plate tectonics, Chaucer, "grey area", and boys

Well, I was either going to post a poem or a journal entry. I opted for the journal entry. So here it is: September 13, 2005.

Usual classes today. In oceanography, we discussed more about rocks, plate tectonics, etc. I don’t know how I’m going to keep all the measurements (widths, depths, heights, units, distances) sorted out for the test. On top of all the memory work, Dr. M gave us a sheet of mathematical exercises to work for next class, having to do with age of sediments and spreading of rock from undersea faults. The calculations would be fairly simple for someone who’s had recent practice, but my math skills are already rusty. I screwed up courage to ask him if he’d go over my work with me during his office hour tomorrow. I’m a bit afraid since he seems to be somewhat of a brusque man, unwilling to dally with students who need to have their hands held, so to speak. In Major British Writers, we talked about scanning lines, and we read Chaucer’s “General Prologue”. In Honors, we argued about the lecture on Sabbath: the nature of the middle ground, the “grey” area, and if it's good to stay in the "grey" area between Black and White. Black and White were never clearly defined: They could either have been two extremes ("Orange juice is good for you" and "Orange juice is poison"), with the grey area being a place in which to stand and deliberate before you make a decision based on the information (and in this decision you choose Black, White, or a combination thereof), or Right and Wrong, with the grey area being the worldveiw that says that there's no set morality, and that everyone's standard is different and should be based on their personal experiences and desires. I agree with the first view: I think it's right to step back from two extremes and think critically about them before you decide what your own position is. However, I do not agree with the second view at all because you always have to have a moral standard, a Right and a Wrong, if you're going to think critically in the first place. It's hard to be critical about something that is neither good nor bad. The students’ preconceptions began to come out over the course of the discussion—I suspect that over half the class is composed of postmodern moderate liberals who like the thought of the “grey” area as the median between Right and Wrong (though I suspect that they like the “grey” simply because it appears to be “different”, “more intellectual”, and “elite” compared to all the mobs who are going toward Right and Wrong—thereby making Right and Wrong into a new “Wrong” and “grey” into Right…).

Danielle and Rachel, two of my friends who share the Honors class with me, tried to hash this out some more as we walked to lunch together. We were joined at lunch by two of Danielle’s friend: Elizabeth, a girl who has a face like a pre-Raphaelite heroine, and James, a young man from Danielle's French class who has eaten with Danielle and me before. We started to talk about the problem of pain and evil in the world. James and I reasoned from The Silmarillion that evil came into the world to display God’s glory—we would never know how good God is without evil, nor would many of the beautiful things in this world have happened (such as the Incarnation) without evil. Then the discussion moved on to the issue of evil in the human heart, depravity, etc. Of course, they were all Arminian. I was actually quite surprised that one of them deigned to mention Calvinism (even though she couldn't remember Calvin's name—!!), but the judgment of the group seemed to be that Calvinism is a pretty harsh standard. They couldn't seem to break away from the notion that each of us has both good and evil in our hearts, and that we must choose which one to follow ourselves, and that God "picks us for His team" based on our own choice and works. I sat and stewed quietly for three reasons: I was unwilling to argue with Danielle and Rachel, who are two of my good friends, I was uncertain of my own ability to defend my position (the girl who was Danielle’s friend seemed quite set on her own point-of-view), and I was unable to get a word in edgewise.

I spent the afternoon studying—trying to puzzle out oceanography, scanning lines from Chaucer, and reading Herodotus. Herodotus is such fun. One of the reviewers on the back of my edition calls his work a “fresco”, and it really is. It’s like the frescoes of Pompeii—the colors have not faded; the people stare out, undimmed, at the modern world in all their pettiness, nobleness, seriousness, or ridiculousness. Practiced flute and went running. I ate supper at a table where Danielle, Alex (the only boy in my Pocahontas class, a lanky, red-headed chap), a harsh young man (who was puzzling over his music theory homework and cursing noisily while he did so), and two quiet girls were sitting. Danielle left to study, as did Alex and the two girls. However, as they moved out, a group of boys moved in. I soon found myself, to my dismay, the sole girl at a table full of boys. The young man sitting beside me was quite polite and engaging, and we managed to have something of a conversation. But he mostly paid attention to his friends, and so I sat and listened to their fragmented talk, laughing to myself at their mannerisms.

After supper, I sat in my room for a while and cleared out my inbox. I had lots of e-mails to answer. Instead of going to Reformed University Fellowship at 7:30 p.m., on time, I’ve decided to go late and arrive around 8:00 p.m., when the singing is over (they use hymns), because I feel very uncomfortable standing there with my mouth shut while everyone else sings. When the work of writing e-mails was about done, I glanced out the window. To my delight and awe, the thin thread of thunderclouds to the north had grown to a luminous wave looming over the city. I hastily collected my journal and Bible and dashed downstairs. Outside, I stood on the sidewalk in front of my dorm like an idiot, grinning in amazement at the clouds. Directly overhead, reaching from west to east, a huge swathe of cloud extended, like a grey road through a blue wilderness. Its edges were bubbly like a pot beginning to simmer. From its western shoulder, a line of hilly, grey-blue clouds was silhouetted against the auburn sunset, like giants leaning on the green horizon’s hill. These clouds rose and rose until they were swept up in that giant, thunderous mass. Its white brow leaned across the sky, facing westward, like a cliff overlooking a blue sea, the rocks glowing orange and saffron with the sunset. In its eastern shadow, lightning flickered. I gazed at it, gasping, almost laughing with the sheer strength—like Christine, open-mouthed at the Phantom’s power. Across the street, people were playing intramural flag football on the level playing field below the soccer stadium. They shouted, dashed, pounced, leaped, oblivious to the panoply above them. A girl jogged by with a Labrador retriever running beside her, muscle rippling beneath its golden coat. Only the trees, buoyed by the knowledge of the storm, murmured uneasily among themselves—uneasily, with anticipation, their leaves silvered in the wind, reflecting the promise of rain.

On my walk to RUF, two young men fell into step with me. One of them was a curly-haired, touseled-headed fellow who’s in my linguistics class and also in RUF. His name is Spencer. His friend was named David—a thin, ruddy-faced chap with very blond hair. “I’ve been wanting to get to know you for weeks,” Spencer said. “I see you every day across the room in class, but you’re always out of there like—like a fox.” I laughed at this. He asked me why I was late to RUF. I told him that I had a philosophical excuse. He said that he actually used to do that at his church, too—he would come late to the service in order to skip the music, which he didn’t like. As it turned out, I didn’t time my arrival quite right—I still had to sit through two songs. But one of the songs was a hymn-ized version of Psalm 73. (Though I’ve been wondering: if I don’t sing along when the songs are not Psalms, should I also not sing along when the songs are not sung accapella? Where do I draw the line? Hmmmm...) Mr. K, the leader of RUF, preached a very good sermon, very thought-provoking and convicting. While I walked back to my room, lightning danced along the clouds’ back—like waves licking along a whale’s sides. The night was hushed, the trees still murmuring, but more softly, and the air was warm and damp.

I showered, and then spent a very long time standing at my window, watching the clouds. They swirled toward me, licked with lightning the way a wave is full of reflections of the sun. Below, quite oblivious, a many with a pipe in his mouth walked three Huskie dogs down the street. A dude skated around the parking lot across from my dorm, a boy ran past with his head flung back, and two teams shouted and charged at each other on the intramural football field. And still the lightning leaped overhead.... It was mesmerizing. Nighthawks flew over the parking lot lights, swirling like leaves tossed up by the wind, and whistling their keening cries. When they all disappeared around eleven o'clock, I knew that it was really late, and time for bed.

September 11, 2005: not a day of terror

This account has been abridged from what’s in my journal, but I’m not sure you would want to read the longer version. As you read, praise God that He protects this country so that such simple, peace-loving people as ourselves can enjoy a Sabbath day without fear or persecution. Also as you read, be warned: Most of you who read this will see not unfamiliar college kids but yourselves, for herein I describe a “typical” Sabbath (if there is such a thing for me now). So read on at your own risk!

As usual, my family arrived early at church this morning. The church meets at the local community center because we don’t have our own building. My family always helps to set up—putting up tables, arranging chairs, taking boxes of paper goods out of the storage closet for fellowship lunch, bringing out the microwave, etc. After I helped to lug enormous plastic tubs full of coffee mix, cleaning rags, and baby toys out of the storage closet, I stood on the porch of the building and talked to Will, the pastor’s youngest son. He’s learning multiplication tables in school. He told me that at his friend’s birthday party this week, he caught a preying mantis. It ate a whole butterfly, except the wings.

Princess’s family arrived. She, Marigold, and I stood talked about Marigold’s hair, which is usually as wiry, buoyant, and untamed as autumn grass. Today, though, it was quite docile. When I asked why, she said, “Because there’s less of it to be wild! I trimmed it last night.”

My father taught the adult Sabbath school class today. Since I’m a college student, I’ve been banished from the youth group Sabbath school class. *sigh* After, I chatted with Meri’s mother, who knew all about the concert that my mother, Violin and I went to Friday night, even though I hadn’t told anyone about it. Somehow, everyone in our church knows what everyone else is doing. It’s not like being in a big family—in a family, you are never told what is going on (at least that’s my experience—haha).

During the service, just us four hobbits sat together. Before the service, Princess and I joked quietly about the autograph I’d gotten from the lead artist at the concert; I ribbed Meri about her “liquid mud” (coffee), and grinned at Violin across Princess’s back.

After the service, during lunch, a bunch of us girls sat together: all the Ws, Yoshimi (one of the Japanese girls my mother has befriended on the campus where my father teaches), Miss Hannah, Violin, SwanElf, and I. Fric, Violin’s youngest sister, sat with us, too. Katie and I constantly joked with and about Fric, who was sitting next to Katie and across from me. Sometimes, her face would become so smeared with beans-and-rice that Katie would say, “I can’t see your face!” Then Fric would diligently wipe herself with a napkin and then ask, “Now can you see my face?”

