Discovering the Buried Life

But often, in the world's most crowded streets,
But often, in the din of strife,
There rises an unspeakable desire
After the knowledge of our buried life;
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
In tracking out our true, original course;                      
A longing to inquire
Into the mystery of this heart which beats
So wild, so deep in us--to know
Whence our lives come and where they go.


When I first encountered Matthew Arnold's poetry, "The Buried Life" struck me--a rather lost-feeling college sophomore at the time--as tremendously apt in its description of man's shallow self-knowledge. A revered professor-turned-provost illuminated Arnold's genius so thoroughly that I couldn't deny his brilliancy of insight.   "How easily influenced we are!" I thought, "How little time  we give to contemplation, to genuine self-discovery. We so rarely delve below the surface. What a SHAME." And, concluding these thoughts as quickly as possible, I hurried off to my next meeting, next class, next tea-time with the girls. 


Now, nearly three years out of college, Arnold's poetry impresses me less. His style feels too cold and correct to contain much sincerity. His imagery seems conventional and uninspired--all the typical critiques of Victorian stylings apply. (Sorry, Dr. Whalen.) "Dover Beach" will always have a special place in my heart, of course. The progression of thought detailed within "The Buried Life" is much more formulaic than that of Dover. But the ideas contained within this poem strike me differently now. 


I still feel a bit lost, though I lack the excuses of a college sophomore. Turning twenty-five last month stung more than I expected. The temptation to compare my life with the lives of my peers was too strong to resist: There's Hans running for State Representative. There's Alyssa writing for a cultural magazine in New York City. There's Amy and Alicia and Marcy and Kjerstin supporting fantastic husbands and bringing new souls into the world. There's Megan finishing up law school.  There's Neal introducing his new line of designer jeans. What am I doing? What have I done?


The litany of questions doesn't end: Why do I teach? Do I even WANT to teach? What else am I fit for? Where else could I go? Can I really start over again? Should I pursue the career I've begun? What will I do when my desire to change the world becomes subservient to my desire for a better salary? How will I pay for grad school? What sort of person have I become? What sort of person do I want to be? 


And my unbearable answer is always: I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.


Arnold's response, though, surprised me this time around.

Only--but this is rare--
When a beloved hand is laid in ours,
When, jaded with the rush and glare
Of the interminable hours,                                            
Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear,
When our world-deafen'd ear
Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd--
A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,
And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again.
The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,
And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.


It seems that knowledge doesn't come from earnest self-analysis and it won't come from comparisons with the success stories of others, or through new year's resolutions.  To know yourself, you have to know and be known by another.  Isolation and independence have no place in this quest for truth. A hand to hold, a face for the eyes to rest on, a heart to discover---having these, I have all the answers I need today.

Booklust, Bloodlust and Teen Romance

This year my school began as Sustained Silent Reading program. This "research-based" technique requires all students (and teachers) to spend about thirty minutes every day in silent pleasure-reading. This is not time for studying, emailing, or socializing: just reading.  I was skeptical at first, especially since this schedule change pushed the beginning of the first class from 8:00am to 7:45, but SSR has become my favorite part of the day.

My reading group is a batch of 12 students, a mix of freshmen-juniors, and I really don't know anything about them. After all, there's not a lot of discussion going on during SSR: they arrive, sit, open books, and read. Occasionally, the intercom instructs us to rise for the pledge of allegiance, but that's the extent of our conversation most days. So one morning, in an attempt to foster some reading camaraderie, I offered to let the kids picked out my next book. Naturally, they chose:

I suppose I had it coming to me. But I must own to having a bit of curiosity about the series. So one weekend, I brought the chunky paperback home and dove in.

My expectations were low from the start. A number of students have enthusiastically recounted the origins of the story: Ms. Meyer had a *dream* one night about this blood-sucking family, and wrote the series without doing *any* research on vampire legends. "Isn't that inCREDible, Miss S?"  (This attitude of delighted wonder at "spontaneous composition" probably explains the quality of my students' essays, and their reluctance to edit. Ah, if we all had a muse...)

