U.K. Trip, Day 3

Belfast from Cave Hill

~

As one would expect after jet lag, we slept late today. Our first stop: Belfast's Botanical Gardens. My favorite place here, quite possibly. We walked in past the wee garden-keeper's house on the side closest to Queen's and were suddenly enveloped in the garden's smells--cool, damp earth, rhododendrons. Ahead of us opened smooth green lawns, the last tulips (silky black), chestnut trees in white and pink bloom. 

We spent quite awhile in the Tropical Ravine, awed by the enormous cycads, banana trees, ferns, and palms. The long brick building has maintained its general air of decay, age, abandonment. Ficus sprouts from the bricks. The girders under their white paint have begun to rust, and tree limbs have started to shoot through the glass panels, which seem almost oppressively low above the enormous jungle canopy. Tiny jewel-colored flowers hung in the darkness under broad leaves, and koi flickered in deep pools. Moss wrapped crumbling bricks, the girders, the fogged glass.

Outside again, we walked round the rose gardens, not yet in bloom, and up through the dell, where rhododendrons (orange, magenta, purple) and conifers grow. A fine rain began to fall again. Then we crossed beside the green to the Palm House, in all its stateliness. Our visit, however, happened to coincide with that of a tour group's, so we dodged into one of the heated side wings to avoid everyone, and were rewarded with ten minutes' contemplation of a fiery display of snapdragons.

Out through the main gates, then, and on to our next adventure: Belfast Castle and Cave Hill. On our way down to city centre to catch the bus, we stopped for lunch at Weatherly House, near the RP church. My first taste of solid Irish stew in awhile. At a table near ours, a bunch of lads (not Northern Irish, by their accents) were drinking and roaring with laughter, which prompted a long discussion between the two of us about decays in morals.

The bus left us at the bottom of the hill, so we walked up through neighborhoods to the Castle park's entrance. We followed an avenue through deeply forested grounds. Huge beech, tulip, and fir trees. The sun nearly came out as we arrived at the Castle and looked down on its lovely small garden, laid out with geometric flowerbeds around a central fountain. Cats were mosaiced or sculptured among beds of tulips, poppies, and sage.

We hiked Cave Hill after a brief investigation of the Castle (which is hardly more than a reception venue). The long trail flings itself over the east face of the hill, winding gradually up through dense trees. Bluebells grew on the darkly shaded ground. The trail emerged suddenly on a promontory overlooking the city and the bay. Up and up again, through whin, all in yellow bloom. Hooded crows and magpies dove from the cliffs looming overhead. We clambered up to the cave and then on, around the slope's shoulder, to approach the cliffs from the back.

The path took us across the open hillside and at last to McArt's Fort, right at the head of the highest cliff. We could see to Carrickfergus Castle, across the bay where the ferry was plowing toward Scotland, over to Crawfordsburn, across the cranes and tower blocks of the city, to the distant shadowy Mournes. Cold wind scoured the ridge, and the rain had returned. Behind us, the back of the cliff broadened out into what can only be described as a moor, weird as that seems in the middle of this densely-populated area--a long, wide swathe of hilltop, all windswept grass.

We followed the trail down as it wound under this ridge. Suddenly, we came upon horses on either side of the path: a big muscled stallion in one enclosure just up the hillside, all magnificent dark flanks and wind-tumbled mane, and a herd of bays and chestnuts just down the slope, grazing. They eyed us inquisitively, and we paused to watch them.

And so down. The trail took a long, slow, straight descent under the ridge above. Where it crossed a creek with a pair of small waterfalls, it doubled back toward the Castle, putting the Black Mountain (at the opposite end of the high ridge from Cave Hill) behind us. High hawthorn hedges on either side. A field with three cows, thick with iris spears. Then down into the deep woods again. Birds sang everywhere, pealing from every branch. The huge, winding, twisted limbs of the trees were vivid with moss.