During second service, Pastor talked about suffering, either justly for something bad that we’ve done or unjustly for the sake of the Gospel. Mrs. K told a story about a time when she’d just gotten a new car when she was young. One of her friends urged her to see just how fast the car could go, and he begged her to try it out on the highway. She demurred, saying that she didn’t know how to drive it that fast—and her parents had forbidden her to go that fast. But her friend urged her, promising to copilot, so they took the car on the road together. Then, she said, her dad passed them. He didn’t recognize them, but she was so frightened that she drove straight home and confessed to her mother because she knew that confession was the only way to hope for mercy. Her mother promised not to tell her father as long as she never did that again.

While we prayed during the service, I heard thundering outside that sounded like someone thudding down the metal ramp from an animal trailer or sliding open and shut the metal doors on the side of a semi. On my way to the car after second service, Fric and Sis, Princess’s littlest sister, latched onto me. We stepped outside, and tiny raindrops patted our faces. Fric declared that she wasn’t scared of rain, but Sis stayed on the porch. Boromir had some sketches to show me. Aragorn, Boromir’s older brother and Pastor’s oldest son, pulled open the rear door of their family’s minivan (as on most cars, the “back hatch” opens upward and is supported by two metal struts when open), and we stood under the rear door as protection from the rain. Boromir showed us (Aragorn, Brother1, SwanElf, Marigold, Princess, etc.) some magnificent sketches of “Lord of the Rings” characters. You could almost see them breathing under their armor.

It began to rain more and more heavily. The thunder got closer. Lightning cracked the sky. Violin and I hightailed it into her family’s van, where we found a collection of her younger siblings already taking shelter. The rain whispered gently on the van’s metal roof. We sat in the van and talked while the storm grew harder. Outside, the other kids stood under a pavilion that had been erected in the parking lot last Friday for the Blues festival. In the van, Frac, Violin’s littlest brother, fluttered his long eyelashes at me and told me all about his stuffed, black-and-white spotted pony. Fric reiterated that she wasn’t afraid of thunder, but told us that her baby doll was. Violin suggested that she give it its bottle to keep it from being scared. Outside, Logan, one of a new batch of college students coming to church, produced a rapier and proceeded to show Brother1 how to fence in the rain.

We left church. At home, I packed my things up in preparation for returning to college. My mother prepared food for us to eat on the way. My father, Daisy, Brother2, and I drove to Tulsa in the middle of the afternoon. We listened to the last Williamson lecture about sole Psalmody on the way. It rained very hard. The rain hit our windshield like elephant feet, drumming against the glass. Silvery caterpillars raced across the windows. Lightning slithered across the sky, but the rain was so loud that we couldn’t hear the thunder. It lightened up as we crossed Keystone Lake, though. My father dropped me off at the kerb outside my dorm, and I walked up to my room alone.

I unpacked my things, then hurried to a lecture required for Honors students. The lecture was held in the faculty study in the library, across from the student study. The faculty study is just as elegant as the student study (dark wood paneling, old-fashioned windows with stained-glass panes depicting virtues), but there were almost no books in the bookcases, unlike the student study. The lecture was confusing. The speaker, Dr. D, looked very young to hold such impressive credentials as he did. He claimed to be defending Western ideology against all its opponents. He talked to us about taking a middle road between completely embracing the pursuit of science and the betterment of humanity, and completely embracing the terrorist hatred of progress. He talked about being moderately religious (neither completely liberal nor completely traditional). He talked about neither idealizing mankind in a scientific Utopia nor being cynical about mankind. But it was very confusing. He never defined “Western ideology”—if this had been a rhetoric class, he would’ve failed for not defining his terms. He seemed neither to completely hate nor completely love religion. I tried to analyze the lecture in terms of Christianity, but could not. Later, as Rachel and I left the lecture, one of the girls from our Honors class joined us. She pointed out that in taking a middle road (being “grey”) and declaring that both “black” and “white” are bad, you thereby turn both “black” and “white” into Black and your own middle position into White. Those who say that there is no Right or Wrong tell those who say that there is a Right and a Wrong that they are Wrong, which completely defeats their worldview.

After, Rachel and I walked around campus. Our path took us past the First United Methodist Church. Drawn by my usual love of old Gothic/Norman buildings, especially old church buildings, I led us across the street to it. It is built with two long wings, both of old stonework, that stretch towards the street. One wing is the sanctuary, I think; the other is classrooms, perhaps. Between the two wings is a grassy courtyard. Behind these two wings is a new addition which houses the church’s school. We tried the doors, but they were all locked—I could see the sturdy bolts holding the polished wooden wings of the doors together. We stood in the courtyard for a while and admired the building: the sturdy stonework; the smooth, grassy sward; the dim stained-glass windows; the lanterns glowing above the doors like stationary fireflies, their light shining through delicate ironwork; the belltower looming above the whole dim, quiet place. We talked about bells and church art as we returned to our path. On our way back to the Honors House, we saw more fireflies. They enchanted Rachel, who had never seen them before, and I tried to describe to her our backyard in the summer—the green gloom under the tower trees and the thousands of brilliant flashes, the “incandescent insects” making merry in the warm summer evening.

I walked back to my dorm alone, humming Psalms to myself. I sat at my desk, munching an apple and snacking on raisins and sunflower seeds while I wrote in my journal and listened to a New Song Psalm CD.

one of those quizzes

Since Princess and SwanElf have both done this, and I’m bored, I thought I’d try it, too. If you want to read theirs, check their blogs.

Here goes:

1. What is your full name? Frodo Baggins

2. What color pants are you wearing? Slinky black ones

3. What are you listening to right now? "Down Once More/Track Down This Murderer" from "The Phantom of the Opera"

4. What was the last thing you ate? A chocolate chip cookie

5. Do you wish on any stars? I'll keep that one to myself.

6. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? Hard to say... probably somewhere between blue and grey

7. How is the weather right now? Mostly sunny (with that scum of cloud across the sky that comes in late summer), south breeze, fairly warm

8. Last person you spoke to on the phone? My mother

9. How old are you today? Older than I was yesterday, and younger than I will be.

10. What's the last thing you did? Brushed my teeth

11. Favorite drink? Fruit smoothies

12. Favorite painters? John Constable, Rembrandt, Monet, Degas

13. Favorite time in history? Ancient Greece and Rome, Celtic/Anglo-Saxon England

14. Favorite sport? Basketball and soccer

15. Hair color? Red

16. Do you wear contacts? Not yet

17. Siblings? Two little brothers and a younger sister

18. Favorite months? October and March

19. Favorite food? Apples and peaches

20. What was the last movie you saw? "The Phantom of the Opera", of course

21. Favorite holiday of the year? Thanksgiving

22. What do you do to vent anger? Say something sarcastic, or write in my journal

23. Summer or winter? Autumn

24. Hugs or kisses? Hugs

25. Chocolate or vanilla? Chocolate

26. When was the last time you cried? Last Saturday afternoon, listening to "Learn to be Lonely"

27. What is under your bed? Evil dust bunnies

28. Who is the friend you have had the longest? As in "friend friends" or "acquaintances? Because there are several people who I've known for years who I sort of keep in touch with (Emily and Marlene), but the people who I actually interact with a lot sort of come and go. Of that last group, probably Princess and Brioni would be the"friend friends" I've had the longest.

29. What did you do last night? Went to a Narnia discussion group meeting

30. What are you afraid of? Final exams, saying good-bye, and dishonoring Christ

31. Plain, buttered or salted popcorn? Buttered

32. Favorite car? Haha. A horse, of course. What a silly question!

33. Favorite flower? Tulips or coreopsis

34. Favorite tree? Silver maple

35. Favorite genre of book? Fantasy/historical fiction

36. Favorite genre of movie? (see above) I like mysteries, too.

37. Bitter, sweet, tangy, or salty? Tangy

38. Number of keys on your key ring? Three--one for my car, one for my house, and one for my laptop

39. How many years at your recent job? Two weeks (of being a college student)

40. Are you having a nice day? Yeah. It's ok. I'm tired of being here....

new link

Just a note: I put a new link down there. It's "Readings in Old and Middle English". It's actually a link to a page that sells cassette tapes of people reading Chaucer, "Beowulf", etc. If you click on "The Canterbury Tales", it will take you to a page where you can hear various selections from Chaucer (just click on those links). It also has a variety of readings in Old English, not only from "Beowulf" but also from some of my other favorite Anglo-Saxon poems, such as "The Seafarer". The clips aren't very long, but they're fun to listen to!

"The Phantom of the Opera": yet another philosophical movie review

So you've probably figured out by now that I tend to be ridiculously analytical of any movie that is unfortunate enough to fall into my clutches. Over this weekend, I watched the most recent movie production of "The Phantom of the Opera". I enjoyed it, as you'll see, despite certain undesirable elements. So I thought I'd share some of my thoughts about it.

Christine embodies complete purity—she is almost always dressed in white. Many of her most pivotal actions are in the open, in full view of the public, surrounded by the stage lights. Interestingly enough, this corresponds to a line in the famous “Phantom of the Opera” song, where Christine says, “I am the mask you wear,” and the Phantom responds, “It’s me they hear.” In other words, Christine in some sense also embodies the Phantom’s mask, the white covering he wears over his deformity. She symbolizes his longing for music and purity, which is a thin veneer for his loneliness and lust for blood.

