Once upon a time, like a lot of idealistic young people, I lived and died by the bumper-sticker creed “If you’re not outraged you’re not paying attention”. After a little time and a lot of experience, my bumper sticker is more likely to read “if you’re not outraged, you’ve probably developed a good self-preservation mechanism”. It’s not to say that there isn’t still plenty in this world worthy of lament, but that most of it is not the result of nefarious individuals but of huge systems impervious to our outrage. As I discovered the first time I was crossed by Bank of America, sometimes there is no one responsible, and no one to be mad at, and the anger only hurts ourselves.
Even with individuals I find it hard to maintain anger. Like a goldfish fooled each time by the tapping on the glass, I can easily be won over by a pleasant exchange with someone, even if previous exchanges have been less than pleasant, and even if I am convinced that they are one of those rare nefarious individuals mentioned above. Perhaps it’s because I am so frequently in need of mercy and forgiveness myself, but I am usually pretty willing to start over again with someone even if they’ve irked me in the past.
A lot of people mention Jesus’ anger when they are trying to justify their own. That’s a nice idea, but come on, this is Jesus we’re talking about. Yes, he went recognizably bonkers over the money changers in the temple, but he was also the Son of God. I better be sure my motivations are as pure and my anger as righteous when I start flipping tables.
Is it called growing up? Is it called settling? Is it called getting over it, whatever it may be? I’m not sure. But because I am more willing to let things go now, I give even more attention to the handful of things I am not willing to let go. There are a few incidents in my history that I refuse to forgive or forget, the claws and barbs of which I refuse to release from my gut and my psyche. I have made a conscious decision to keep being angry about these, so they must matter.
One was being told in elementary school that I couldn’t be an altar server because I was a girl, and the other was being told in high school that I should quit singing because my voice wasn’t worth listening to. They involve such wildly different things, but to me they are so similar that I have almost conflated the two incidents into some epic thwarting, an unidentifiable outside voice telling me something about me that I knew was false.
The comment in high school was really crushing. Not only had I shaped a fair amount of my identity around my vocal talent, I also had the intuition to know that this was what I should be doing. Singing was who I was, and had been since long before I had any outside feedback that my voice was “good” or “pretty” or “sweet” or any of the other adjectives that get thrown around. Singing was something I had always done, and part of how I expressed myself. Whether my voice was pretty or sweet had nothing to do with the most important fact which was that my voice was mine.
The issue with altar serving raises whole issues of gender that I’m not sure I am ready to get into here. What I am willing to get into, and what should embarrass me more than it does, is that even as a child I had a strong and bizarre devotion to the liturgy and I knew I wanted to be a part of it. The same way that I will now read any book, attend any lecture, or take any class that has to do with liturgy, when I was a child I would take any opportunity to be involved. It was bad luck that I was in a parish (and perhaps a diocese? I’m not sure) that still prohibited “altar girls”, and I remember being so astounded that I couldn’t even be angry or upset.
One of my earliest memories is of someone at day care telling me that blue was “a boys’ color” and having my now-typical reaction of “that’s the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard”. I never believed there was anything ontologically different about me because of my gender. There was nothing I deserved or didn’t deserve, nothing I was capable or incapable of, simply because I was a girl. So to be told that this element of my identity that I truly believed to be inconsequential was going to affect another person’s decision about what I could do was an absurdity that passeth all understanding.
In retrospect, neither of these things was truly enraging, more dumbfounding: somebody thought they knew better than me about me, and that somebody was wrong. Everyone has things that they are wired for, and to have those natural inclinations denied or disparaged truly violates the natural order of things. I suppose I hang on to these insults and slights because I don’t want to forget what it is that makes me who I am. I don’t want to forget that no one can tell me what I am capable of or what my aspirations should be. It’s good to let things go, but equally good to know what we should hold onto, what's worth being mad about.
