I love the Fray. I heart them in fact. I do not love William Young's book The Shack. I just didn't think it was that great, it wasn't that well written. Sorry, William. I'm not saying I could write a better book, I'm just saying I didn't think you wrote yours very well, even if your intended audience was children and a bunch of adults started reading it. I still think it was written poorly for children...why would they want to read something so non-descriptive and full of run-on dialogues that don't capture the imagination. A book that makes you want to turn the pages quickly not because it's so interesting, but because you feel bored?
What do The Fray have in common with The Shack? Well, as my husband so aptly puts it "It's a good thing we aren't living during the reformation or they'd both be dead by now." It's representing God in such a way through your art form that you leave out reverence. It's crafting an image of God with your art form that leaves your audience with an impression of a god who is like us as humans, but too much like us in that he is just like us in our sin. It's funny, because a lot of things that become really popular do just that.
So suddenly in an seemingly abandoned shack, God the father, is now a large, Southern black women who reminds me of Mammy from Gone with the Wind. Jesus is again a carpenter. And God, the Holy Spirit is a ghostly, Asian male/female type of apparition who floats alongside the other two changing colors as he/she goes. Or on the corner of First and Amistad, God is smoking a cigarette. Does anyone else see the trouble with representing a Holy God with these images?
I think something both these writers have in common is a desire to relate to a God who they are able to understand. I personally am fascinated by the story of Jacob wrestling with God in Genesis. The question that always lingers in my mind is "Why?" Why did God come down to earth to complete a wrestling match that took the entire night with Jacob? It just doesn't make sense.
In the Fray's song and in The Shack I get the feeling that both these writers want to do the same thing that Jacob did, they want to wrestle with God. They want to wrestle with the hard "why" questions: "Why did you let my girlfriend leave me?" "Why did my daughter become the victim of a serial killer?" "Why does all this evil stuff keep happening, why do you let it?" "God, why are you so hard to understand?" Unfortunately, unlike Jacob's story, God is not left with the final word in either the Fray's music or in Young's book, so He's left to look like Mammy.
Recently in Sunday school, our teacher made the comment that Jacob wrestled with God so that he would learn that he could not accomplish God's will for God, that only God would be the one to accomplish his will. I seldom think of Jacob's wrestling match this way. I think about Jacob being wounded by God during the match. That he received a new name after that match. But I overlook the fact that Jacob received a new heart and a new understanding of how to relate to God as well.
The fortunate thing about living where we are and when we are living is that songwriters and authors can wrestle with God in their writing without fear of reprisal. (Except of course the reprisal from snotty blog writers who think you can't write worth a dime.) The unfortunate thing is that the interpretation of these songs and books becomes the listeners interpretation of God. Unless of course, they wrestle with scripture and form their interpretation of God not from pop culture but from His word.
The unfortunate thing about living where we are and when we are is that we all have the idea that we should be able to understand God, fully understand God. Yes, I think we should understand God. Yes, I think He's understandable. But fully understandable, no.
What I do like about both the Fray song and The Shack is that neither writer tries to say that God can be fully understood. At the end of both the song and the book, you're still left with questions. But those questions are ok. Anyone who seeks to ever fully understand God will find that they will always be left with questions. And in the end, knowing God and having wrestled with Him was probably the whole point from the beginning.
So those who truly seek Him will be able to sing, despite their questions, with great joy:
Lost and Insecure
You Found Me
You Found Me
And they will also be able to ask a God who is not afraid of our questions:
Where were you when everything was falling apart?
Why'd you have to wait?
Where were you?
What they won't be able to do is find him looking like Mammy, smoking a cigarette or doing anything less then being the God who is utterly separate from all parts of humanity that are sinful. And that's where the rub comes in...I'm not sure we really like that God is so separate from us. It requires too much worship.
Well, with that last ramble, I think I'm going to go now and download the new Fray cd.
Friday, February 20, 2009
In another century, in a town called Whatcom...
Today the stock market probably went down again by at least a gillion points, another billions of jobs were lost and another million Americans will now have to lay aside their dream of buying a jet ski for another year in order to make up for the horrific loss to their 401k. Times are hard.
The thing about having a blog is that you put your semi-private thoughts in a semi-public place where others can read, digest and then spit out your ideas as either brilliant or rubbish. I say this to give myself permission to make a post about the economy, knowing that I did not do well in freshmen Economics and that my ideas should probably be cast aside as rubbish. Now that I've said that, I feel I can post freely allowing whatever responses might come my way.