Christine begins the movie as a naïve, innocent child who is open-mouthed at all the things that happen to her. Nowhere is this better depicted than in the scene where she first meets the Phantom. She does not question him at all; instead, she is overawed with him, filled with childlike wonder at his power. However, she begins to experience violence, loneliness, and romance over the course of the movie. It is only after she has gone through these things, only after she can understand the Phantom’s deranged emotions, that she can extend forgiveness and redemption to him. I would also say that Christine can only forgive the Phantom after she has betrayed him onstage by pulling off his mask in front of the crowd (true, she did it in justice, but it was still a betrayal)—after she has “become sin”. Similarly, Christ Himself underwent all of man’s temptations and weaknesses, became sin for mankind, and thereby extended forgiveness and understanding to those who believe in Him.

A third aspect of Christine's character is in response to the Phantom's. Christine, the symbol for true beauty and loveliness, is the catalyst for the Phantom's creativity. Without her, the Phantom cannot function. As he himself sings at the end, "You alone can make my song take flight!" Similarly, it is only through the grace of the Holy Spirit, the truest, greatest beauty, that any artist, Christian or non-Christian, can create anything.

Opposite Christine, the Phantom embodies evil. He is usually seen dressed in black and prowling around the theatre. He stalks Christine. She does not realize it, filled with awe at his presence, but much his care for her stems from vile desire. The Phantom also embodies pure power. Like Christine, just watching the movie, I found myself overawed with the immensity of his physical and mental strength. He is so strong. He is a modern Achilles: complete emotion, unbridled by reason, reacting only to satisfy his own desires.

Yet the Phantom, like Achilles, has one weakness. He has a deep desire for beauty and purity. Just as Christine is fascinated with the Phantom’s power, the Phantom is fascinated with Christine’s innocence and purity. It is this love of loveliness that draws the Phantom to his demise when he comes onstage only to be revealed by Christine. It is only true beauty and light that can really reveal evil for what it is.

Ironically, both Christine and the Phantom are very powerful in their own ways. They both are deeply in love with beauty and music. Both characters are “angels”—one is an angel of light and joy, while the other is a fallen angel who has been thrown out of Heaven but longs to regain it.

On the other hand, Raoul and the Phantom display an interesting dichotomy. While the Phantom embodies evil and egoistical emotion, Raoul displays good and self-sacrificing reason. He is constantly trying to preserve peace, equanimity, and safety in the opera house. He especially seeks to protect Christine. In one scene, we glimpse him lying asleep outside her door in order to assure her safety. In the end, Christine must decide whether to follow the Phantom and be evil (sacrificing Raoul to the Phantom to save herself from marrying the Phantom) or to follow Raoul and be good (sacrificing herself to the Phantom to save Raoul).

One more note about the relations of the characters (and perhaps I'm being somewhat too analytical here): I found it interesting to see that when the Phantom carries Christine in his boat, she reclines in front of him, placed on a lower footing than he is. When Raoul and Christine sail away in the Phantom's boat at the end, Christine is standing beside Raoul (a dangerous position if they were interested in keeping the boat from tipping over!). Perhaps this minor detail gives an insight into the way women are treated by the two opposing forces. When passionate emotion takes over, women may become idealized, placed on a lower level and treated as mere objects for recreation. When true, reasoning love takes over, though it is still Raoul who steers the boat, Christine stands beside him. She is no longer a mere toy for enjoyment, but a reasoning human being, capable of providing support and counsel.

A piece of interesting symbolism can be seen in the two scenes where the Phantom smashes something. First, of course, is the famous scene where the chandelier swings down onto the crowd and sets the opera house aflame. Light falling from the ceiling suddenly reveals to the audience the evil one looming above them. It leads to justice (soldiers pursuing the Phantom) and redemption (only after that scene, in which the Phantom has fully revealed the depths of his evil heart to all, can Christine forgive him). The final scene where the Phantom smashes mirrors before disappearing into a dark tunnel uses a similar theme. He uses a candlestick, a bearer of light, to shatter the mirrors, which in the movie are part of his apparatus of controlling people (Christine’s mirror in the dressing room) and tormenting them (the wheeling mirrored room that Raoul falls into during the masquerade). So, light and truth shatter pretense and falsehood, providing a way for the redeemed one to find freedom from his sins and their consequences.

Another reason I like the movie is the way that all the characters, even the minor ones, have some sort of development. They aren’t cardboard. A primary example of this is Carlotta. At the beginning of the movie, she is a ditzy diva, flirting and fluttering, prodding and pouting. But as people flee the opera house after the chandelier has crashed down, the camera briefly shows Carlotta kneeling over the leading male actor, one of her lovers, who was stabbed by the Phantom earlier. Regardless of her danger, she pauses to weep hysterically over one who is dear to her.

It’s also intriguing to see the way the makers intertwine Christian themes with the story. Despite the incredibly immodest costumes and occasional unpleasantly sensuous scenes, the movie derives its true value from the theme of redemption and forgiveness I’ve already mentioned. Religion finds its way into the film in many ways: in the scene at the cemetery, the focus of Christine’s gaze on her father’s mausoleum is the cross hanging on the back wall, prefiguring Raoul’s arrival to save Christine from the Phantom. Both Raoul and Meg wear crosses. One of the musical’s most powerful lines comes when Christine sings, “God, give me the courage to show you—you are not alone!” She prays at the point of redemption, seeking the help of the One Redeemer as she extends her own forgiveness.

a few extra things

Good grief, you all took those rules a lot more seriously than I meant! :) They were supposed to be a joke. Yes, most of them are true, but eating in the cafeteria really isn't that bad. If you ever visit me over a mealtime, we can go there, and you can experience it for yourself.

I thought I'd take this chance to clear up a couple of Ednella's questions concerning sole Psalmody. First of all (if I understood her correctly), she asked if sole Psalmody means that the church shouldn't sing worship choruses on the Sabbath. My answer is yes, the church should not sing worship choruses. Choruses are as man-made as hymns in my mind. Secondly, she asked if a youth group meeting that occurs on Sabbath evening is a worship service. Now, some people have different views about this. Some people think that you can use instruments and hymns outside of corporate worship ( in family worship, private worship, etc.). I, however, tend to be more of a purist. Speaking about family/private worship, I would say that believers should stick to the Psalms and not use hymns or instruments. In my mind, the principle carries over into a youth group meeting, which has some of the elements of a worship service. (At least, our youth meetings do--prayer, presentation of the Word, and singing.) Since you meet together for the purpose of worshipping God, you should follow the guidelines used for worshipping God. So I would say that a youth group meeting on a Sabbath evening should fall under the same guidelines for worship as both the morning service and family devotions: the Psalms should be sung exclusively, accapella.

Hope that answers some questions. A resource that I've found to be helpful on this subject is G.I. Williamson, especially two lectures he's given about the basis for singing Psalms only in worship. I've put a couple of links to pages of interest in the sidebar. You may be able to find links to these lectures on one of these pages.

in response....

(If you want to understand this post, go read my last post, and then read the comments on that post, and then read this one.)

Missy: I have to race to get to the cafeteria in time for lunch some days because they stop serving lunch ten minutes after one of my classes ends. So it's worse than for you: if I'm late, I don't get teased, but neither do I get lunch! Thankfully I've never been late yet.

Ednella: I do live near college, and I've been coming home on weekends, though there's only been one weekend so far. :) I'm usually so busy that there's no time to be lonely, but that only means that when I do get lonely, it's in a terribly concentrated dose that gets me really depressed for a long time.

Arwen: There's just one TV in the cafeteria (presumably so that the athletes can be entertained while they eat because it's in a section where usually only the athletes eat, but everyone else has to go through there to get out of the cafeteria--how confusing was that?! I'll show it to you when you visit next). Every residence hall has its own TV, and that's where I watched my show--in that sitting room of Lottie Jane (where the piano is), which was fairly quiet. I've found good things to eat. The salads aren't too bad (if they have plenty of catalina and sunflower seeds :), the cookies are good, and so is the cereal. *haha* But there's always something else--good apples, bread, and usually a "hot" dish. Like most restaurants, the helpings are way too big, and like most cafeterias, the food is bland. Oherwise it's quite palatable.

How's that for long answers to short questions? :)

How To Survive a College Cafeteria in Twelve Easy Steps

Well, the steps aren't so easy, as you will discover. But here are some of the things I've found out about eating in the cafeteria.

1. Never break any of these rules.

2. Never call it "the cafeteria". Its real name is "the caf".

3. Be respectful to the grumpy staff. They might just smile at you.

4. Never sit by yourself. If you do, everyone will assume that a.) you are a geek, b.) you have no friends, or c.) that you are meditating and preparing to enter a monastic community. (I have broken this one so many times I can't count them! :)

5. If you're a girl, always sit with a boy. It gives you prestige. (Wow, have I ever broken this one! I've never sat with a boy unless he was the friend of a girl who had invited me to sit with her.)

6. If you want to sit with someone, never let them out of your sight. If you do let them out of your sight, you'll never see them again.

7. Never stand in the middle of the cafeteria watching your friend finish going through the line. You'll get run over by someone, either a chick in tight jeans or a dude in gym shorts. Yes, 6. and 7. are contradictory, but hey, no one ever said life was simple.

8. Never stand in the middle of the cafeteria looking for someone. Again, you will get run over.

9. If you sit in the cafeteria long enough, you'll see someone you recognize: some weirdo from class, some flirty butterfly who lives in your dorm, or (wonder of wonders) a friend.

10. Always poke your head around a corner before you actually step around it. Chances are that some football player in a hurry is charging down the hall toward food and you will be run over if you step in front of him.

11. If you are this football player, it is mandatory for you to take three cups on your tray: two for gatorade, and one for water. You must also ask for two helpings of whatever meat dish is offered, but disregard the salad bar.