Even though I didn't go in expecting impressive quality, Ms. Meyer still managed to disappoint on multiple levels. Though she creates effective suspense, the writing lacks subtlety. In fact, Meyers is so loath to imply anything in her prose that she communicates the thoughts of her characters by having them constantly ask one another what each is thinking. (This tedious type of conversation is enabled by the handy plot device of the main vampire having the impressive quality of being able to read most minds---EXCEPT the mind of the girl that he finds most attractive.  Shocking.)

Sadly, the best passages of the book are devoted to mildly pornographic descriptions of vampire physique. In Meyers' world, vampires are especially attractive to their prey, so glowing skin, chiseled musculature, and stunning features are typical of the species. On the plus side, I think Meyers may eventually be responsible for a renewal of the idea that fair skin is attractive.

(Edward, 118 year old vampire and Bella, 17 year old rebel)

What disturbed me most about this book, though, was the assumption that a century old, flesh-eating monster with super-hero-like strength, and model-quality features could be endlessly fascinated with a seventeen year old from Phoenix. First of all, the statutory nature of the relationship raises a few problems. But legality aside, what could a creature with the wisdom and experience of 100 years find interesting about an average high school student? Meyers never clarifies that point. The initial attraction of Edward (Mr. Vampire) to Bella (Boring Teenager) is explained through pure carnality: the "scent" of Bella's blood is especially delicious to Edward.

This bloodlust/romantic curiosity leads him to engage in a variety of stalker-like behaviors, including watching her from the woods surrounding her house, spying on the minds of people she talks to (thanks to his random telepathy), and following her around town as much as he feels like it. My students seem to accept this invasive, aggressive, obsessive behavior as a normal sign of genuine love. Vampires can be scary, I guess, but this blind acceptance is terrifying.

I don't support censorship in any capacity and I do encourage my students to "read promiscuously", as Milton would have them do. But their apparent inability to discern worthwhile fiction from emotionally manipulative escapist literature bothers me deeply.

Advenio Velocito!

I am keenly aware that this advent season is one of waiting and that I OUGHT to be putting off the celebration, but I was overcome by my roommate's enthusiasm yesterday. Grace made a trip to Hobby Lobby and Eva and Jacob went to the mountains and chopped down their own tree. When they both returned laden with decorations I gave in, poured the hot chocolate, put on the Christmas music, and joined them in decking the halls!

It's delightful to curl up on the couch with a mug of delicious and a good book. Typically, I don't have much time to indulge, but Mother Nature sent me the gift of time (via snow storm) so I have the day off from school.  My intense excitement is probably the only reason I'm blogging before 6am on a Tuesday... But, then again, who doesn't love presents?

Finishing

"My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree

Toward heaven still,

And there's a barrel that I didn't fill

Beside it, and there may be two or three

Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.

But I am done with apple-picking now."

- Robert Frost, "After Apple Picking"

The problem with teaching (she writes, knowing full well most educators would quibble over which problem, of the thousands we face, ranks highest tonight), the problem with teaching is that one never achieves the satisfaction of feeling finished. Every night I have to choose to be done, to set the books and papers aside incomplete, to cook or shop or rest a while. I can't remember the last time I've actually checked every item off of my (admittedly, optimistic) list. Prioritizing takes energy. And no matter how hard I work, undone tasks linger in the corners of my mind, coming out at night to fester in my dreams. 

I've improved, if you'll believe it, since my first year of teaching. I used to keep myself up until 1am and rise at 5am in order to grasp the elusive sensation of completion. Acknowledging the impossibility of this task has let me keep a better sleeping schedule, but not by much. Those of you who know me well know that I'm no Scrooge when it comes to self-indulgence. I take breaks. I procrastinate. I sleep in once or twice a month. But these brief  mental vacations are about as satisfying as a soma-holiday. The guilt never really disappears. There are the papers to read, to grade, to enter into the grade book, and of course the lessons to plan and the books to read and I really should do more research on the author this year.

