part of any artificial image. I wanted to be me. I didn't feel comfortable with people who weren't being themselves, or with people whose hearts were very different. So I wound up in the end with very few friends - until PHC.
I told my mom once that I felt like a "bridge person," like I stood alone with one foot on either side of a crevice. I thought at the time it was because I inherited skills from both parents - my mom's clarity of mental sight when it comes to events and people as groups and my dad's patience and understanding when it comes to individuals. Thus, I have two modes, between which I switch at will - rational, analytical, dispassionate; and friendly, goofy, loving. But now I think this is also partly because of my upbringing. My family has always placed a solid anchor in the "believer" side of homeschooling, understanding that a Christian heritage is the best. At the same time, we have "one foot in the counterculture," so to speak. We have never rejected a worthwhile intellectual endeavor solely because it was "not Christian." So my family has always been different from everyone.
It strikes me that Patrick Henry College is also trying to bridge this gap. It attracts leaders - independent free-thinkers. But it wants leaders who are solidly Christian. Perhaps this is why I have met people truly like myself at PHC for the first time. Thoughts?
"The stereotypes invoked on the Internet that night indicated how their users understood some of the differences between home schoolers. The believers bake cookies, keep spotless houses, and get approval for much of what they do. The inclusives are freer spirits and social renegades with one foot in the counterculture." (Mitchell L. Stevens, Kingdom of Children, 149)
What I understood when I read that, all at once, is something about myself. Growing up, I've felt a conflict in myself and a frustration that the conflict exists. It is what Nathan Poe (one of my friends at PHC) calls the "pietists vs. intellectuals" conflict. You can also call it conservatives vs. libertarians, order vs. liberty, etc. In myself, it is the knowledge that I believe most fundamentally that the Bible is true, that God exists, that Jesus lived and died for my sins, and that I am going to Heaven when I die. Accompanying this, however, is the knowledge that I read and enjoy comic books, watch a large sampling of movies, and learn from good literature - including science fiction - that does not invoke God every few pages. Deep down on the gut level I know that these activities are fine. But a large section of the deeply conservative Christian community thinks these things are sinful and from the Devil. They believe that they have to be perfect on the surface, all the time, like they can't admit that they have any interests or desires that are different from everyone else. I share these people's hearts and feel much more comfortable with them than with the pierced, black-wearing, pagan counterculture I wound up spending time with in the year I was 17. But I hated the image. I didn't want to be part of any artificial image. I wanted to be me. I didn't feel comfortable with people who weren't being themselves, or with people whose hearts were very different. So I wound up in the end with very few friends - until PHC.
I told my mom once that I felt like a "bridge person," like I stood alone with one foot on either side of a crevice. I thought at the time it was because I inherited skills from both parents - my mom's clarity of mental sight when it comes to events and people as groups and my dad's patience and understanding when it comes to individuals. Thus, I have two modes, between which I switch at will - rational, analytical, dispassionate; and friendly, goofy, loving. But now I think this is also partly because of my upbringing. My family has always placed a solid anchor in the "believer" side of homeschooling, understanding that a Christian heritage is the best. At the same time, we have "one foot in the counterculture," so to speak. We have never rejected a worthwhile intellectual endeavor solely because it was "not Christian." So my family has always been different from everyone.
It strikes me that Patrick Henry College is also trying to bridge this gap. It attracts leaders - independent free-thinkers. But it wants leaders who are solidly Christian. Perhaps this is why I have met people truly like myself at PHC for the first time. Thoughts?
Friday, January 06, 2006
Yesterday's happy revelation #1: I checked the balance of my MO bank account, which I have not accessed for several months, since I was using my VA bank account, and I found that I still have $291 therein. Good news for me, because that meant I didn't have to wait until next week to join the gym. Right after work, I shoved exercise clothes into my smaller backpack, jumped into Thing, and buzzed over to sign up. I headed straight in after filling out the "direct debit" form and enjoyed my first workout at a real gym that I've had for over a year.
It was just what I needed. Since it's the week after New Year's, the place was pretty full, but everyone was using machines. So the free weights were left for me and the grizzled, muscular old guy with the do-rag. I did my limited best, but at least I did it with good form.
Helpful things about using a gym instead of exercising at home:
- They have a track to run on when I'm warming up, so I don't have to use a treadmill.
- Since there are people all around, many of them (right now) more fit than myself, I want to exercise my hardest.
- There is a pool, albeit a nasty, heavily chlorinated one - not like outdoor pools at all, but it is winter.
- They also offer fun classes. I think I am going to sign up for Country Line Dancing on Friday evenings with Magda, and for the Sat. morning TKD class. My regular dojang only has Mon/Wed pm classes for my group, and it might be nice to supplement with another teaching style as well.