12. When you (the normal person) leave the cafeteria, look straight ahead or focus on the ground. If you look to the left, you will be bombarded with TV images of rapper dudes and dudettes who need more clothes. If you look to the right, you will discover to your dismay that every player on the basketball, football, rowing, tennis, soccer, golf, and track teams are staring at you because you're standing between them and the TV.

So, that's my guide for surviving in the cafeteria. Now, all of you who will be going to college, memorize it, and there will be a test when I see you next! :)

"Assistant deans are mice training to be rats." -- my advisor, who shares the common professorial dislike of all administrators

an unusual Russian legend

I came home from college for the weekend yesterday. After supper, my mother, Daisy, and I, went for a walk. Brother1 mowed for Mrs. Arthur, who lives across the street from us. She's an elderly woman in her nineties, and we've had quite a good relationship with her.

As we rounded the bend towards our house, we found Brother1 talking with Mrs. Arthur. My mother walked up her driveway to say "Hi", but Brother1, Daisy, and I stood there, listening to them talk, for half-an-hour or more. She asked us kids about our own affairs—school, and such, and she leaned against the porch railing when she heard that I’m in college. When she heard about Daisy's garden, she gave her some tips about gardening tomatoes. Her baggy clothes hung loose over her frame, which is actually rather slender for an elderly person. The porch was cool; from inside, the TV chattered and squealed like a child trying to interrupt our conversation and get our attention. A spider sat watchfully in the corner of its web on the porch, and a big mayfly landed on my mother’s shirt. Mrs. Arthur turned her attention to my mother, and us kids stood nearby, sweating quietly, while they chatted. She complimented my mother for home schooling us and called her a wonderful woman, etc. My mother asked her about her life, and she obligingly plunged into the tale. We love listening to her talk, though she's getting frail. She still has that trace of a Russian accent—the guttural vowels, the slightly rolled r’s, the way she shapes her words—“You know,” as she would say.

Here’s some of her story, as best as I can remember it.

She was born Ann Pavlova in Russia, probably during the 1910’s, to a member of the Russian aristocracy. She lived in St. Petersburg as a child, though she told us that it used to be called Leningrad. During the revolution, they were living in their country house in the south. Her father fought in the revolution. While her father was away, her mother, grandmother, aunt, and siblings escaped into Europe in cattle cars. They were invited by all the European countries, and so they traveled from place to place. They stayed on a Greek island near the Bosporus for a while, where they were treated royally, given food and a beautiful hotel looking out over the sea. At that time, they filled their room with mattresses so that other members of the displaced Russian aristocracy could sleep with them. Many of the noblemen who escaped had great difficulty finding work: though they spoke three languages and had been lawyers, doctors, and politicians in Russia, all they would do was sit around all day and reminisce about the glories of old Russia. Mrs. Arthur told us that she thought, “Well, you were so great back there! Why don’t you get a job now?” From Greece they traveled to Turkey, and then to Algiers. They were given nice houses, but when Mrs. Arthur’s parents discovered monkeys climbing into the house through the windows in Algiers, they decided it was time to leave. Her mother wanted to move to Germany, where she had property left over from her first marriage. Her husband was still jealous, though, and wanted to go to America. He’d read lots of books about the Mississippi and was eager to see it. The rest of his family had only seen cowboy shows. They were terrified of America because it was full of cowboys and Indians and people with guns. “We were nice people—we were scared,” Mrs. Arthur said. They thought America was a dangerous place. Mrs. Arthur’s mother had brought trinkets with her over from Russia. Though money was no good, you could pawn trinkets, make money, and then once you had enough money you could buy your jewelry back, and when you needed money, you could pawn it again. Mrs. Arthur said that her mother was a bit free with her jewelry and used to give it away for small favors, but that they used it to live on. They bought tickets to take ship for America.

Mrs. Arthur was nine years old when they came to the U.S. The U.S. was so glad to have them that they didn’t go to Ellis Island but were sent straight to the Russian consulate on E. 125 Street. They stayed there until they moved to a lovely, furnished, four-bedroom apartment on 118^th Street, overlooking Central Park. Down the street from them there was a huge grocery story. In Turkey and Algiers they hadn’t been able to eat any pork. So when they moved to their apartment, Mrs. Arthur’s mother went down to the store. She bought the biggest ham the store had at twenty-five cents a pound, and, Mrs. Arthur said, “We ate ham until we were blue in the face. Oh, but it was so good!” After their stay there, they were kicked out because the rest of the neighborhood was predominately Black. The janitor told them, “You gotta leave because the rest of the people are Black, and they don’t want you here.” So they moved to an apartment on Madison Avenue. They used to go to balls in New York City. Her mother sewed all their dresses for them, and they were beautiful, fancy dresses, too. Mrs. Arthur said that at these balls everyone really dressed up. “The men came in soup-and-fish: top hats and fishtails,” she explained. Mrs. Arthur’s mother had never done anything in her life but learn how to sew and cook, she worked hard while they were in exile.

Mrs. Arthur told us that a friend of her father’s (or maybe it was her grandfather—I don’t remember) brought the first Black person to Russia in her father’s time. This man would sing and dance for the nobility. Then he married a blond girl in France. They came to the U.S. for a time but were not well-received, so they moved back to France. Later, their son came to visit Mrs. Arthur’s family in New York. “I’m here to see the Pavlovas,” he told the bellboy. “I’m sorry, but you can’t come in here. You have to go around the back way. They don’t want you in here,” the bellboy said. Finally, they rung for Mrs. Arthur’s father. He hurried downstairs and told the bellboy that this young Black was an ambassador from Ethiopia. After that, everyone bowed to the Black man and treated him very respectfully. Mrs. Arthur giggled gleefully as she repeated this tale.

She said that they started school in America. Her brother, who was older, had a Russian accent; her sister, who was younger and had learned a great deal of French, had a French accent; and she had a New York accent. “I can’t understand you! You talk too fast!” her schoolmates complained to her. She told us that when she moved out here, she couldn’t understand anyone because “They talk too slow—they never say anything!” In school, she took physics and chemistry together, which was the worst decision she’d ever made. She said that there was a pie-in-the-sky math professor who would talk about concepts way over the students’ heads. She also told us that back then, where they were living, if you talked about your research to your colleagues, they would steal it from you. She was quite surprised when they moved here, and you could discuss your research freely with your colleagues, and they would never dream of stealing it from you. When they moved here, back in the 1950’s, there was a woman who was still scared of the Indians. Every week, Mrs. Arthur and this woman played bridge with a group in a town on an Indian reservation. This woman insisted that Mrs. Arthur drive her over to the bridge club because she was afraid of being scalped (!!).

Apparently, and this is part of the story that my mother has told me before, Mrs. Arthur married a man who then died. She was helping another man take care of her ailing sister. When her sister died, her sister’s widower said, “Well, why don’t you just stay here and marry me!” So she did. He actually died a couple of years ago when we were still here. She said that after she got married the first time, she became a gourmet cook. She cooked such wonderful things that she, her husband, and her mother all got really fat. “So then I had to give it up,” she said regretfully. But she still cooks her own Russian dishes for herself sometimes—she listed off a few for us, her tongue slurring over the tangled concatenation of Russian consonants.

She admitted that she’s getting much frailer now. “I’m alright if I can hold onto something. If it weren’t for the carts, I couldn’t go shopping.” My mother said, “Well, we’d like to see you pull through this winter so that we can talk again next spring. “Yes. But I’ve had a good life. I’ve traveled everywhere, and I’ve been married,” she said, with a grin. “It happens to all of us.” Then she’d put out her hand and tap Brother1 and say, “Now you go home, young man, and drink some water and take a shower. It’s good to get some exercise, but everything in moderation. You know.” And my mother would nod and say, “Yes, yes. Good-night, Mrs. Arthur! Thank you!”, as Mrs. Arthur shuffled back inside to watch TV.

I couldn't help feeling a sense of awe as we walked home. And sorrow, too. I wonder if Mrs. Arthur will be here next spring to watch the daffodils in her own flowerbeds bloom....

Tuesday, August 22, 2005: a detailed survey, Part 2

… when my computer "went off" at just the right time. I woke rather dazed. 6:30 a.m., said my watch. I opened the window shades. It was dark as though it had been ten o’clock at night. Surely, I thought, I have a couple of hours until 6:30. I can sleep some more. But no, I checked both my watches and my computer, and they all said the same thing. Low clouds covered the sky, their heels stained pink from the city lights. I crawled back into bed to wait for my mother’s call. It came about ten minutes later. It was good to hear her voice again.

So, the day having been properly inaugurated, I proceeded to get dressed, etc. As I walked to breakfast, it began to rain. No trifling shower, like yesterday’s. This was rain. I was drenched walking back from the cafeteria to my dorm, so wet that my arms, despite my waterproof jacket, felt clammy and wet. I packed my books for my three classes. All my heaviest books are to be used for my classes today, and all my classes today are right in a row, with no break between.

I waited for the rain to stop, but it never let up. So I unfurled my umbrella and swam to class in Keplinger Hall, which is at a diagonal from my dorm—all the way across campus. My shoes squelched through the rivers of water flowing down the sidewalk. I felt as though I were wading in a shallow stream at times. It was still very dark, though the darkness was occasionally punctuated by bursts of lightning. The classroom was cold, and I sat and shivered in my wet clothes. Tara sat by me, and we commiserated about the wetness. The professor for oceanography is a short, slender man with a bush of black hair and enormously bushy, Gandalf-style black eyebrows. He’s geologist, not a marine biologist, and so, to my disappointment, we’ll be studying more about geology and chemistry than about the actual organisms living in the sea. The professor is an enthusiastic man who, like everyone else, seems to want to help the students do well. He also seems strict. He has a field trip planned for us, but he also asked us to watch a TV program about the evolution of earth. We’re to have a quiz over it next class period. Sadly, it coincides with the first half-hour of the RUF service this evening.