I have avoided putting a “gender” tag up on the blog for a while, because I don’t want to get into something so controversial. But maybe it’s time.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
I will hold Your people in my heart
Earlier today I clicked on a link to a post titled “Ten worst hymns of all time”. Despite the flippant title I expected to read something examining texts, vocalism, needs of communities, and musicality. Unfortunately I found the same list of popular tunes that I’ve read 100 times before, followed by reader comments lamenting the good ol’ days when we sand Gregorian chant and Holy God, We Praise Thy Name (which happens to be one of my favorite hymns, although people taking issue with awkward lyrics in modern songs shouldn't then turn around and raise up a tune with the line 'Lo! the apostolic train angel choirs above are raising'). I should be clear my beef here is more with the comments and the idea of picking out the “worst hymns” than it is with the actual list (although the inclusion of Pescador de Hombres offends me).
Judging by their comments most of the readers could be called “traditional” or “conservative” (yes, labels are odious, but sometimes they are necessary) , and it is no surprise that they don’t like the St Louis Jesuits, and they don’t have much use for Marty Haugen and David Haas, either. I have always argued that post-conciliar American liturgical music is a mixed bag, and that it is going to take sometime to separate the wheat from the chaff. But despite picking out a handful of bad couplets as evidence that these pieces are on shaky theological ground, it’s obvious that most of these people just don’t like that particular genre of eighth-notey, hyper-melodic, G or D major, Haugen/Haas style jams.
There are plenty of pieces in that genre for which I don’t care either. My issues with these lists (and I have read plenty, and they are almost always similar) is that rather than addressing particular shortcomings in a way that could be constructive, they self-righteously vent about how much they hate a song or how tired they are of it. It’s worth noting that One Bread, One Body has too many held notes and not enough internal rhythm, that I Am the Bread of Life has as wide a range as the National Anthem, and that We Are Called would be much better in G. Pinpointing challenges in popular hymns helps us to be more prudent about their use (We Are Called only as a closing hymn rather than opening, One Bread One Body with an organist and singers capable of subdivision, I Am the Bread of Life in thick enough orchestration that people can switch octaves and not feel like they’re sticking out). But that’s not as much fun as being snarky.
The elephant in the room when we get kvetching about Here I Am, Lord, is that people really like that song. I know, some people really like smoking, too, even though it’s bad for them. But if something is a legitimate conduit of grace, we need to give some value to that. If we don’t, it means we don’t trust our fellow worshippers’ taste or spirituality. Almost every song on this list is deeply meaningful to many people, and none are so theologically or musically revolting that they are truly unacceptable for worship. Yet there are still scads of liturgists (and armchair liturgists) who see their role as protecting the people from themselves. I literally cannot find words to express how frustrated this makes me. If you do not value or trust your community you have no place leading it.
I often joke to my choirs that they make me like songs I don’t like, and they do this by filling them with life and art and prayer. There are a very few songs that are on my “absolutely not” list, and I’ll admit that it’s often more fun to criticize a piece I don’t like than to open myself to learning why it is meaningful to other people. Just because this is what I do for a living doesn’t mean I get to decide for everyone what their values should be. I can try to influence their taste and offer new examples of meaningful music, and I can make the best of the meaningful music that is not ideal. The people who worship beside me in any setting are my family in Christ, fellow heirs of the Reign of God. To love and listen to a community can be exhausting and aggravating, but I don’t do my job as a minister or a baptized person if I smugly blow off their consensus, experience, and wisdom.
Judging by their comments most of the readers could be called “traditional” or “conservative” (yes, labels are odious, but sometimes they are necessary) , and it is no surprise that they don’t like the St Louis Jesuits, and they don’t have much use for Marty Haugen and David Haas, either. I have always argued that post-conciliar American liturgical music is a mixed bag, and that it is going to take sometime to separate the wheat from the chaff. But despite picking out a handful of bad couplets as evidence that these pieces are on shaky theological ground, it’s obvious that most of these people just don’t like that particular genre of eighth-notey, hyper-melodic, G or D major, Haugen/Haas style jams.
There are plenty of pieces in that genre for which I don’t care either. My issues with these lists (and I have read plenty, and they are almost always similar) is that rather than addressing particular shortcomings in a way that could be constructive, they self-righteously vent about how much they hate a song or how tired they are of it. It’s worth noting that One Bread, One Body has too many held notes and not enough internal rhythm, that I Am the Bread of Life has as wide a range as the National Anthem, and that We Are Called would be much better in G. Pinpointing challenges in popular hymns helps us to be more prudent about their use (We Are Called only as a closing hymn rather than opening, One Bread One Body with an organist and singers capable of subdivision, I Am the Bread of Life in thick enough orchestration that people can switch octaves and not feel like they’re sticking out). But that’s not as much fun as being snarky.
