Tuesday, July 17, 2007

8:13 am

The Writer

In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.

I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.

Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:
I wish her a lucky passage.

But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens, in which

The whole house seems to be thinking,
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor
Of strokes, and again is silent.

I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;
How we stole in, lifted a sash

And retreated, not to affright it;
And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,
We watched the sleek, wild, dark

And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove
To the hard floor, or the desk-top.

And wait then, humped and bloody,
For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits
Rose when, suddenly sure,

It lifted off from a chair-back,
Beating a smooth course for the right window
And clearing the sill of the world.

It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish
What I wished you before, but harder.

[richard wilbur]

Monday, July 16, 2007

presentiment

It's rained all morning--soaking soul-satisfying rain. It being my day off, I played some Norah Jones in the empty apartment and flung the front door ajar, until the humidity in the air wilted my hunger for fresh air. Now the sun glitters off raindrops everywhere, and I have sealed myself into the air conditioned apartment for the final two hour interim before my housemates return.
Halfway through July already. I realized this morning that the calendar on our living room wall thought it was mid-May...rather like myself, till that moment. Poor June barely had a second to see the world before I flipped to July and studied the dates in dismay. August and hell week and student orientation and junior year are on their way. And I'm not ready.
I hope that my stay at home will help reorient me. Meanwhile, I'm going to brew another pot of coffee, dig up a good book, and immerse myself in the tranquil, muddy waters of denial.
Presentiment--is that long Shadow--on the Lawn--
Indicative that Suns go down--
The Notice to the startled Grass
That Darkness--is about to pass--
[emily dickinson]

Sunday, July 08, 2007

what subterfuge is this?

Today in Sunday School, I heard several quotes from John Calvin that made me resolve to read The Institutes soon. After being raised constantly associating Calvin with deep, unsearchable (and certainly almost incomprehensible) erudition, I found his sentences regarding True Worship not only legible, but also entertaining! He speaks of "bleary-eyed men" in scathing anecdotes, and drops words like "subterfuge" with impunity.

So, upon returning home from church, devouring a meal, and sleeping it off--I logged onto Encarta to see what quotes my favorite encyclopedia had to offer. You know what I found?

One quote, out of volumes and volumes.

It reads thus: It is a mockery to allow women to baptise. Even the Virgin Mary was not allowed this.

My friends, Muhammed the Prophet has eighteen quotes. Encarta awarded Buddha five. Even Joseph Smith's voice was louder than Calvin's by three quotes.

It's moments like these when it strikes me how drastically different were the cultural emphases on my life than those on most members of my generation. Calvin, to each crop of Reformed Christians, is just beneath the Apostle Paul when it comes to his impact on the church's teachings. To the wide world (if Encarta can be permitted to judge), Calvin is a negative blip on the radar...a French fanatic whose extreme and narrowminded views contributed to the oppression of women in the world.

So I am even more resolved now to read the Institutes and judge for myself.
I still love the word subterfuge.

To Mom

Who would have thought, when years had passed,  and you had left this world for good, I'd find such comfort remembering the way it felt ...