Tara, who shares oceanography with me and is in RUF, and I paddled over to British writers in Oliphant Hall. The professor, Dr. Stevens, is a beautiful woman who reminds me of Loreena McKennitt, my pastor's wife, and my mother. She has silky, curly, black hair that’s a little longer than shoulder-length, very fair skin, and dark blue eyes behind red-rimmed glasses. She has a vibrant voice. She, too, seems strict but very engaging. I suppose all professors must counteract their willingness to help with a certain amount of stricture so that students don’t slack off too much. We had to take a diagnostic quiz to end the class and write about a poem which compares mankind to plants that shoot up quickly, blossom, and die. It speaks about how God grafts mankind onto Himself so that they may live. I had a field day with it—a lovely, perfect little sonnet, encapsulating one of my favorite subject with an elegant metaphor. I wish I could’ve copied it down for further study, but I was terrified of being late to my next class.

As I dashed off to Honors Greek History and Philosophy, I hardly noticed that the sun was beginning to shine through the sodden clouds.

The Honors class is held in the dean’s conference room in Chapman Hall, where the Pocahontas and orientation classes are. It’s a formal room with a long table and twirly office seats. Dr. Goldstein, the professor, is a small, square man, soft-spoken but (as always) strict. He reminds me of Joey, or at least Meri’s image of Joey as a friendly person who also manages to keep other people in line. The discussion flew back-and-forth about The Iliad—gods, music, chanting, honor, death, etc. Quite interesting.

The sun was shining fully and doing its best to dry the squelching ground while I ate lunch. I spent all afternoon studying: oceanography, thirty-nine pages; British literature, “The Dream of the Rood”. I really, really like that poem, though our translation is prose, not verse, and so obscures the original alliterative flow. Nonetheless, the poem presents Christ’s cross telling the Gospel as a metaphor for Christ Himself.

By the way, here are various and sundry notes I’ve taken over these past couple of days. There have been so many ideas pouring in that I hardly know how to sort them all out—parallels, contrasts, combinations. Some of this I’ve already said, but it’s said differently here, probably.

*It takes heroic courage to forgive your enemy. The two can be reconciled; they need not exist in conflict. Beowulf battles the dragon and dies, but in doing so, he conquers death because he becomes immortal through the honor and love of his people. By dying for his people, he lives forever. Only by giving up your life for another can you gain true honor.

*From the Dream of the Rood: The poet sees the cross at night, when everyone else is asleep (death-like state) and deaf to it, just as all men naturally are to the Gospel. At first, we see it marvelously dressed in gold and surrounded by angels heralding it. It is wrapped in light the way Christ was wrapped in swaddling cloths. The speaker does not think it can be a gallows having to do with criminals at all, just as Christ does not appear to be a criminal at all. It is covered in glory. Then the tree begins to bleed and all the glorious garments and jewels are stained with blood. It becomes criminal, just as Christ did. It bleeds on the right side, just the way Christ did, and it speaks of having been wounded by nails as He was. It dare not fall, just as He did not flinch despite God’s wrath. Yet it is sorrowful, just as He was on the cross. After Christ is laid in the grave, the cross is cut down and thrown into a pit, just like the grave/Hell. Then the cross is rescued and erected in glory again, just as Christ ascends into glory. The speaker prays to the cross for salvation. He speaks both of its present protection and his hope for its future return, just as one would think of Christ. Also, the speaker’s moods parallel the reactions of a Christian to Christ. At first, the speaker is filled with awe when he sees the rood. He is full of fear because he recognizes his own sin and the rood’s holiness. Then he sees that the rood is covered with blood and “criminality”, just as he is. He is full of grief when the rood describes the crucifixion and its own being cut down and laid in the ground. When he sees the rood returned to glory, he himself is full of joy and the hope of fellowship with Christ. The “rood” is actually a metaphor for Christ Himself.

Anyhow, I practiced my flute and ate supper with Julie and a few other people from my floor. Then I went to watch that TV program. I sat on the floor in the Lottie lobby, self-consciously flipping through the channels while people passed by—sometimes laughing and giggling, other times silent, other times pausing to watch. The program was ridiculously full of evolution. It drove me crazy. It’s amazing that God gave humans such a wild imagination. One of the interviewed scientists said that scientists should never be attached to their theories (in conjunction with a theory about how the moon was formed), which made me wonder why they’re so attached to the theory of evolution. The program employed impressive computer special effects. It made my heart bleed to see how humans use the gifts of technology and imagination that God has given them to make a program like that.

After, I walked over to the RUF meeting on the second floor of the chapel. The chapel itself is actually on one side of a large atrium, and on the other side are offices and meeting rooms. The windows of the meeting rooms are all glass, floor-to-ceiling, and I could see the meeting before I entered the building. I felt miserable about coming late, so I promised myself that I wouldn’t go in unless the door was open.

And it was.

I sat on the floor for a while, then Rachel moved back to sit beside me. John gave a talk on faith: Faith is something we are given. (Interestingly enough, when we broke into discussion groups for a little while, the Arminians were all for faith as a verb, an action, something that we do; while I and the leader of the group, who was an older woman, were for faith as a gift of God.) Faith is a state of being, a catalyst that causes us to act a certain way. For Noah, faith produced righteousness (Hebrews 11:1-7 was the text). Faith is something that we possess. It makes us so sure about the unseen things that it is as though we can see them. It is the chrysalis that will fade away when we “hatch”, when we move from this world to the next. It is a ride token, like those at the amusement parks, given to us by God—we can ride some of the rides now, we can take advantage of some of the spiritual benefits now, but the best benefits, the best rides, so to speak, don’t open until later…. Faith is, for me, like Plato’s shadow on the wall of the cave: men are chained to the wall of a cave, and all we can see are the shadows of the real things moving across the wall. But someday, we will be released from the cave, and be able to turn around and go outside and see the real things.

After, I walked back to my room. The lamps on campus are globes set on poles. Under the sycamore trees, they look like something from Narnia—faun lights, dwarf lights. The lawn was a sheen of immaculate green under the light from the soccer field across the street. I showered, and was just e-mailing Brother2 when a dreadful commotion shattered the serenity of the dorm. The fire alarm was going off. Clear-headed, with a strange, dreamy precision, I grabbed jacket, key, and ID card and marched out of the hall, down the stairs, and into the courtyard. It was just a drill, of course. Campus security directed us across the little road that runs in front of Lottie. We stood on the lawn in our pajamas and wet hair for all the passing cars to admire. Then campus security ushered us inside again, and all returned to normal. I finished my nightly routine and went to bed.

Monday, August 22, 2005: a detailed survey

You all know already how dismally the day began. Here's the rest of it.

My first class at eleven o’clock was “Advanced Exposition and Argument”. One of the girls from my orientation group, Whitney, is in my class. She sat on one side of me, and before class started, we chatted about writing. She likes to write poetry, too—she tried out for OSAI last year, but didn’t get in. On my other side sat a curly-haired musical theatre major named Claire. She asked me my name. “Oh, E-- is such a prim-and-proper name. ‘Hi, I’m E--, and I drink tea’,” she minced. I winced, but managed to smile politely. The professor is a tall, thin woman with huge, dark eyes. She’s very enthusiastic about her subject matter. Instead of focusing on writing, this class is about Pocahontas. We’ll be writing, too, but she plans to make us watch a couple of movies on the subject and read several books about American women. (At that point, my “politically correct” alarm went off.) She showed us a slide show of portraits of Pocahontas. Most of the other students pitied her in the famous engraving of her dressed in English clothes. They laughed at the one of her being baptized. But I wonder. She’s the one who chose to marry an Englishman, and who chose to be baptized, after all. Could she have been so miserable?

Next class was the orientation class for freshman in Arts and Sciences, taught by my advisor. As usual with first classes, as I have discovered, we spent most of the time taking roll, introducing ourselves, and going over the syllabus. Then we were broken into small groups to report on aspects of life at the turn of the nineteenth century. I wanted to study religion and churches, but three intimidating young men took that subject. Instead, I was put in a group with two other girls to study philanthropy and “rich people”. One of the girls is named Danielle; it turns out that we have another class together, and she’s also interested in RUF (Reformed University Fellowship).

I ate lunch alone. I read an issue of “The Economist” for the orientation class. Very interesting. The author tries to figure out why America is so “exceptional”. He can’t for the life of him reconcile the idea. He obviously hates Christianity, and he can’t understand why it survives in America. He praises America’s prosperity. It’s ironic. He dislikes the Calvinist system which is the very basis for our peace and prosperity. He looks at the new surge in conservatism as though it were a strange and exotic new animal, but at the same time, he tries to dismiss and downplay it as though it were completely unimportant. Meanwhile, I sat and examined him as though he were the exotic, and not me. Then I read the packet of stuff for the Pocahontas class—a selection from a book in which the author complains about the way Indians were treated by Europeans. The author especially targets the name “Indian” and talks about how the Europeans generalized the Indians under one name, treating all tribes the same. What I want to know is, if you’re mad about calling the Indians a generalized term, why aren’t you mad about calling “Whites” (yes, that’s the name the author uses) a generalized term? Why don’t we start calling the Indians Cherokees, Sioux, Choctaws, Fox, Apache, and why don’t we start calling the Whites Celts, Gauls, Jutes, Angles, Saxons, Romans, Etruscans, Athenians, Spartans, Picts, Mongols, etc.? And we could get even more specific if "They" want us to. Why don’t we do it to everyone, though, instead of favoring the Indians?