This blog started out slightly cheeky and for that I apologize. I dislike hearing of job losses and I do believe that times are hard. Now stick with me, because this all is related. This past week I finished one of my favorite books The Living by Annie Dillard. (See previous post for my fascination with Annie Dillard and with this book in particular.) It is such an amazing book! Set in the last half of the 19th century as the Puget Sound is being settled and finally becomes Washington state, The Living has so many different themes that I can't even begin to contain them all in a single blog post. I've read it before and liked it. I liked it in a different way this go around. And I noticed a different theme this go around as well.
Throughout the book the town of Whatcom, north of Seattle, goes through several recessions and several economic booms. Men and women try to buy into real estate at the right time, only to find their wealth gone in a matter of months when a railroad is built to Seattle instead. The new Western state depends on the banks in New York City to release their cash, but the banks are dried up, and no money is to be found. The politicians debate the silver standard vs. the gold standard and try their luck at pressing their view into law in DC, only to find out that gold has been discovered in Idaho, ending their run in politics and ending the idea that silver is a good idea.
As I read it reminded me of the news going on around me. It reminded me that my generation is not the first one to live in the midst of a recession. That my generation is not the first to question if government is making the right decisions. That my generation is not the first to suffer because banks gave out bad loans. That my generation is not the first to discover that life goes on and that the world doesn't stop because we are in the midst of economic change.
Recessions are scary. Recessions mean that people will loss their job. Recessions mean that some people will not be able to find a career to begin with. But people continue to live in the middle of recessions. They eat, they sleep, they work, they have babies, they farm and eat salmon (if you live in Whatcom), they help each other out and some die, but usually not because of the recession, but because they were going to anyway. Living does not wait to take place because we are in a recession. If we wait to live until the recession is gone, we will discover that we missed part of what it means to be aware that we are living.
And with that, I will conclude by tirade on the recession (but not my fascination with Annie Dillard, more is to come fortunately or unfortunately) with a few words from Habakkuk the ultimate recession commentator:
The thing about having a blog is that you put your semi-private thoughts in a semi-public place where others can read, digest and then spit out your ideas as either brilliant or rubbish. I say this to give myself permission to make a post about the economy, knowing that I did not do well in freshmen Economics and that my ideas should probably be cast aside as rubbish. Now that I've said that, I feel I can post freely allowing whatever responses might come my way.
This blog started out slightly cheeky and for that I apologize. I dislike hearing of job losses and I do believe that times are hard. Now stick with me, because this all is related. This past week I finished one of my favorite books The Living by Annie Dillard. (See previous post for my fascination with Annie Dillard and with this book in particular.) It is such an amazing book! Set in the last half of the 19th century as the Puget Sound is being settled and finally becomes Washington state, The Living has so many different themes that I can't even begin to contain them all in a single blog post. I've read it before and liked it. I liked it in a different way this go around. And I noticed a different theme this go around as well.
Throughout the book the town of Whatcom, north of Seattle, goes through several recessions and several economic booms. Men and women try to buy into real estate at the right time, only to find their wealth gone in a matter of months when a railroad is built to Seattle instead. The new Western state depends on the banks in New York City to release their cash, but the banks are dried up, and no money is to be found. The politicians debate the silver standard vs. the gold standard and try their luck at pressing their view into law in DC, only to find out that gold has been discovered in Idaho, ending their run in politics and ending the idea that silver is a good idea.
As I read it reminded me of the news going on around me. It reminded me that my generation is not the first one to live in the midst of a recession. That my generation is not the first to question if government is making the right decisions. That my generation is not the first to suffer because banks gave out bad loans. That my generation is not the first to discover that life goes on and that the world doesn't stop because we are in the midst of economic change.
Recessions are scary. Recessions mean that people will loss their job. Recessions mean that some people will not be able to find a career to begin with. But people continue to live in the middle of recessions. They eat, they sleep, they work, they have babies, they farm and eat salmon (if you live in Whatcom), they help each other out and some die, but usually not because of the recession, but because they were going to anyway. Living does not wait to take place because we are in a recession. If we wait to live until the recession is gone, we will discover that we missed part of what it means to be aware that we are living.