 All I want tonight is complete freedom of mind.

But instead I am going to pack my teacher tote bag up and head to a coffee shop for the next three hours. 

"For I have had too much

Of apple-picking: I am overtired

Of the great harvest I myself desired.

There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,

Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.

For all

That struck the earth,

No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,

Went surely to the cider-apple heap

As of no worth.

One can see what will trouble

This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is."

The Hostess with the Mostess

For food, for raiment, for life, for opportunity

For friendship and fellowship,

We thank Thee, O Lord

I have been away from home for Thanksgiving for three years running and I no longer mourn my mother's twice baked potatoes or my aunt's cranberry ice. I've roasted a turkey breast for me and Meg and Kate and our tiniest Thanksgiving Dinner Ever in 2007. And I baked a sweet potato casserole and a few other sides for the Awkward Roommate Feast of 2008. But this year, I hosted. I hosted dinner for 10 healthy young people with healthy strong appetites. The turkey weighed 23 pounds.

I don't know if you have ever experienced Marthaphobia (fear of hostessing; name drawn from Biblical account of the woman who would not stop cooking and cleaning even to listen to Jesus and, of course, the ultimate hostess, Martha Stewart), but it can utterly dominate those who suffer from it.

The first signs showed up weeks before the actual event, when I realized that I was in charge of Thanksgiving. Let me explain: a former roommate told me that she wanted to host Thanksgiving and had suggested gathering a few friends to feast together. She asked if we could have the dinner at my house, as my house contains a sizable dining room table. "Sure," I said, "we can have people over here." About a week after that conversation this friend sent me a friendly email asking if she could bring a salad to contribute to the meal. At first I was confused, but I soon came to understand that she took my offer of a table as an offer to make dinner. Thus began the four stages of Marthaphobia:

#1) Victimization: This stage is characterized by self-pity and anger directed towards guests. "Why do they expect so much of me? Why do I have to pay for everything? Can't some else iron table linens for once?" This  phase is typically short-lived because either the inner hostess naturally rises above these base emotions or the hostesses boyfriend gives her a talking-to that has the same effect.  Once the victimization abates, the Marthaphobic passes into the next stage:

#2) Perfectionism: This self-explanatory stage is where most Marthaphobics remain, dominated by a desire to control the event and perfect every detail. The perfectionist is likely to break down in tears when she discovered on Monday that her frozen turkey really should defrost for four or five days before brining. Irrationally dramatic responses to small setbacks are typical of this stage. She should not be allowed to go to the supermarket alone during this period. The perfectionist might also show a proclivity towards unnecessary purchases (pilgrim shaped salt and pepper shakers, for instance) that she thinks, in her delusion, will contribute to the success of the event.  The only way that a Marthaphobic can escape this wearying stage is by giving up control and giving into:

#3) Delegation:  Delegation requires a loosening of the death-grip the hostess holds on every detail of the event. It's best to start small. Asking a guest to bake a pie (perhaps an extra, back-up pie) is a good way to begin. As more guests offer to contribute dishes, the Marthaphobic will realize that full responsibility for the success of the dinner is no longer hers to bear. She will relax, grow comfortable making requests of others, and gradually gain a communal view of the event. In severe cases, the Marthaphobic will relieve herself of all cooking in order to focus on the scouring of the house. (In my case, I got rid of everything but the turkey and the cranberry sauce during this stage: good decision!)

From this point, the Marthaphobic can conclude the episode with one of the following three stages:

#4a) Combustion: the Marthaphobic stresses out so badly that her nerves short-circuit before guests arrive, so that she is bedridden during the event.
#4b) Intoxication: the Marthaphobic sheds her fear of hostessing along with her correct perceptions of reality. and consoles herself by flirting with furniture.
#4c) Elegance: The Marthaphobic can assumed a relaxed, welcoming demeanor that puts her guests at ease and removes all concern about trivial details like scorched pot holders, gizzard consumption, and gravy spills.