My last class of the day was the linguistics class. Unlike my other two classes, it was held in Kendall Hall, the theatre building. That building was built in the modern style so as to have no straight lines or right angles. All the halls are a maze underground. The classroom is large, dark, and dingy. The professor is an older man with a peculiar accent, who is nonetheless enthusiastic about his subject and eager to help us understand it. He had everyone tell what languages they had taken. Most people had Spanish; a few had Latin or Greek or French. There was one man who spoke Arabic, and one man who spoke Javanese (not surprisingly, both were from the countries of their languages). I was the only one who had taken Old English.

After class, I went to my room and worked on my homework for the rest of the afternoon. There was a reception for Presidential Scholar students in the basketball stadium, up in the president’s box. Thankfully, Rachel, a Christian girl I met recently, was there. It was mostly just sitting around, talking and munching for a while. Then the president, a large, kindly, soft-spoken man, introduced the staff, and finally, all the students had to take the microphone and introduce themselves one-by-one. Talk about a tedious process! I felt rather lonely, actually: most of the students are engineering, petroleum engineering, chemistry, or other science/industry/business-related majors. There were about four other English majors, one film major, one anthropology major (and he’s a creep with long hair who looks like he stepped right out of one of his own primitive peoples textbooks), a couple of music majors (though they’re usually double-majoring with something in the sciences), and a philosophy major. Down below us on the gleaming court, the volleyball team was practicing. I could hear their shrill shouts through the plate glass window, above the polite murmur of voices.

Rachel and I walked to supper together after. I discovered that she doesn’t like to ride bikes and hasn’t learned how to drive. We ended up eating supper with John Knorr, the leader of RUF. He’s a stout, burly man, very zealous and friendly. Another young man was sitting with him—a long, lean, pale chap who’s a junior English major. The conversation became quite interesting—Rachel asked about what music the RUF uses. The other three discussed how wonderful the hymns are in worship, and what deep sentiments they portray, etc. When I had a chance to put a word in edgewise, I asked innocently if they ever sang Psalms. This turned John’s interest to me (it seems strange to call an adult John, but I guess this is a different world, and everyone seems to think I'm an adult, too…). He seemed quite keen to learn more about sole Psalmody.

After supper, I went to “Lottie Tie Dye” with Julie, the RA of my hall. It was held on a patch of very muddy ground under an oak tree outside my dorm. There were a lot of people, and a scraggly-haired woman in a flambouyant tie-dye shirt kept scurrying through the crowd—apparently, she was in charge of the mess. It was actually fairly fun. I dribbled paint onto my shirt in sections, then slid it gingerly into a plastic sack. The instruction card said to wash it 6-8 hours later, but that would put me going down to the laundry machine around midnight. (Note: It’s been more than twenty-four hours, and I still haven’t washed it.) With my hands properly stained from the dye, I walked over to the volleyball court behind the cafeteria for an RUF get-together. I almost didn’t make it all the way over there. I’m very tired of constantly meeting people, and I feel shy and out-of-place. I’m not sure who I am anymore. Everything seems to be different. Hardly anything is familiar here—even my few decorative possessions brought from home look different in their new setting. However, I felt like an iron filing being pulled by a magnet—or more like Prosper in The Shining Company, who feels the pull of Fate (I'd call it Predestination, of course :). A group of girls welcomed me as I approached. They were watching the volleyball game, talking, eating ice cream, and munching watermelon. I was given a slice of watermelon and nibbled it until my stained hands were also incredibly sticky. This, of course, made it difficult to shake hands whenever I was introduced to someone. I met John’s wife. Her small daughter had been at the chocolate ice cream and was all smeary and slimy with it. When two Asian girls came by, they petted her and cooed at her, but she buried her filthy face against her mother’s leg despite her mother’s efforts to hold her at a distance.

On my way back to my room, I passed a silver maple tree. It was like seeing an old friend. (Most of the maples on campus are ornamental maples—beautiful, but not as gracefully silver as my own silver maples.)

I gratefully took a shower. I examined my e-mails and blog reviews, and found a note from Melissa suggesting I use Microsoft Outlook to wake me up. Apparently, it has an alarm clock. So I stayed up for a while, fiddling with the program until I was satisfied that it would wake me up at the right time. Just as I began to drift off to sleep, the phone rang. It was my mother, asking me if I would like a wake-up call in the morning. Since I wasn’t sure if the computer would work, I said I would. We said good-night to each other and hung up—calls are expensive.

Thus concluded my first day of classes. I slept very well, and was in the middle of a deep, peculiar dream in which Mrs. P, strange animals, a barn, the Ws’ house, and classes all played a part....

(to be continued)

would you believe it?

Yes, it's the first day of college classes for me, and, would you believe it, I have nothing better to do than sit in my room and post on here. *groan*

I slept terribly last night. There must be some sort of goblin in my room who likes to stand beside my bed and poke me because every night I've spent here has been restless and completely unrefreshing. I woke up early this morning to discover, to my horror, that my alarm clock isn't working. And I won't be home for a week to get a new battery!! Tomorrow and on Thursday I have an eight o'clock class, which means that I need to be up by six-forty-five. Of course, I bet tomorrow will be the one day that I sleep in...!

It's raining really hard outside. Wonderful weather. The walk to breakfast was quite enjoyable. The rain echoed in my hood the way it would if I were listening through a seashell, but it freckled my face and hands, too. There's a gorgeous line of sycamore trees along the east side of my dorm, lining the sidewalk to the cafeteria, and huge, shining drops fell off their big, hand-like leaves.

Needless to say, though, when I reached the cafeteria, I was so wet that my shoes squeaked on the floor. Everyone stared at me as I walked by.

Eight-twenty-eight a.m.... two-and-a-half hours till my first class this morning... I'm not even really looking forward to classes today. There's a writing class, a required "American Exceptionalism" (cough) class, and a linguistics class, none of which (except maybe linguistics) are really that thrilling. Tomorrow is going to be the fun day, if I wake up in time: Oceanography, medieval British literature, and Greek history/philosophy. Woo hoo! All my favorite subjects in one day--minus music, but that will have to wait until later in the semester. The auditions for ensembles aren't until a week from today.

Speaking of which, why aren't I practicing my flute? One very good excuse: I'm on the "quiet floor" of my dorm. Flutes aren't exactly the quietest instruments on the planet, and I'll have to wait until this afternoon before I can safely bring it out. So I can just be glad I don't play the drums... or the violin, right? :)

Well, I had better go find something more profitable to do. So, this is farewell until then.

Freshman Orientation 101 (Monday, August 15)

(To Ednella: Thanks for thinking about that last post. I'm still getting to your question! I'll post an answer here when next I get a chance.)

Today my parents and I drove to "my" university, an hour northeast of our house, so that I could move into my dorm and begin orientation.

My room looked like a gypsy caravan when I woke this morning: two enormous suitcases, a vast box, a lampshade, and sundry and various other parcels and packages, containing printer, computer, trashcan, etc. I woke up early and flew around getting ready to go. In the end, I had plenty of time after breakfast in which to dally. I meandered up to the buckeye tree, which had been blown over in a big wind storm on Friday, and poked around in the wreckage. My feet sank in the thick grass, covered with dew, and wet branches flecked my hair with water. The branches lay splayed on the grass, their leaves outflung. Some of the branches were buried deep in the earth with the force of their fall. The cats snuffled through the green arches of the wreckage, their fur slick with rainwater. When it was time to go, my siblings said good-bye. Daisy seemed to be suffering from a severe case of older-sister-separation-anxiety.

We left around 8:45 a.m. The clouds were very low this morning, brushing the tops of the hills with their heavy feet. Everything was wet. It rained hard as we drove over the lake so that you could barely see the far shore. The lake was just a vague, grey pattern of wind-marbled water under the causeway. In the city, the tall skyscrapers were hidden in cloud.

The university swarmed with people moving in, carrying suitcases and the ever-present blue freshman orientation knapsacks. My mother and I checked in at the student union while my father parked the car. All I had to do was pick up some papers and my own knapsack, and we were off to Lottie Jane Mabee Hall, which is my dorm. My parents and I trekked through the mud with the suitcases, across the street, and into the lobby. A brisk young woman gave me a room check form, and we proceeded up to my room via the elevator. I’m at the end of the west hall on the third floor in a spacious corner room. My window faces west, and there’s a line of maple trees below it—just like home. It was very cold and smelled a bit stale in my room when we first entered. The walls were blank and sterile. The furniture was all tilted about, one bed sprawled in the center of the room, one bed pushed neatly against the wall. I began to get settled. My father strained at the desks and wardrobes until they were satisfactorily arranged. Then he settled down and briskly began to install my laptop on the system while my mother and I unpacked the suitcases. My parents kept commenting about how little I’d brought with me, though I felt as though it were quite a lot. Most of my clothes aren’t here yet, though—they were in the wash when we left this morning. My mother and I stacked the two mattresses on top of one another and made the bed. Once we’d flung my newest comforter onto the bed, the room began to look cheerful. The comforter is made of brightly-colored patches from my grandmother's quilt scraps.

After everything was stowed away, we went out to lunch. A line of angry clouds glowered at us from the southwest. We drove to the Arbys around the corner, leaving just in time to get pelted with a heavy rainshower as we ran from the car to the restaurant. The restaurant was busy with people—workers, students, administrators, parents. I ordered a chocolate-and-peanut-butter milkshake to go with my sandwich. It even had hot fudge swirled around the inside of the cup, making a pretty pattern on the plastic.