And with that, I will conclude by tirade on the recession (but not my fascination with Annie Dillard, more is to come fortunately or unfortunately) with a few words from Habakkuk the ultimate recession commentator:
Though the fig tree does not bud
and there are no grapes on the vines,
though the olive crop fails
and the fields produce no food,
though there are no sheep in the pen
and no cattle in the stalls,
Yet I will rejoice in the LORD,
I will be joyful in God my Savior.
The Sovereign LORD is my strength;
he makes my feet like the feet of a deer,
he enables me to go on the heights.
Praise God! Selah...
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Today is Valentine's Day...
When I was in Elementary school I loved Valentine's Day because it meant candy, cookies, stickers and maybe a girlie present from my Mom and Dad like a necklace or scrunchie. (Yeah, I said scrunchie. I did grow up in the eighties after all.)
In Middle School all of a sudden I begin to loathe Valentine's Day when I discovered that guys would actually bring flowers and candy to girls they liked. Which meant that I would not be receiving any because unfortunately no one liked me.
In High School I had the experience of actually receiving flowers at my locker. But unfortunately these flowers were from someone I was not interested in except as a good friend. The fact that the gift of flowers were again offered later that same day from another guy is something that is still disturbing. Could the flowers have not been spread out over the years to make up for the lack of other interesting Valentine's days? And why was I playing the game of "look interested enough to warrant flowers but not really be interested" to begin with?
I like Valentine's Day. I like all the pink and red. I love all the flowers everywhere! I'm definitely not against holidays or buying a gift for someone just for the purpose of a holiday. I like it in fact. Except for those large, cheap stuffed animals in plastic wrap they are selling on the side of the road today. Gross. I'm against those. Don't buy those for any reason.
I would have to rank my top Valentine's Day holidays as the days when something happened that wasn't about me. In my romantic notions as a youth I thought that it would be utterly exciting to have someone so madly passionate about me that they just had to bring me a large 3 pound box of chocolate to my locker. But really my favorite Valentine's Days have always involved something happening that was not entirely about me. In no particular order, here are my favorite Valentine's Days:
1) My Senior Year of College: I was feeling sad on the way to my 8 o'clock class about not having a boyfriend on Valentine's Day. I started thinking about my roommate and best friend M who I knew was also sad for the same reason. On the way back from class I stopped and bought her flowers and wrote her a note so that she would have a present on Valentine's. Later that night when I came home there was a plant and a note for me from M. That was a good Valentine's.
2) The Year A and I were engaged: Our six months of engagement were pretty much all about us. And I hated it. I could not stop thinking about the wedding, no matter how much I tried. Ok, so I didn't try that hard. But still...I did try. So when Valentine's came around I decided to do something for A and something for someone else. Something not related to flowers, weddings or romance. I made a casserole and then told A to come over for a surprise. When A arrived we took the casserole to a family we knew of that was living temporarily in a hotel without a fridge and home-cooked food. I also tried to make a apple pie, but it failed miesrably. I couldn't bring it to this nice family. A ate the apple crumble stuff later with ice cream. He loved it, actually he ate it all in two sittings. Another thing to love about A, he isn't a picky eater.
3) Dias de Plutonia: If I did have to pick a favorite Valentine's day, this one might take the prize. Which is unfortunate because this one really was about me. A and I had been going out for a couple of months when he asked me a question that used to freak me out that I now have come to appreciate.
"Hey, what do you expect me to do for Valentine's day?" said A.
"Expect you to do? How blunt. How uncouth. How totally unromantic." I thought then. Now I've come to realize that asking what would be meaningful to another person and what their level of expectation may be is just as considerate as a surprise. Allbeit slightly less suspensful.
We agreed that we would celebrate something. But A, being A, decided that celebrating Valentine's day was not in the cards. Instead he created an entirely new holiday the day after Valentine's day to celebrate instead. When he came over the next day dressed his best shirt and pants, a tie and Pumas he gave me a card that looked liked this:
And said this inside:
The tradition of Deias de Plutonia (Pluto Dyas) reaches back into the days of the early church where, in an effort to teach children about the wondrous creation of God, the early church fathers made up stories about space aliens and how even space aliens would be creatures that God loved. The holiday celebrated the glory and the creativity of God as children would give one another blue and green flowers, the ancient colors of space aliens.
Late in the 19th century, astronomers discovered the planet Pluto and adopted February 18th as Dias de Plutonia, celebrating the early church tradition of honoring the Lord for His glory and creativity.