- Most importantly, there are people around. Even if I ignore them, I need the background people buzz for my brain to be happy. Yes, I am an extrovert. :)
After the gym, I went to the Borders cafe to read through a research book. I need to research outside the house, especially after a long day of work. Same deal as the gym - there are people, and it helps me concentrate while I am reading. Further, I can buy a hot tea from the Republic of Tea for only $1.35. No calories, and it won't break the bank if I visit the cafe several times a week.
Yesterday was pretty much an experiment, a model day to see if this would work. It did, to my joy. Although the days drag, the evenings will fly to make up for them.
It was just what I needed. Since it's the week after New Year's, the place was pretty full, but everyone was using machines. So the free weights were left for me and the grizzled, muscular old guy with the do-rag. I did my limited best, but at least I did it with good form.
Helpful things about using a gym instead of exercising at home:
- They have a track to run on when I'm warming up, so I don't have to use a treadmill.
- Since there are people all around, many of them (right now) more fit than myself, I want to exercise my hardest.
- There is a pool, albeit a nasty, heavily chlorinated one - not like outdoor pools at all, but it is winter.
- They also offer fun classes. I think I am going to sign up for Country Line Dancing on Friday evenings with Magda, and for the Sat. morning TKD class. My regular dojang only has Mon/Wed pm classes for my group, and it might be nice to supplement with another teaching style as well.
- Most importantly, there are people around. Even if I ignore them, I need the background people buzz for my brain to be happy. Yes, I am an extrovert. :)
After the gym, I went to the Borders cafe to read through a research book. I need to research outside the house, especially after a long day of work. Same deal as the gym - there are people, and it helps me concentrate while I am reading. Further, I can buy a hot tea from the Republic of Tea for only $1.35. No calories, and it won't break the bank if I visit the cafe several times a week.
Yesterday was pretty much an experiment, a model day to see if this would work. It did, to my joy. Although the days drag, the evenings will fly to make up for them.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
I am exercising my "patience" muscle like nobody's business over here at my desk in MO. I have moved this week from editing reviews into "fact-checking" several previous years' worth. This means that I scroll through endless lists of files of product reviews, opening each one, looking up its company in our extensive database of info, visiting its website, finding it (or not) on its website, locating who actually owns it now via Amazon's book search page or through Google (if I didn't find it on the ostensible company website), updating the company info in our database with a new time stamp, and moving on to the next product. I find I can check more than 50 products a day, even with bi-hourly juggling breaks in order to maintain my sanity.
In the meantime, I'm listening to the Oldies station on the radio. Why were all the songs about love, anyway? It didn't used to bother me, but right now it's really beginning to grate. Heh. At least it's better than falling asleep. We don't have any good Christian stations in this area, or I would switch.
You know what, though, people? This job is very positive in one way - it causes me to look forward to doing my research in the evening. :) Research becomes my fun, esp. because I can go do it at Starbucks or at the Borders or Barnes & Noble cafes. And I have many things to look forward to. Tae Kwon Do classes begin again next week. Also next week, I will have some money, and I can join the nearby gym. If I can get out of the house to exercise every day, I will be happier.
I find myself already thinking about my planned visit to PHC for Liberty Ball, and that is months away. :) I do anticipate it, but I can't look forward to it yet or time will pass more slowly. People are starting to mention the upcoming semester in their blogs, and I am feeling distinctly left behind. I am normally lonely over breaks, and I suspect that this is going to be much, much worse. Pray for me, if you pray. :)
In the meantime, I'm listening to the Oldies station on the radio. Why were all the songs about love, anyway? It didn't used to bother me, but right now it's really beginning to grate. Heh. At least it's better than falling asleep. We don't have any good Christian stations in this area, or I would switch.
You know what, though, people? This job is very positive in one way - it causes me to look forward to doing my research in the evening. :) Research becomes my fun, esp. because I can go do it at Starbucks or at the Borders or Barnes & Noble cafes. And I have many things to look forward to. Tae Kwon Do classes begin again next week. Also next week, I will have some money, and I can join the nearby gym. If I can get out of the house to exercise every day, I will be happier.
I find myself already thinking about my planned visit to PHC for Liberty Ball, and that is months away. :) I do anticipate it, but I can't look forward to it yet or time will pass more slowly. People are starting to mention the upcoming semester in their blogs, and I am feeling distinctly left behind. I am normally lonely over breaks, and I suspect that this is going to be much, much worse. Pray for me, if you pray. :)
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Raven's Rock
Sun above the
Sun-warm cliffs, on which
My body sprawls, near the
Edge.