After lunch, we drove back to the student union to buy books. Most of the time, my mother sat in the corner and read Abraham Lincoln’s Genes and other adventures, a book about DNA which she’d found on the textbook shelf and really liked. My father and I pushed through the crowded aisles, trying to make sense of the course listings. While he stood in line with a heavy basket of books for the checkout counter, my mother and I walked over to the music building, Tyrell Hall, to see if I could get audition music. However, the Hall was completely empty. No professors, no secretaries, only one dude in the upstairs computer lab, a shy Asian girl waiting for the secretary, and a friendly family in a basement practice room. The daughter of this family was trying to learn mellophone so that she could audition for marching band—she plays French horn, but they suddenly told her that she had to play mellophone. They escorted us over to the band building, located in one of the athletic halls. We snuck through the big band practice room, where the drums were practicing, into a crowded hall, and finally I poked my head into a room very full of people. A cheerful man in a uniformed shirt handed me one sheet of relatively easy music, after which my mother and I hurried back to the student union, where my father was waiting for us.

At three o’clock, my parents and I separated: my parents went to a parents’ meeting in the basketball arena, while I marched off to meet my orientation group. My group leader is a ditzy young woman—a brunette with pretty hair and a rather silly, made-up face. We played the “two truths and a lie” game in order to get acquainted with everyone, and then she went over the schedule with us. I desperately wanted to get out of the little classroom. She arranged times for us to meet for breakfast, lunch, and supper tomorrow (I was hoping to be able to eat on my own). I was really miserable and very bored.

We walked over to the basketball arena to have a big group picture taken. Almost everyone else was already there, arranged on the tall steps leading into the stadium. The leaders stood about at the foot of the stairs and shouted encouragement. I stood with my back pressed against the concrete side of the stairs and sweated. It rained a little bit. I thought about how, if I were doing what I wanted to be doing, I would be at Horn Creek in the mountains just then, and it would be raining a little bit as we carried our suitcases to the cabins. *sigh* One of the leaders cheered the crowd on to do a “wave”, and then someone had the clever idea to “crowd-surf”. This was one of the larger and heavier group leaders. They hefted him up onto the mass of students, and the students passed him up with their hands on his back.

The picture having been taken, we streamed into the stadium, but instead of going into the main arena for the matriculation ceremony, we were detoured to one of the practice courts. There, all the groups sat in circles. We waited for what seemed like half-an-hour. The roar of the crowd shook the air, echoing off the high ceiling and blank walls. It was an awful roar, like thousands of tons of water, but it had a rhythm to it, a little bit like poetry, and every so often, one voice would stand out, the way a syllable stands out from a stanza. The group behind us played duck-duck-goose. It was ridiculous to watch these plump highschool girls in tight little skirts chasing each other, squealing with laughter. A boy and a trim young woman began a game of volleyball.

At last, one of the leaders picked up a loudspeaker and began to direct the groups out of the room. I sat and watched the trickle grow steadily. Suddenly, like water in a dry land, I began to think about Heaven. Peace flowed down, instead of frustration. As I shuffled out of the room with the other kids, I sang Psalm 84 to myself. We were pushed through the catacombs of maintenance and locker rooms below the main arena, until finally we emerged on the arena floor. We passed down a row of presidents in their silk gowns, the colors bright as the stripes on a monarch butterfly’s wings. We walked along the court and turned at the place in front of the podium where a stern-faced man held a rod with a silver seal atop it. (He looked very imposing, and a bit silly.) Then we climbed the bleachers and took our seats in file. On my left side sat several “cute chicks”; on my right side sat a bunch of rapper dudes who made disrespectful comments throughout the ensuing ceremony, especially about the bagpipers and their kilts. The bagpipers, arranged on the court in a semicircle, played as we entered. There were maybe eight pipers and three or four drummers to keep time. All the bagpipers had on kilts and hats and matching shoes and socks. One of them looked like the reincarnation of Wallace himself, with a grim, determined face and shoulder-length blonde hair. They played the same martial tune over and over until the row of professors had been seated. Then they turned to the beat of the drum and marched out.

A long ceremony followed—mostly talking by various presidents, deans, and professors. The chaplain prayed at the beginning of the end (but, rather glaringly, he omitted the name of Christ). The president of the university gave a nice address about how students should manage change, diversify their experiences, make new friends, and accept their own limits. The deans of the colleges got up and told us about how wonderful each college was. The dean of Arts and Sciences said that there was a planet in another solar system named for one of his professors. (“No wonder!” I thought, “they’re so way-out in their ideology that they’re certainly not on this planet.”) He boasted that his professors had written two hundred thirty-two books over the past years. (“That’s far too many!” I thought.) Towards the end of the ceremony, two young women rose from the audience. One played the alma mater while the other sang—she had a nice, operatic voice, not too pretentious. The words to the alma mater were a bit too much like a hymn for my taste. Then the bagpipers came back in and played the professors and dignitaries out of the room. The crowd broke up. Everyone was trying to find their parents. One girl, caught in the midst of the crowd, was saying, “I can’t find you!” to her mother, who happened to be about two yards away. I stood outside for a while, hoping to see my parents, but they never appeared. Then I saw my father waving to me from below the steps, and I ran down to meet them.

We stood in a long line for supper. My father had been very surprised that we hadn’t had to stand in any long lines all day, so I joked that this was the line he’d been looking for. The meal was quite good. We ate at a little table in the “Hurricane Hut”, which is an informal snack bar/video arcade during the school year. After supper, we returned to my room, where we unloaded the books. I hugged my parents good-bye.

The room seemed very empty without them. I sat by my window and stared out. A long line of dark thunderheads stood along the northern horizon, spilling over into the west so that the sun lit them brilliantly, etching them with gold against the blue sky. I saw my parents walk to the car, and I waved them good-bye. My mother blew me kisses. I watched as they pulled out and drove away. I felt rather desolate. My room was very cold, so I opened my window. A fat fly flew in. I chased it around the room with my Bach etude book, moving as though the fly and I were in some sort of complicated modern dance, until I managed to squash it. I wrote e-mails. Before I went to bed, I had to bundle up like a hibernating bear in order to stay warm.

Sole Psalmody: An Essay

The Reformed Presbyterian Church, of which I am a member, holds as part of its doctrine of worship that Psalms are the only appropriate thing to be sung in worship. The RPC also says that these Psalms must be sung acappella, without instruments. I've had several people ask me why the RPC does this, and so I think it's high time I address the subject. I asked my father to check over this essay before I posted it, and he said it was alright, so if you have more questions, please go to him--he has a much better grasp of the subject than I do!

Warning: Long and extremely philosophical blog post follows. I do not intend to offend anyone; my purpose here is to make you consider the sanctity of worship and the blessing the church gains when it sings the Psalms.

First, to address the objection, “If all life is a worship service, then does singing Psalms without instruments mean that we can’t enjoy literature, listen to secular lyrical music, or play musical instruments? Does it really matter what we do in worship if all of life is a worship service?” But all of life is not a worship service. Certainly, all of life should be lived so that the Christian glorifies God in everything. However, a worship service is a special time in which the Christian lays aside his other concerns and focuses on God alone. Christians can glorify God by cooking meals, changing the oil in the car, sewing dresses, and evangelizing door-to-door, but a Christian would do none of these things in a worship service because none of these things allow him to focus totally on God. Thus, Christians are free to enjoy literature, listen to lyrical music, and play instruments in the rest of their life. They can do these things to glorify God, just as they would bake bread or build a house for His glory.

Since the worship service is the time that God has ordained for man to draw closer to Him in a corporate group, God has established set perimeters for this time. The regulative principle of worship states that anything that is not commanded in worship is forbidden, and that whatever is commanded in worship is required. God told the Israelites exactly what He wanted during their time of worship. In the Old Testament, before Christ’s coming, worship included the slaughter of animals. Instruments were used during the time when the priests were killing the animals. When Christ came and fulfilled the Old Testament symbols, there was no longer any need for sacrifice, and so the trappings that went along with the sacrifice—that is, the entire system of temple worship, including instruments—were done away with. There is no longer any place for instruments in worship because Christ has fulfilled that part of the service. In essence, when you use instruments in worship, you declare that Christ’s death was not good enough and that you wish to return to the old sacrificial system.

Singing was a part of Old Testament worship, too, but it continues in the New Testament church. There are several Greek and Hebrew words used to describe the singing part of a worship service. In the Old Testament, the title “hymn” or “song” is put onto Psalms to differentiate them into categories. Colossians 3:16 says, “Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly in all wisdom, teaching and admonishing one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing with grace in your hearts to the Lord.” Here, Paul is just using different words to describe the singing part of the worship service. He tells Christians to let the Word of Christ to dwell richly in them. They are to sing Spirit-filled songs. The only songs which are truly filled with the Holy Spirit are those that were fully inspired by Him: the Psalms.

Psalms were used in worship in both the Old and New Testament. Christ Himself used the Psalms. The book of Psalms is the most-often-quoted book in the New Testament. In New Testament times, heretics were the first to introduce the use of non-inspired hymns in worship. The church council of Laodicea forbade hymns.

When anything other than Psalms is used in worship, worship becomes impoverished. Here’s an illustration from one of my teachers: When you sing the Psalms in worship, it’s like drinking straight from a clear spring. The water is fresh, clean, and undiluted. It has no pollutants in it. The Psalms are exactly what God wants us to sing, exactly what He’s given us to sing. When you sing the Psalms, you know for certain that you’re singing things that are pleasing to God. However, when you sing hymns in worship, it’s like drinking water from the spring that has been allowed to run down a hill. Now the water is diluted. It has pollutants in it. It’s imperfect.

From my personal experience, I find that things have been left out of hymns that are present in the God-inspired Psalms. There are very few imprecatory hymns, as there are imprecatory Psalms, which cry to God for salvation from wicked men and call down His righteous wrath on an evil world. To me, hymns just don’t have the breadth and depth of emotion that Psalms do. It seems to me that when you sing hymns in worship, you are leaving out a big part of what God has given us to meditate on and to use in worship.