The elephant in the room when we get kvetching about Here I Am, Lord, is that people really like that song. I know, some people really like smoking, too, even though it’s bad for them. But if something is a legitimate conduit of grace, we need to give some value to that. If we don’t, it means we don’t trust our fellow worshippers’ taste or spirituality. Almost every song on this list is deeply meaningful to many people, and none are so theologically or musically revolting that they are truly unacceptable for worship. Yet there are still scads of liturgists (and armchair liturgists) who see their role as protecting the people from themselves. I literally cannot find words to express how frustrated this makes me. If you do not value or trust your community you have no place leading it.
I often joke to my choirs that they make me like songs I don’t like, and they do this by filling them with life and art and prayer. There are a very few songs that are on my “absolutely not” list, and I’ll admit that it’s often more fun to criticize a piece I don’t like than to open myself to learning why it is meaningful to other people. Just because this is what I do for a living doesn’t mean I get to decide for everyone what their values should be. I can try to influence their taste and offer new examples of meaningful music, and I can make the best of the meaningful music that is not ideal. The people who worship beside me in any setting are my family in Christ, fellow heirs of the Reign of God. To love and listen to a community can be exhausting and aggravating, but I don’t do my job as a minister or a baptized person if I smugly blow off their consensus, experience, and wisdom.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
O Magnum Mysterium
Occasionally I am asked if I get nervous singing at church. The short answer is no, but the one ministerial task that trips me up from time to time is reading the name(s) of those for whom mass is being offered. When I have a name of unclear pronunciation I make something up and hope that the people sitting awkwardly near the gifts table don’t happen to be the entire extended family of the deceased, now even more distraught at having heard their family name butchered by the church singer.
Having mass said for someone is one of those peculiar Catholic customs that you hope doesn’t come up in mixed company. Since it usually involves a donation, on the surface it might look like a moneymaking scheme, reinforcing the misconception that Catholicism is pay-to-pray. There are as many reasons for requesting mass be said for someone as there are families and friends who have sent mass cards or gathered a memorial liturgies. There is grace in gathering together loved ones for worship, but there must be something more to it than that it makes us all feel nice to be in one place.
In the Eucharist we encounter Christ broken – could it be that that is some comfort in our own time of brokenness?
Death is such a great mystery that most of us avoid giving it much thought. It doesn't surprise me that we bring this mystery to the great mysterion, the Eucharist. I have found comfort in a faith that doesn’t avoid mystery but sanctifies it, insisting on frequent celebration of a ritual we can never understand. We celebrate that magnum mysterium, that God got down in the muck with us and suffered just like we do. When we hold someone in our heart during the sacrifice of mass we offer their memory and ourselves up to that great mystery of a Triune, loving God.
I am remembering today two loved ones who died a year ago, so what began as a prosaic reflection on mispronounced names and grandkids bringing up the gifts has turned into something more serious. How fortunate I feel to participate regularly in ritual that doesn’t depend on answers but revels in questions: How is it that our community is knit together by bread broken? Why does God continue to meet us- sinful, silly, distracted people that we are?
How could the horror of death become an instrument of our salvation?
Having mass said for someone is one of those peculiar Catholic customs that you hope doesn’t come up in mixed company. Since it usually involves a donation, on the surface it might look like a moneymaking scheme, reinforcing the misconception that Catholicism is pay-to-pray. There are as many reasons for requesting mass be said for someone as there are families and friends who have sent mass cards or gathered a memorial liturgies. There is grace in gathering together loved ones for worship, but there must be something more to it than that it makes us all feel nice to be in one place.
In the Eucharist we encounter Christ broken – could it be that that is some comfort in our own time of brokenness?
Death is such a great mystery that most of us avoid giving it much thought. It doesn't surprise me that we bring this mystery to the great mysterion, the Eucharist. I have found comfort in a faith that doesn’t avoid mystery but sanctifies it, insisting on frequent celebration of a ritual we can never understand. We celebrate that magnum mysterium, that God got down in the muck with us and suffered just like we do. When we hold someone in our heart during the sacrifice of mass we offer their memory and ourselves up to that great mystery of a Triune, loving God.