Soul stretches out its
Hand, through the
Sun-warm air,
Reaching toward the
Hazy horizon of
Rustling trees and
Sky.
But the horizon tricks my eyes by
Backing away into eternity,
Circling the sphere, until again it
Meets my
Sun-warm edge.
I try to touch
Infinity,
But find
Myself
In passing.
Sun above the
Sun-warm cliffs, on which
My body sprawls, near the
Edge.
Soul stretches out its
Hand, through the
Sun-warm air,
Reaching toward the
Hazy horizon of
Rustling trees and
Sky.
But the horizon tricks my eyes by
Backing away into eternity,
Circling the sphere, until again it
Meets my
Sun-warm edge.
I try to touch
Infinity,
But find
Myself
In passing.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
I know, I know, I already posted today, but I found this an interesting item of note... Narnia earned more this past weekend than it did either of the two previous. This isn't exactly normal for movies. King Kong, with which it was vying for first place, went down a few million, and it has only been out three weeks as opposed to Narnia's four. This makes me happy. I have seen the movie three times myself, and I'm still not tired of it - an unheard-of state of affairs. Maybe others feel the same way. I expect that all movie sales will drop this next weekend, however. We shall see. There are really no good movies out except King Kong and Narnia.
Five-hour drives give a wonderful time for contemplation, if one's interior world is well-populated. Mine is. So I contemplated many things on the way to and from KY this weekend. The largest secret I unearthed as I mentally planned my next year (as well as I can know it now) is that I am glad to be home for this time. I am happy to spend these days with my family. I am delighted to be able to research the history of homeschooling, which is something I've been wanting to do for years. This is a splendid foretaste of what real life may be some day. Most of my time spent helping my family, and then 2-3 hours of personal research and writing.
So this is my planned schedule:
6:30-8:30am - pray, exercise, eat
9:00am-5:00pm - work for parents
5:00-8:00pm - research history project
8:00-9:00pm - Bible and prayer
In bed by 10:00pm
Look appealing? I don't know. But it's what has to be done, and it includes sleep. And exercise. And mental and spiritual stimulation. I've never needed very much "fun" to keep me happy.
It's also time for me to start thinking about grad school. I've tried to decide for the past year or so whether I should go at all. I think I should. It became really clear over the past few days that I need to continue my education beyond PHC. God has given me talents that are only just beginning to develop. Besides, as my mom says, Christians are abandoning higher education for favor of more "spiritual" pursuits. In the process - well - we've abandoned higher education. I think I would like to teach at the undergraduate level some day, and I therefore need a Ph.D. I think I want to earn it overseas, because I want to study ancient biblical history. The area that birthed the Jews is also the seat of all civilizations. There, deep in the past, are some of the remaining unexplored realms of knowledge. They draw me the same way the black map of Africa attracted adventurers in Heart of Darkness. It is better to learn such things overseas, because one has a lot more flexibility of study at European universities.
Here, my ambition comes in. I want to go to Cambridge on a Gates Fellowship, or to Oxford on a Rhodes. I think it is possible. Do you know, every time I have applied for a scholarship or a seminar and asked God for the words on the application essay, I have won what I wanted? I have the same sort of feeling about this. I know I could be wrong, but I think this plan is correct. We'll see.
So this is my planned schedule:
6:30-8:30am - pray, exercise, eat
9:00am-5:00pm - work for parents
5:00-8:00pm - research history project
8:00-9:00pm - Bible and prayer
In bed by 10:00pm
Look appealing? I don't know. But it's what has to be done, and it includes sleep. And exercise. And mental and spiritual stimulation. I've never needed very much "fun" to keep me happy.
It's also time for me to start thinking about grad school. I've tried to decide for the past year or so whether I should go at all. I think I should. It became really clear over the past few days that I need to continue my education beyond PHC. God has given me talents that are only just beginning to develop. Besides, as my mom says, Christians are abandoning higher education for favor of more "spiritual" pursuits. In the process - well - we've abandoned higher education. I think I would like to teach at the undergraduate level some day, and I therefore need a Ph.D. I think I want to earn it overseas, because I want to study ancient biblical history. The area that birthed the Jews is also the seat of all civilizations. There, deep in the past, are some of the remaining unexplored realms of knowledge. They draw me the same way the black map of Africa attracted adventurers in Heart of Darkness. It is better to learn such things overseas, because one has a lot more flexibility of study at European universities.
Here, my ambition comes in. I want to go to Cambridge on a Gates Fellowship, or to Oxford on a Rhodes. I think it is possible. Do you know, every time I have applied for a scholarship or a seminar and asked God for the words on the application essay, I have won what I wanted? I have the same sort of feeling about this. I know I could be wrong, but I think this plan is correct. We'll see.