The custom for this holiday was for peopel to give one another flowers that were blue or green and greet each other with a "God loves space aliens and God loves you!" Then they would eat a large meal together. Then people would play Spin Uno, yelling out "Pluto" instead of "Uno" when appropriate.
Take this day to celebrate God's glory and creativity!"
This picture was also inside.
Now that was a good Valentine's day :) I do wonder...how come we haven't celebrated Dias de Plutonia after that year?
In Middle School all of a sudden I begin to loathe Valentine's Day when I discovered that guys would actually bring flowers and candy to girls they liked. Which meant that I would not be receiving any because unfortunately no one liked me.
In High School I had the experience of actually receiving flowers at my locker. But unfortunately these flowers were from someone I was not interested in except as a good friend. The fact that the gift of flowers were again offered later that same day from another guy is something that is still disturbing. Could the flowers have not been spread out over the years to make up for the lack of other interesting Valentine's days? And why was I playing the game of "look interested enough to warrant flowers but not really be interested" to begin with?
I like Valentine's Day. I like all the pink and red. I love all the flowers everywhere! I'm definitely not against holidays or buying a gift for someone just for the purpose of a holiday. I like it in fact. Except for those large, cheap stuffed animals in plastic wrap they are selling on the side of the road today. Gross. I'm against those. Don't buy those for any reason.
I would have to rank my top Valentine's Day holidays as the days when something happened that wasn't about me. In my romantic notions as a youth I thought that it would be utterly exciting to have someone so madly passionate about me that they just had to bring me a large 3 pound box of chocolate to my locker. But really my favorite Valentine's Days have always involved something happening that was not entirely about me. In no particular order, here are my favorite Valentine's Days:
1) My Senior Year of College: I was feeling sad on the way to my 8 o'clock class about not having a boyfriend on Valentine's Day. I started thinking about my roommate and best friend M who I knew was also sad for the same reason. On the way back from class I stopped and bought her flowers and wrote her a note so that she would have a present on Valentine's. Later that night when I came home there was a plant and a note for me from M. That was a good Valentine's.
2) The Year A and I were engaged: Our six months of engagement were pretty much all about us. And I hated it. I could not stop thinking about the wedding, no matter how much I tried. Ok, so I didn't try that hard. But still...I did try. So when Valentine's came around I decided to do something for A and something for someone else. Something not related to flowers, weddings or romance. I made a casserole and then told A to come over for a surprise. When A arrived we took the casserole to a family we knew of that was living temporarily in a hotel without a fridge and home-cooked food. I also tried to make a apple pie, but it failed miesrably. I couldn't bring it to this nice family. A ate the apple crumble stuff later with ice cream. He loved it, actually he ate it all in two sittings. Another thing to love about A, he isn't a picky eater.
3) Dias de Plutonia: If I did have to pick a favorite Valentine's day, this one might take the prize. Which is unfortunate because this one really was about me. A and I had been going out for a couple of months when he asked me a question that used to freak me out that I now have come to appreciate.
"Hey, what do you expect me to do for Valentine's day?" said A.
"Expect you to do? How blunt. How uncouth. How totally unromantic." I thought then. Now I've come to realize that asking what would be meaningful to another person and what their level of expectation may be is just as considerate as a surprise. Allbeit slightly less suspensful.
We agreed that we would celebrate something. But A, being A, decided that celebrating Valentine's day was not in the cards. Instead he created an entirely new holiday the day after Valentine's day to celebrate instead. When he came over the next day dressed his best shirt and pants, a tie and Pumas he gave me a card that looked liked this:
And said this inside:
The tradition of Deias de Plutonia (Pluto Dyas) reaches back into the days of the early church where, in an effort to teach children about the wondrous creation of God, the early church fathers made up stories about space aliens and how even space aliens would be creatures that God loved. The holiday celebrated the glory and the creativity of God as children would give one another blue and green flowers, the ancient colors of space aliens.
Late in the 19th century, astronomers discovered the planet Pluto and adopted February 18th as Dias de Plutonia, celebrating the early church tradition of honoring the Lord for His glory and creativity.
The custom for this holiday was for peopel to give one another flowers that were blue or green and greet each other with a "God loves space aliens and God loves you!" Then they would eat a large meal together. Then people would play Spin Uno, yelling out "Pluto" instead of "Uno" when appropriate.
Take this day to celebrate God's glory and creativity!"
This picture was also inside.