I am remembering today two loved ones who died a year ago, so what began as a prosaic reflection on mispronounced names and grandkids bringing up the gifts has turned into something more serious. How fortunate I feel to participate regularly in ritual that doesn’t depend on answers but revels in questions: How is it that our community is knit together by bread broken? Why does God continue to meet us- sinful, silly, distracted people that we are?
How could the horror of death become an instrument of our salvation?
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Getting out of the way
A few years ago I sang with a musician who I really respect and who tells it like it is. At the end of my coaching he asked me “why do you sing like you think you’re worse than you are?”
****
I just completed six days in an Institute for Arts and Worship. You would think, having spent nearly a week dealing with two of my favorite things that I would be writing prodigiously. Instead, I’ve found myself totally blocked. There are many new ideas bumping around in my head and not a lot of direction as to how to piece them all together.
One insight from the week that stuck with me was that there are many similarities between worship and art. Both require honesty, vulnerability, communication, and trust. Both are expressive and both can be a little bit radical.
There is a tendency to be fussy with our liturgical worship and prayer, dressing it up in inauthentic ways to feel as if we’ve prepared enough. I was relieved to hear John Bell, our keynote, announce that our worship should be free of gimmicks, as gimmickry is one of my biggest pet peeves in liturgical planning (and I’ve yet to find a diplomatic way to point it out when I see it). Much like in art, the nonsense we use to dress things up often ends up getting in the way of the Thing.
I, of all people, should know, master that I am of getting in the way. I have been working all month on Carmina Burana, a piece I find extremely difficult, and which, therefore, scares me to death. Practicing has been going well, but one movement was still giving me grief this week. I was singing scared, singing like I couldn’t do it, getting in my own way. Not only was I not making expressive art, I wasn’t even singing in tune. I dreaded going to the practice room, and my dread was a self-fulfilling prophecy.
So after a week of being pushed and stretched a million ways through the workshops at this Institute, I decided to let it all hang out in the practice room, to decide what I wanted to say in this movement and just let it out. No thinking about technique or perfection or control. Lo and behold, it was pretty close to perfect.
****
Why do we pray like we think we’re worse than we are? Are we afraid to let it all hang out, to cede control? Do we think that we won't be able to do it? Do we worry if we dig too deep to express ourselves most authentically that we’ll dig up something we – or God – can’t handle? We let our liturgies turn into variety shows – or morgues – rather than daring to be the Body of Christ gathered in prayer. If that gathering is not our goal, why bother?
Getting out of the way is challenging, especially when we are comfortable with our impediments. Fortunate are we that we don’t need self-conscious gimmicks or to become someone else in order to pray. All week I fought the good fight at this institute, listening to effusive enthusiasm from others about their prayer experiences in dance, improv, collage. My experiences were no doubt holy, but nothing to go home and write a poem about. I felt pressure to find my bliss in one of these less familiar prayer forms, and it was making me a little grumpy.
During our final worship together we sang one of the hymns that I know inside and out. I closed my eyes and sang my prayer with a confidence that I was offering my most honest worship. God met me there, when I was being most myself, rather than when I was trying on other guises. I trusted enough to sing and pray as I was, not believing I was worse (or better) than I am. I wasn’t in my own way, and as the singing ended I concluded just as the hymn did – lost in wonder, love, and praise.
****
I just completed six days in an Institute for Arts and Worship. You would think, having spent nearly a week dealing with two of my favorite things that I would be writing prodigiously. Instead, I’ve found myself totally blocked. There are many new ideas bumping around in my head and not a lot of direction as to how to piece them all together.
One insight from the week that stuck with me was that there are many similarities between worship and art. Both require honesty, vulnerability, communication, and trust. Both are expressive and both can be a little bit radical.
There is a tendency to be fussy with our liturgical worship and prayer, dressing it up in inauthentic ways to feel as if we’ve prepared enough. I was relieved to hear John Bell, our keynote, announce that our worship should be free of gimmicks, as gimmickry is one of my biggest pet peeves in liturgical planning (and I’ve yet to find a diplomatic way to point it out when I see it). Much like in art, the nonsense we use to dress things up often ends up getting in the way of the Thing.