Down, and out into the cultivated park, and then we found ourselves out on the street again. On our way back to the bus stop, we paused to see the Resurrection Chapel, built by one of the Castle's former inhabitants for his dead son. A lovely Gothic gem, it sits abandoned in a patch of brambles in the middle of the housing estate. No glass in the traceried windows, and graffiti on the belltower.

We took the bus to Castlecourt and found ourselves swept along in 6 p.m. crowds--shoppers going home, kids going out, etc. The mess and grime and grind of the city, so different from the stillnesses above on that ridge. We stepped into a pound shop and bought an umbrella, but when we walked outside again, the rain had stopped (and that was the last we'd see of rain until Edinburgh, almost a week-and-a-half later!).

After tea, we happened to be walking down Botanic and ran into Sarah and Sheep, and stopped to chat with them. Good to see them again! We went to Starbucks to contact Naomi and make plans for tomorrow.

U.K. Trip, Day 2

Up at the top of Victoria Square shopping mall, we saw a falconer using a hawk to scare away the pigeons.

~

We descended through layers of cloud toward Belfast International Airport this morning at about nine o'clock. For the fun of it, Scott was keeping up a running commentary in French as we landed. Customs in Belfast never ceases to amaze me: the personnel are always friendly, relaxed, and professional. Since we hadn't checked any luggage, we walked right through the airport--and there was Naomi, waiting for us just outside! A joyful reunion. 

She drove us to Hotel Ibis, right by Queens. All the familiar sights and smells of the motorway, right down to the potato factory on the outskirts of the city (which gives the air a distinctive odor), and the abandoned door factory next door. We passed through the grim estates and terraced houses behind city centre, around the corner guarded by City Hospital, and suddenly found ourselves whizzing under the green archway made by the trees that give Elmwood Avenue its name. Then the maze of one-way streets around Queens, and the fun of trying to find a parking spot.

The three of us ate lunch at The Other Place, a cafe in Botanic, Ulster fries all round (the first of many for Scott and me). All afternoon we walked the city: Shaftesbury Square and the venerable red brick Reformed Presbyterian Church building, City Hall with its green copper dome, the Albert Clock, the Bigfish by the black Lagan, Belfast Cathedral (St. Anne's), Victoria Square, the long drag up past Castlecourt Mall, Great Victoria Street, the Opera House, the Europa, the Lanyon Building, and the new Queens Library. A fine drizzle descended on our heads every step of the way, and I shivered in the unfamiliar cold. Inside St. Anne's, an organist was practicing; on the crowded footpath outside the mall, someone was playing an accordion. The new library was packed with students revising for the spring term exams; I've never seen a library so full. It was so full as to be hot and uncomfortable, claustrophobic, even after the bustling streets. We stepped into the C.S. Lewis room but didn't stay long.

I remembered as we walked how much I love this city: its bricolage of mid-19th century neo-Gothic, mid-20th century (Soviet-style!) modern, 21st century sleek glass and steel and pine; its weathered slate or green copper roofs; the occasional glittering mosaic or intricate limestone cornice. It's a dirty city, of course; people smoke constantly, and many of the grand, palatial office buildings are vacant, a product of the economic collapse. Still, it has a crazy, dingy, familiar beauty all its own, under the steady rain.

To send our families an e-mail saying that we'd arrived, we went with Naomi to the maths building to borrow her computer. Since she needed to work, we said good-bye, and Scott and I stepped back out into the rain--a proper rain now. We walked down to a mini Tesco to provision ourselves for the weekend, and then we returned to our room. Despite all advice to the contrary, we napped for awhile, jet lag getting the better of us.

After awhile, we perused our guidebooks, listing off possible adventures for the weekend. We ate PB&J for dinner and then ventured out to find a Starbucks. I guided us down past Queens. The rain had stopped and the evening was chilly but pearly--grey and rose skies, blue peeping through. We passed Renwick and stopped to admire All Souls across the way. Ivy looped velvety gold ruffles over the grey stone. 

We spent awhile catching up on the internet in Starbucks. As we walked back, Scott commented on how everyone on the streets seemed to have cheered up once the rain stopped. No surprise there. The evening really was lovely, a gentle gilding of sky and buildings. 