Now that was a good Valentine's day :) I do wonder...how come we haven't celebrated Dias de Plutonia after that year?
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
What's the purpose of that sign?
There is a table in front of the restroom at Half Price Books and a sign over the table that says "Please do not take any merchandise into the restroom." I believe the point is that you are suppose to leave your books and magazines on the table instead and pick them up on the way out. After washing your hands of course.
Previously, I always thought the sign was there so that customers wouldn't take thousands of dollars of merchandise into the bathroom, stuff it into their purse or pants and then walk out of the store becoming life long shoplifters. But today the thought occurred to me...
"What if the sign is there so that people won't take books into the bathroom to read while they are going..."
I mean, couldn't that be another logical reason for the sign? Someone, at some time, has probably been in Half Price Books, been struck with the need to go and thought to themselves "I'll just grab some reading material on my way into the public bathroom. It's not a problem, I'll just reshelf it when I'm finished." That is until the sign and the table dissuades them to do otherwise. I guess the sign has multiple purposes and thus is multi-functional in it's correction of customers. I for one am very glad that customers are not allowed to take their books into the restroom. Please, limit your reading of books on the porcelain throne to your home only.
Previously, I always thought the sign was there so that customers wouldn't take thousands of dollars of merchandise into the bathroom, stuff it into their purse or pants and then walk out of the store becoming life long shoplifters. But today the thought occurred to me...
"What if the sign is there so that people won't take books into the bathroom to read while they are going..."
I mean, couldn't that be another logical reason for the sign? Someone, at some time, has probably been in Half Price Books, been struck with the need to go and thought to themselves "I'll just grab some reading material on my way into the public bathroom. It's not a problem, I'll just reshelf it when I'm finished." That is until the sign and the table dissuades them to do otherwise. I guess the sign has multiple purposes and thus is multi-functional in it's correction of customers. I for one am very glad that customers are not allowed to take their books into the restroom. Please, limit your reading of books on the porcelain throne to your home only.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
I heart Annie Dillard...but not everyone does...
I always feel a little vulnerable sharing what authors I like reading. Ok, sharing about what I'm reading is ok, it's actually suggesting that someone else read a book I've read and loved that makes me feel a little vulnerable. What if they don't like it? What if they think I'm weird for liking it? What if there's something in it that makes them stumble or puts a really retched image in their mind. Like the time I gave my friend G my copy of The Jane Austen Book Club.
So recently not only did I share an author that I love, but I also went so far as to buy a book for a friend leaving the country for six months. After all, she was going to be in a foreign land and needed good reading material. That is why I should have made a wiser choice. I should not have gone out on a limb. I should have never told her that I like Annie Dillard.
I think Annie Dillard is awesome. She writes paragraphs like:
The adult members of society adverted to the Bible unreasonably often. What arcana! Why did they spread this scandalous document before our eyes? If they had read it, I thought, they would have hid it. They didn't recognize the vivid danger that we would, through repeated exposure, catch a case of its wild opposition to their world. Instead they bade us study great chunks of it, and think about those chunks, and commit them to memory, and ignore them. By dipping us children in the Bible so often, they hoped, I think, to give our lives a serious tint, and to provide us with quaintly magnificent snatches of prayer to produce as charms while, say, being mugged for our cash or jewels.
Is this not a beautiful paragraph? I will admit though, you do have to trudge through hundreds of other paragraphs to find such a gem.
I will say that my friends disinterest in the Annie Dillard book that we gave her reminded me that I have grown a lot. Formerly I would have been a little devastated that someone didn't like my book recommendation. The only emotion I felt this time was regret that we didn't give her a gift that she would have enjoyed overseas.
I will say that I can see how someone would not love Annie Dillard's writing. It is a bit lengthy. It's a bit rambling. And it's a bit obscure. I've tried to read Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, which she is quite famous for, but did not enjoy it at all. I picked up another book by her called For the Time Being and I thought it was weird. But still my love for her writing persists.
I recently finished An American Childhood, which is her story of growing up in Pittsburgh during the fifties. I felt a little like I did when I finished my favorite book she has written, The Living. I felt inspired. I felt like I understood my own sub-conscious and conscious thoughts more fully. And I felt like I wanted to read it again. And that is the mark of a good book!