I, of all people, should know, master that I am of getting in the way. I have been working all month on Carmina Burana, a piece I find extremely difficult, and which, therefore, scares me to death. Practicing has been going well, but one movement was still giving me grief this week. I was singing scared, singing like I couldn’t do it, getting in my own way. Not only was I not making expressive art, I wasn’t even singing in tune. I dreaded going to the practice room, and my dread was a self-fulfilling prophecy.
So after a week of being pushed and stretched a million ways through the workshops at this Institute, I decided to let it all hang out in the practice room, to decide what I wanted to say in this movement and just let it out. No thinking about technique or perfection or control. Lo and behold, it was pretty close to perfect.
****
Why do we pray like we think we’re worse than we are? Are we afraid to let it all hang out, to cede control? Do we think that we won't be able to do it? Do we worry if we dig too deep to express ourselves most authentically that we’ll dig up something we – or God – can’t handle? We let our liturgies turn into variety shows – or morgues – rather than daring to be the Body of Christ gathered in prayer. If that gathering is not our goal, why bother?
Getting out of the way is challenging, especially when we are comfortable with our impediments. Fortunate are we that we don’t need self-conscious gimmicks or to become someone else in order to pray. All week I fought the good fight at this institute, listening to effusive enthusiasm from others about their prayer experiences in dance, improv, collage. My experiences were no doubt holy, but nothing to go home and write a poem about. I felt pressure to find my bliss in one of these less familiar prayer forms, and it was making me a little grumpy.
During our final worship together we sang one of the hymns that I know inside and out. I closed my eyes and sang my prayer with a confidence that I was offering my most honest worship. God met me there, when I was being most myself, rather than when I was trying on other guises. I trusted enough to sing and pray as I was, not believing I was worse (or better) than I am. I wasn’t in my own way, and as the singing ended I concluded just as the hymn did – lost in wonder, love, and praise.
Monday, June 14, 2010
All you holy men and women, pray for us.
Last weekend I sang the ordination of two new priests. Having only sung one ordination prior (7 years ago), if you had asked me about the rite, the only thing I would have remembered was that it includes a litany of saints.
For a jaded old church nerd like me, it takes something special to move me (for instance, it's rare that the Agnus Dei lights my fire). Certain liturgical elements, thanks to their rarity, catch my attention (I'm a sucker for a good Sequence) and a litany is one of them. This weekend we sang Becker's popular setting of the litany. As we invoked saint after saint, while the newest members of the presbyterate lay prostrate, I became unexpectedly emotional.
The assembly repeated "pray for us" as we called upon saints familiar (Mary & Joseph), arcane (Chrysogonus & Hippolytus) and particular to our Jesuit community (Ignatius & Francis). On other occasions I have sung litanies that put Oscar Romero, Dorothy Day and Pedro Arrupe alongside Linus, Cletus and Clement. Where do we get the confidence to call upon our heroes to petition God on our behalf?
Any Catholic concerned with public perception keeps all this saints hoo-ha quiet if they can. Maybe we hedge a bit, acknowledging that we admire these people, but leaving out the more radical part of our claim to the saints: we believe there is something so generous and holy about them that they will back up our prayers.
As we asked for prayers on Saturday, what really took my breath away was the list we had in front of us, one that only skims the surface of our wealth of heavenly intercessors. And even when we mumble our response, or can't hear the cantor, or let our eyes and minds wander, the saints are still on our side, welcoming us into their communion. What greater advocates can we have than the saints named and unnamed, living in love with God forever?
[Two notes on the litany - I tried to find a recording of the Becker setting to which to link, but I was unable to find one that wasn't either out of tune, goopily sentimental, or one singer overdubbing his own responses to the invocations. Also, after the ordination I said something flippant about not knowing why a piece of music that is mildly cheesy was so moving. Luckily I was with the Jesuits, one of whom had a characteristic reply enumerating all of the evidence for this being the superior setting of the litany. Typical]
In lieu of a sound clip, I will include a photo of myself and one of my favorite saints.
For a jaded old church nerd like me, it takes something special to move me (for instance, it's rare that the Agnus Dei lights my fire). Certain liturgical elements, thanks to their rarity, catch my attention (I'm a sucker for a good Sequence) and a litany is one of them. This weekend we sang Becker's popular setting of the litany. As we invoked saint after saint, while the newest members of the presbyterate lay prostrate, I became unexpectedly emotional.