In my own recent experience, a combination of 4b and 4c got the job done. (What is that? Intoxigance? Elegation?) Despite numerous nay-sayers ("That turkey will never fit in your pan", says Roommate's Mother) and setbacks ("The neck is still frozen in the cavity and pouring warm water up it's butt isn't helping!" says Supportive Boyfriend) our Thanksgiving was a great success.

Curiouser and Curiouser

So, remember all the hype about "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button"?

Bull.

Don't watch it, ladies. Just pop in Forrest Gump and call it a day.

Break, break, break

"Break, break, break

   On thy cold grey stones, O Sea!

And I would that my tongue could utter

    The thoughts that arise in me."

                          - Tennyson

My thoughts have been turning towards the liturgy of seasons again as Advent approaches. When I spent most of the year in Michigan, the shifting seasons were always near the front of my consciousness. And why not? With crunching leaves and buckeyes underfoot in the fall, gorgeous, deadly ice storms in the winter, and lilacs in the spring, Hillsdale had it all. One always knew what to wear, what to drink, what to expect---the weather let you know what to do.

Colorado's version of the seasons is much more nebulous. The mountains mess with the hot/cold fronts in ways that I don't pretend to understand. Summer was chilly, fall has been bright, spring is a joke. All I know is that it can be sunny and charming in the morning and still hail like the dickens in the afternoon. And three years of residence in this state has given me absolutely no advantage in predicting changes. 

Without temperature and sky to guide my internal clock, I'm more grateful than ever for the liturgy of seasons celebrated by the Catholic church. Even if the landscape shows no change (except going from dry and brown to a little dryer, perhaps), I know I can count on the colors of the vestments to rotate as they should, and the tune of the Gloria to alter for each period of expectation or celebration. The constancy of the changes is calming and comforting.

Last week at RCIA, the cathedral liturgist gave us a crash course in Sacred Stuff 101---we learned about the full church calendar, the significance of colors in the church, and which days (besides Sundays) are Holy Days of obligation. It was by far the most practical and interesting lesson I've had at RCIA thus far. Yes, yes, I know about the three parts of the Trinity and I can deduce a system of ethics from the 10 Commandments. But what I really need is someone to tell me where the tabernacle is, and what the Bishop's ring is made from, and why the priest wears white on Christ the King Sunday.  These are the things that distract me and make me feel out of place. When I should be listening to the homily, I sit there and wonder, "Why do they cross themselves after receiving the Eucharist? Isn't that redundant? But not everyone does it. What's going on? What if I bow too closely and I smack the Body with my forehead and Jesus spills? What if I spill wine on my shirt? I always spill stuff on my shirt. Does that make my shirt holy? Or profane? Probably profane. I'm just going to kneel now like everybody else."

I've been told that Eucharistic anxiety is a common problem for candidates. My instructor tries to emphasize preparation of the soul for receiving the sacrament so that we don't worry so much about the mechanics of the process. (As if calling to mind my sins will quell anxieties...)  But I take comfort, again, in the season we're in right now: a season of waiting, of anticipation. This is no church of instant gratification---and thank heaven for that. The Lord knows I'm not ready.

Time past and time future

"Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present"
- T.S. Eliot


Mea Culpa. I am guilty.


As Dr. Smith says, we are all guilty of putting the urgent in front of the important. And I am equally guilty of subjugating the present to the future and the past. If the moment, the instant, contains my end, why do I so easily neglect it?


The title of this blog comes from my most favorite Gerard Manly Hopkins poem, "Spring and Fall to a Young Child." Here is the full text:


Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By & by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep & know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.


I chose this poem because it reminds me, always, of my own mortality. I'm also drawn to it because of the curious way of knowing that's explained within. Hopkins says that even the soul of a young child can guess at the truths his mind cannot comprehend, suggesting that every person begins life with a tremendous capacity for intuition, for knowing.  Perhaps we learn the words for things more than we learn the things themselves.


My word-smithing skills have grown rusty. Kindly forgive the multifarious errors of composition and construction that this blog will hold as I develop the knack again.


Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.