And so, I will leave this post with another long ramble by Dillard on reading as a child:
It was clear that adults, including our parents, approved of children who read books, but it was not at all clear why this was so. Our reading was subversive, and we knew it. Did the think we read to improve our vocabularies? Did they want us to read and not pay the least bit of heed to what we read, as they wanted us to go to Sunday School and ignore what we heard?
What I sought in books was imagination. It was depth, depth of thought and feeling; some sort of extreme subject matter; some nearness to death; some call to courage. I myself was getting wild; I wanted wildness, originality, genius, rapture, hope. I wanted strength, not tea parties. What I sought in books was a world whose surfaces, whose people and events and days lived, actually matched the exaltation of the interior life. There you could live.
Those of us who read carried around with us like martyrs a secret knowledge, a secret joy, and a secret hope: There is a life worth living where history is still taking place; there are ideas worth dying for, and circumstances where courage is still prized. This life could be found and joined, like the Resistance. I kept this exhilarating faith alive in myself, concealed under my uniform shirt like an oblate's ribbon; I would not be parted from it.
We who had grown up in the Warsaw ghetto, who had seen all our families gassed in the death chambers, who had shipped before the mast, and hunted sperm whale in arctic seas; we who had marched from Moscow to Poland and lost our legs to the cold; we who knew by heart every snag and sandbar on the Mississippi River south of Cairo, and knew by heart Morse code, forty parables and psalms, and lots of Shakespeare; we who had battled Hitler and Hirohito in the North Atlantic, in North Africa, in New Guinea and Burma and Guam, in the air over London, in the Greek and Italian hills; we who had learned to man minesweepers before we learned to walk in high heels --were we going to marry Holden Caulfield's roommate, and buy a house in Point Breeze, and send our children to dancing school?
Ahhh....I heart Annie Dillard....
So recently not only did I share an author that I love, but I also went so far as to buy a book for a friend leaving the country for six months. After all, she was going to be in a foreign land and needed good reading material. That is why I should have made a wiser choice. I should not have gone out on a limb. I should have never told her that I like Annie Dillard.
I think Annie Dillard is awesome. She writes paragraphs like:
The adult members of society adverted to the Bible unreasonably often. What arcana! Why did they spread this scandalous document before our eyes? If they had read it, I thought, they would have hid it. They didn't recognize the vivid danger that we would, through repeated exposure, catch a case of its wild opposition to their world. Instead they bade us study great chunks of it, and think about those chunks, and commit them to memory, and ignore them. By dipping us children in the Bible so often, they hoped, I think, to give our lives a serious tint, and to provide us with quaintly magnificent snatches of prayer to produce as charms while, say, being mugged for our cash or jewels.
Is this not a beautiful paragraph? I will admit though, you do have to trudge through hundreds of other paragraphs to find such a gem.
I will say that my friends disinterest in the Annie Dillard book that we gave her reminded me that I have grown a lot. Formerly I would have been a little devastated that someone didn't like my book recommendation. The only emotion I felt this time was regret that we didn't give her a gift that she would have enjoyed overseas.
I will say that I can see how someone would not love Annie Dillard's writing. It is a bit lengthy. It's a bit rambling. And it's a bit obscure. I've tried to read Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, which she is quite famous for, but did not enjoy it at all. I picked up another book by her called For the Time Being and I thought it was weird. But still my love for her writing persists.
I recently finished An American Childhood, which is her story of growing up in Pittsburgh during the fifties. I felt a little like I did when I finished my favorite book she has written, The Living. I felt inspired. I felt like I understood my own sub-conscious and conscious thoughts more fully. And I felt like I wanted to read it again. And that is the mark of a good book!
And so, I will leave this post with another long ramble by Dillard on reading as a child:
It was clear that adults, including our parents, approved of children who read books, but it was not at all clear why this was so. Our reading was subversive, and we knew it. Did the think we read to improve our vocabularies? Did they want us to read and not pay the least bit of heed to what we read, as they wanted us to go to Sunday School and ignore what we heard?
What I sought in books was imagination. It was depth, depth of thought and feeling; some sort of extreme subject matter; some nearness to death; some call to courage. I myself was getting wild; I wanted wildness, originality, genius, rapture, hope. I wanted strength, not tea parties. What I sought in books was a world whose surfaces, whose people and events and days lived, actually matched the exaltation of the interior life. There you could live.