The assembly repeated "pray for us" as we called upon saints familiar (Mary & Joseph), arcane (Chrysogonus & Hippolytus) and particular to our Jesuit community (Ignatius & Francis). On other occasions I have sung litanies that put Oscar Romero, Dorothy Day and Pedro Arrupe alongside Linus, Cletus and Clement. Where do we get the confidence to call upon our heroes to petition God on our behalf?
Any Catholic concerned with public perception keeps all this saints hoo-ha quiet if they can. Maybe we hedge a bit, acknowledging that we admire these people, but leaving out the more radical part of our claim to the saints: we believe there is something so generous and holy about them that they will back up our prayers.
As we asked for prayers on Saturday, what really took my breath away was the list we had in front of us, one that only skims the surface of our wealth of heavenly intercessors. And even when we mumble our response, or can't hear the cantor, or let our eyes and minds wander, the saints are still on our side, welcoming us into their communion. What greater advocates can we have than the saints named and unnamed, living in love with God forever?
[Two notes on the litany - I tried to find a recording of the Becker setting to which to link, but I was unable to find one that wasn't either out of tune, goopily sentimental, or one singer overdubbing his own responses to the invocations. Also, after the ordination I said something flippant about not knowing why a piece of music that is mildly cheesy was so moving. Luckily I was with the Jesuits, one of whom had a characteristic reply enumerating all of the evidence for this being the superior setting of the litany. Typical]
In lieu of a sound clip, I will include a photo of myself and one of my favorite saints.
Friday, June 11, 2010
In defense of gratuitousness
I kicked off my summer vacation right, having lunch with a wonderful friend. She's someone with whom I can talk about things that really matter: fears and frustrations, hopes and goals. Both of us articulated writing as one of our summer goals, and the conversation turned to favorite tools (typewriter for her, pen and notebook for me), topics, and genres.
After a few minutes one of us (I don't remember who) was brave enough to say the P-word: Poetry. We both admitted there was something a little pretentious about writing poetry. I used to write quite a bit, and most of it was crap but some of it wasn't terrible. Now I write infrequently, only when I'm just bursting and the poetry nearly writes itself. There's not a lot of craft or discipline or even art to it. I rarely share what I write because it feels presumptuous to think that I could possibly have something worth saying and that I believe I have expressed it beautifully.
Presumptuous, pretentious...and gratuitous. Poetry is so unneccessary, so impractical. Why not write an essay or an article? But all creation is gratuitous - even ours. If it was good enough for our Divine Creator, it should be good enough for me.
Some volumes came from Amazon today. I had decided I couldn't go any longer without the Four Quartets on my nightstand. Skimming some of the new selections I was overwhelmed at how much they made me feel. Emotion may be gratuitous too, but it is also beautiful, beautiful enough that it is worth whatever creative labor or happy accident that inspires it.
I'll never be a T.S. Eliot, but I don't have to be. To say what I have to say and to participate in the divine creation are worthy goals. They may be gratuitous, but so are many holy things.
So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years—
Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l'entre deux guerres
Trying to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
Undisciplined squads of emotion. And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate—but there is no competition—
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business. - T. S. Eliot, from East Coker, Four Quartets
After a few minutes one of us (I don't remember who) was brave enough to say the P-word: Poetry. We both admitted there was something a little pretentious about writing poetry. I used to write quite a bit, and most of it was crap but some of it wasn't terrible. Now I write infrequently, only when I'm just bursting and the poetry nearly writes itself. There's not a lot of craft or discipline or even art to it. I rarely share what I write because it feels presumptuous to think that I could possibly have something worth saying and that I believe I have expressed it beautifully.
Presumptuous, pretentious...and gratuitous. Poetry is so unneccessary, so impractical. Why not write an essay or an article? But all creation is gratuitous - even ours. If it was good enough for our Divine Creator, it should be good enough for me.
Some volumes came from Amazon today. I had decided I couldn't go any longer without the Four Quartets on my nightstand. Skimming some of the new selections I was overwhelmed at how much they made me feel. Emotion may be gratuitous too, but it is also beautiful, beautiful enough that it is worth whatever creative labor or happy accident that inspires it.