Finally, the best reason for the church to sing Psalms only in worship comes from the regulative principle of worship: whatever God has commanded us to use in worship, we use, and whatever God has either strictly forbidden or has not commanded, either explicitly or indirectly should not be used in worship. Hymn-singing has not been commanded by God in worship. Psalm-singing has been commanded by God. God provided men to write Psalms for worship. Asaph and his sons were Levites, consecrated by God to write Psalms. David, Solomon, and Moses, who all wrote Psalms, were men who were specially chosen and anointed by God for His service. God did not let just anyone write songs for worship, nor was just anyone allowed to write songs at any point in the church. Only the priests or certain prophets, inspired by God, were authorized to write Psalms, and God preserved their Spirit-inspired writings for the church’s use in worship throughout the ages.

Someone will interject here and argue that God preserved the songs of people such as Miriam, so shouldn't we sing those, too? However, the song of Miriam in Exodus was not part of a worship service. She was giving praise to God in a public, political setting, not as part of a worship service. God did not preserve her song as part of the book of Psalms. The book of Psalms is a collection of Psalms specially set aside for use in worship. Nowhere in the Bible do we find anyone using Miriam’s song, or similar pieces, for use in worship, but we do find people using selections from the book of Psalms (one teacher of mine commented that Christ and His disciples sung Psalm 118 before they went into the garden of Gethsemane). I think that God preserved her song to remind us that we, too, should glorify Him and use all our talents to praise Him—outside the worship service.

Someone else will ask, “Aren’t you saying that we can please God by our works because someone who sings Psalms will please Him more than someone who sings hymns?” Christ enables us to obey God and clears our minds so that we can understand His revelation. He takes the most imperfect worship and makes it pleasing in God’s sight. However, God will always be more pleased with someone who obeys His commands for worship in Christ than with someone who does not obey His commands. By the grace of His Spirit, Christ enables us to understand His guidelines for worship. Those who follow God’s commands in Christ will always be more blessed than those who do not. They will gain more benefit from worship, and from all of life, if they seek to obey God.

By this discussion I am not saying that God has forbidden His people to write poems or pieces of music. I believe that Christians should use their talents to God’s glory, and if they are gifted with the ability to write poems or stories, or to play instruments or compose tunes, then they should do so, but with the understanding that these pieces will not be used in worship because they have not been directly inspired by God. Although God is the fountain for all our endeavors, He granted His special revelation to some specific men so that they could write for worship, and He has not given this special revelation to anyone else. I also happen to think that Christians should feel free to write devotional poems or songs—by writing with God in mind, Christians serve to enlighten the dark world and to deepen their own sense of devotion to Him. As long as they write with the understanding that their work is not to be used in worship, Christians should feel free to talk about God in their writing, both poetry and prose.

Also, I am not trying to say by this discussion that Christians should not sing hymns at all. There are certainly some beautiful hymns (and music to go with those hymns) that have been written. I have heard people sing these songs and have enjoyed them—outside worship. Hymns do lead us to think about God and to praise Him, so they are not to be censured entirely from the Christian life. I think that Christians can gain good from singing hymns. However, they should always remember that they are drinking from that muddied stream and not from the clear spring of God’s special revelation. Christians should always return to the Psalms as their one source for worship songs.

"My" Song, posted thanks to popular demand

Well, some of you wanted this. Here goes.

My song would be either "Short Trip Home" from "Heartland" (bluegrass), or "On My Way Home" from "Paint the Sky with Stars", by Enya (New Age). Both of these songs are sort of thoughtful and seem to be looking back at old memories. Or, of course, the complete "Lord of the Rings" soundtracks, by Howard Shore. These soundtracks run through my entire spectrum of emotions and experiences. They have silly parts (FOTR, Track 5), happy parts (ROTK, Track 17), ecstatic parts (FOTR, Track 9; TTT, Track 16), very sad parts (FOTR, Track 17; TTT, Track 11; ROTK, Track 8), parts for fighting as I do battle with my sinful nature (FOTR, Tracks 6-8; TTT, Track 12; ROTK, Tracks 11-15), and parts that long for Heaven (ROTK, Track 19).

Stargazing

Note: Last week my family and I went to a Christian family camp in Iowa. One night, one of the older men, a retired professor, gave a stargazing session for us on the big open field near the cabins. Meanwhile, some clever person had started a Psalm sing on the porch of the dining hall. Here's what I got out of the experience.

Stargazing
8/8/05

When it was dark, a handful gathered round
Dr. Parnell, an old astronomer.
He mapped the skies for us. His flashlight’s pen
Traced brief meridians. He lifted quavering fingers
To Sagittarius, Hercules, whose hands

Raised bow and club against Scorpius. Cassiopeia
Wiggled over his bald head. His flashlight caught
Aquila’s silent splash as it plunged in
Stars’ seas. He cupped his hand to hear Vega—
Aeolian hum through Lyra’s strings. The rim

Of the Big Dipper shone behind his mouth.
His flashlight stitched the Milky Way, where Cygnus
Swam on the rushing river, outspread cross.
Altair, Arcturus, Antares, Vootes
Gazed down from temple stairs, enshrined gods,

Skin like pure Athens’s marble, hard Sparta’s spears.
Across the lawn, which swelled like sky, upon
The concrete porch, a constellation gathered:
A cluster of tired teens in sweaty shirts.
From the black field I stared at them and heard

Bass out-of-tune, sopranos buried by altos.
“Leave not the work of Your own hands,” they sang,
“You sit enthroned forever; Your memorial
Abides through generations,” from the Psalms.
Above them, in the universe’s cold halls

Throngs draped in pagan robes lifted holy hands.
“While I live I will praise Jehovah, praise
My God through all my days,” the tenors sang.
“On us let there be shed abroad the beauty
Of our Lord God,” sopranos’ voices rang.

I tried to count stars on the porch, but they
Had merged with the vortex of galaxies.
Drawn, planet on its orbit, I crossed grass
Withered by August. Through the hazy gloam
I stepped, beneath the giant oak. At last

I joined my voice with theirs, with stars that sang
Above. Across vast hills we climbed. We forded
A river roaring, cold against our skin.
A tide of lights, we ebbed from silent shores
Into the sea, to meet the rising sun.

Soundtracks

Lately I've asked my friends to write in my journal and tell me what song or songs they would choose to be the "soundtrack" to their own life and the "soundtrack" to my life. In other words, what song would they choose to characterize themselves and to characterize me. After I've read everyone's responses (all of which were interesting and encouraging), I decided to attempt the exercise myself. Marigold asked me to post the results. I'm afraid I don't have anything for Melissa and her sisters yet, but maybe you'll be able to enjoy the others.

Note 1: This exercise does not take into account selections from the Book of Psalms. The Psalms have words for every mood, every sorrow, every struggle, every joy that any human being can possibly encounter. There's probably a Psalm out there that would fit each one of us at some point or another. However, I think it's probably better if I don't go into spiritual matters here by assigning my friends something as deeply personal as their own Psalm. Because of this, I've stuck to purely secular pieces--not ones that are offensive, but ones that I know and love.

Note 2: If any of you (who are my friends or family) read this post and don't recognize the songs I've mentioned, ask me, and I'll play them for you sometime.

Note 3: To those who are mentioned here, please don't be taken aback by the ways I've characterized you! :) I may have given more space to some than to others, but that doesn't mean that I love those about whom I've said more than those about whom I've said little. I love all of you equally--but differently. I hope you will be encouraged by this post as I was by your notes to me. I appreciate all of you.

Here goes....

Meri: "Wolfcreek Pass" from "Not All who Wander Are Lost", by Chris Thile (bluegrass). This song is playful and wild and adventurous, but it also has a slow, jazzy, patient section in the middle--these things characterize Meri. She's one of the most patient people I know--patience, to me, often consists of being patient when one is feeling most impatient inside. This jazzy section feels thoughtful, but it also has a hidden energy that wants to race ahead.

Princess: "Between the Shadows" from "The Visit", by Loreena McKennitt (Celtic/world). This song keeps revealing new aspects of itself. It's clear and sweet, just like Princess. Another song for her would be "Bonny Swans" from "The Mask and Mirror", also by Loreena McKennitt, because it's dramatic (Princess loves dramatics). It has quirks that make you laugh (Princess always wears a funny little frown--it's her default expression, but it makes me smile, not mockingly, but just because it's her).

Violin: The Barber and Elgar violin concertos, or Mark O'Connor's string quartet. These pieces are full of different attitudes. They change suddenly. They're dramatic, silly, squirrely, and sad, by turns. They move quickly and intensely in some movements, just like Violin, but they also take time to meditate, the way she does, and then to eloquently articulate the results of those meditations.

SwanElf: "Song for a Young Queen" from "Not All who Wander Are Lost", by Chris Thile (bluegrass) because it reminds me of clear blue eyes and laughter and innocence. It's boyantly happy, the way she is. Another song that might fit her is "Fancy Stops and Goes" from "Heartland" (bluegrass), because it has crazy, squirrely parts interspersed with slower, intense, thoughtful parts. SwanElf and Violin both think--and speak what they think--with intensiy.

Marigold: "Flying" from the "Peter Pan" soundtrack, by James Newton Howard, because she often seems carefree. Or "Death by Triple Fiddle" from "Heartland" (bluegrass). This piece is cheerful and hard-working, like Marigold. It also reminds me a little bit of when I get out-of-line and Marigold has to strictly put me back in my place.

Estella: "Wild Child" from "A Day without Rain", by Enya (New Age). It's happy, with a nice swing and flow to it. It's also quiet and understated. It's dreamy, sweet, a little shy--like Estella herself.

Daisy: "La Serenissima" from "The Book of Secrets", by Loreena McKennitt (Celtic/world). This song is innocent, like Daisy. It seems to be eager for something, always wanting to make its listener happy, but it also refuses to change, except little-by-little, just the way Daisy does.