Those of us who read carried around with us like martyrs a secret knowledge, a secret joy, and a secret hope: There is a life worth living where history is still taking place; there are ideas worth dying for, and circumstances where courage is still prized. This life could be found and joined, like the Resistance. I kept this exhilarating faith alive in myself, concealed under my uniform shirt like an oblate's ribbon; I would not be parted from it.
We who had grown up in the Warsaw ghetto, who had seen all our families gassed in the death chambers, who had shipped before the mast, and hunted sperm whale in arctic seas; we who had marched from Moscow to Poland and lost our legs to the cold; we who knew by heart every snag and sandbar on the Mississippi River south of Cairo, and knew by heart Morse code, forty parables and psalms, and lots of Shakespeare; we who had battled Hitler and Hirohito in the North Atlantic, in North Africa, in New Guinea and Burma and Guam, in the air over London, in the Greek and Italian hills; we who had learned to man minesweepers before we learned to walk in high heels --were we going to marry Holden Caulfield's roommate, and buy a house in Point Breeze, and send our children to dancing school?
Ahhh....I heart Annie Dillard....
Monday, February 2, 2009
I'd like to be a perfectionist...
I'd like to be a perfectionist...I really would. At heart I think I might be a perfectionist, that is until I do something so completely un-perfectionistic that I realize I could never be a perfectionist because I make so many stupid mistakes that if I ever did become a perfectionist then I would also probably become mildly suicidal due to utter lack of perfection in my life.
Thus, tonight I sent out nine emails to about 150-200 folks who were all bcced. Don't ask why we send out nine, that's just how we roll. These nine emails were all meant to be exactly identical. I repeat, exactly identical.
However...these are the results:
Exactly three emails were sent correctly
Exactly three emails were sent with the wrong subject line, but from the correct email account
Exactly three emails were sent with the correct subject line, but from the wrong email account
What does this say...does it say I can be a perfectionist 33% of the time? NO...it say's I should go make a cup of tea, climb in bed and loathe myself. After all...I'm also the one who originally spelled their own blog link wrong.
With this post I now have discovered that blogging is highly therapeutic. It is also a way to tell your husband about the stupid thing that you did before he comes and asks you about it. That is, if he is reads this blog before he opens his email account and sees the mistake. Because technically, he's the only one who will know. It also is interesting to note that of the approximately seven people who I've shown this blog address all will receive the email. I wonder which version they received. The correct email? The wrong subject line email? Or the wrong email account email? They will never know.
I will say this, on a postive note someone did write back to the newsletter email already. They said, and I quote "Hey guys, thanks for sharing. I really like your training takeaways." Yipee. I guess it's not that bad after all.
Of course...this person does fall into the first category. They received the correct email...I'm not sure what the rest will say. But then again, since I'm not actually a perfectionist I still am able to say to myself "They'll never notice anyway." Ahh...I guess I don't really want to be a perfectionist after all, it's just too demanding.
Opps...we just had reply number two...to an incorrect email...I'm just going to go make that cup of tea...
Thus, tonight I sent out nine emails to about 150-200 folks who were all bcced. Don't ask why we send out nine, that's just how we roll. These nine emails were all meant to be exactly identical. I repeat, exactly identical.
However...these are the results:
Exactly three emails were sent correctly
Exactly three emails were sent with the wrong subject line, but from the correct email account
Exactly three emails were sent with the correct subject line, but from the wrong email account
What does this say...does it say I can be a perfectionist 33% of the time? NO...it say's I should go make a cup of tea, climb in bed and loathe myself. After all...I'm also the one who originally spelled their own blog link wrong.
With this post I now have discovered that blogging is highly therapeutic. It is also a way to tell your husband about the stupid thing that you did before he comes and asks you about it. That is, if he is reads this blog before he opens his email account and sees the mistake. Because technically, he's the only one who will know. It also is interesting to note that of the approximately seven people who I've shown this blog address all will receive the email. I wonder which version they received. The correct email? The wrong subject line email? Or the wrong email account email? They will never know.
I will say this, on a postive note someone did write back to the newsletter email already. They said, and I quote "Hey guys, thanks for sharing. I really like your training takeaways." Yipee. I guess it's not that bad after all.
Of course...this person does fall into the first category. They received the correct email...I'm not sure what the rest will say. But then again, since I'm not actually a perfectionist I still am able to say to myself "They'll never notice anyway." Ahh...I guess I don't really want to be a perfectionist after all, it's just too demanding.
Opps...we just had reply number two...to an incorrect email...I'm just going to go make that cup of tea...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