I'll never be a T.S. Eliot, but I don't have to be. To say what I have to say and to participate in the divine creation are worthy goals. They may be gratuitous, but so are many holy things.
So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years—
Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l'entre deux guerres
Trying to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
Undisciplined squads of emotion. And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate—but there is no competition—
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business. - T. S. Eliot, from East Coker, Four Quartets
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Wrapping beautiful presents
Sometime I imagine that I will wake up in the morning and magically be the sort of person who can wrap presents beautifully. I will keep a clean desk, I will keep a clean house. I will be able to wear clothes that fasten with ties without looking like I just escaped from being tied to a stake. I will speak softly and prudently and above all calmly, I won’t ever have to look back with chagrin at having run off at the mouth, I won’t rush into things without thinking or get spacy while trying to get things done. I will wrap beautiful presents.
None of this has happened yet. In a recent conversation with my mother we joked about the frequency with which I fall, and she took great pleasure in regaling me with stories from my toddler-hood of my life on the border of reckless and fearless (I remember the time you charged into the water in Rhode Island and the wave knocked you over, I remember the time you took a flying leap onto the sled and the sled didn’t move and you slammed your face into the snow…she takes a bit more joy in these stories than is seemly). That’s where I have always lived my life, on the edges of good taste and good sense, hoping that there is enough room for me to spaz out and not hit anything.
Discipline and control have always been my biggest challenges, and when the reserved and soft-spoken tell me they admire how I express myself, I tell them how I admire them, able to be calm, able to be quiet. I have to work hard at neatness of all kinds – in my house, in my communication, in my appearance, and in my demeanor.
I imagine I will wake up in the morning and all this will be easier. Instead, I wake up every morning with sheets all over the floor, leave my pajamas somewhere in the path between the bed and shower, drip water all over the bathroom, empty the coffee pot and don’t rinse it, slop cream cheese on a bagel while poppy seeds fly all over the kitchen, and leave my dishes in the sink for later. But I realized today that I wake up nearly every morning genuinely excited to take on the day , ready to take flying leap onto the sled or sprint into the crashing waves (or, as I did in another one of my mother’s favorite anecdotes, run into the first day of tumbling class shouting “Come on new friends, let’s go!”).
I imagine I will wake up in the morning and be able to wrap beautiful presents. Until that day, I won’t stop giving my big sloppy gifts. If I give in a warm and loving spirit, I trust that everyone will ignore the disheveled exterior to see that inside, there’s something they’re really going to like.
None of this has happened yet. In a recent conversation with my mother we joked about the frequency with which I fall, and she took great pleasure in regaling me with stories from my toddler-hood of my life on the border of reckless and fearless (I remember the time you charged into the water in Rhode Island and the wave knocked you over, I remember the time you took a flying leap onto the sled and the sled didn’t move and you slammed your face into the snow…she takes a bit more joy in these stories than is seemly). That’s where I have always lived my life, on the edges of good taste and good sense, hoping that there is enough room for me to spaz out and not hit anything.
Discipline and control have always been my biggest challenges, and when the reserved and soft-spoken tell me they admire how I express myself, I tell them how I admire them, able to be calm, able to be quiet. I have to work hard at neatness of all kinds – in my house, in my communication, in my appearance, and in my demeanor.
I imagine I will wake up in the morning and all this will be easier. Instead, I wake up every morning with sheets all over the floor, leave my pajamas somewhere in the path between the bed and shower, drip water all over the bathroom, empty the coffee pot and don’t rinse it, slop cream cheese on a bagel while poppy seeds fly all over the kitchen, and leave my dishes in the sink for later. But I realized today that I wake up nearly every morning genuinely excited to take on the day , ready to take flying leap onto the sled or sprint into the crashing waves (or, as I did in another one of my mother’s favorite anecdotes, run into the first day of tumbling class shouting “Come on new friends, let’s go!”).
I imagine I will wake up in the morning and be able to wrap beautiful presents. Until that day, I won’t stop giving my big sloppy gifts. If I give in a warm and loving spirit, I trust that everyone will ignore the disheveled exterior to see that inside, there’s something they’re really going to like.
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