Now Playing: Vivaldi, "Four Seasons."

U.K. Trip, Day 1

 Indianapolis Airport

~

Frantic preparation for our grand adventures consumed most of today. Our flight from Indianapolis to Newark didn't leave until about half five in the evening, so we had all day to deposit checks, mow the lawn, wash sheets, eat leftovers, and stuff our backpacks with everything we'd need for the next three weeks. Most of the around-the-house tasks were Scott's--he had to show Eric where everything was; he had to print all our reservation confirmations; he had to mow and spray deer repellant on the rosebushes.

At 2 p.m., Mary showed up to take us to the airport, and Eric returned with his first load of belongings. The four of us ate an impromptu feast on leftover wedding cake and lasagna before Mary took us up to Indianapolis. The afternoon was warm, May in full flush, variegating the woods and fields with the lush greens of late spring.

At the airport we said good-bye to Mary and were off. I've decided that I much prefer traveling with someone else--no tear-jerking farewells, no panic at the check-in desk. We had no hitches as we went through security, waited for, and then boarded our flight. As we coasted down over New York City, the setting sun flashed apricot and peach from the skyscrapers, flashed green from roofs and the Statue of Liberty, outlined all these against the grey bay.

We sat at the gate for the flight from Newark to Belfast for awhile. Around us the familiar Northern Irish accents had already begun to crop up, and for once I wasn't stressed, afraid, or melancholy. Our cinched backpacks rested against our knees until boarding began, and then the six-hour flight. At one point, lightning flickered below us, intersecting across the night sky, sketching vast fields of cloud to the south. I hardly slept, but Scott did.

Now Playing: Beethoven piano concerti.

This blog has been woefully silent for the last month or so. A lot has happened since then: a wedding and the attendant festivities, a three-week holiday to the U.K., and VBS. Since VBS ended last Friday, Scott and I have moved on to the next big project, painting the stairwell and hallway in our house. With Mary's help, we finally finished today.

In order to finish the stairwell, Scott taped a paintbrush to the end of a pole. With this contraption he reached all the high parts perfectly, while Mary and I painted the doors and the trim.

Tomorrow, I'll start posting day-by-day with a photo and an entry for each day of the trip Scott and I took after we got married.

Today I lay down to take a nap and dreamed I was writing my paper about Beowulf, hospitality, and monsters, right down to the details of quoting bits of Old English to myself in my sleep. Hopefully I wasn't talking aloud.

Rain has come, at long last. It's Little 500 weekend in Bloomington--Little 500 is a bike race that takes place on the third or fourth Saturday in April each year--and everyone has been out on the streets partying. The parties seem to start on Monday and run through until Sunday at the earliest. Last night, when I was biking home from Scott's house, knots of college students were standing on the sidewalks, talking and drinking, or filling the porches of the historic houses along First Street.

But now it's raining. I rather hope that this will drive some of the merrymaking indoors since people tend to get pretty raucous. The Little 500 phenomenon always puzzles me: right before finals, at the end of the term, when a lot of professors give tests or assign essays before the major projects are actually due.

The rain is also good because we bought more plants today: spirea, marigolds, phlox, saxifrage, begonias, and fuschia. Scott is excited about filling pots to put around the porch, and I'm excited about having plants from the garden in Stillwater that I will recognize here. Also the borders around the house are mostly full of ivy and dark evergreens, so the phlox, saxifrage, and spirea will provide some bright color.

Back to writing that paper now.

Now Playing: Bach, Mass in B Minor, Credo/Aria: Et in spiritum sanctum.

The end of school has made this blog suffer significantly, it seems. Thanks to my own coursework, teaching, and wedding-planning, free time has been hard to come by. Today I'm studying at Scott's house, sitting on the deck, while he does yard work. The results are beautiful, and will be still more lovely, hopefully, as the summer arrives.

This is our crazy bed: marigolds and zinnias off to the sides, among the hostas and rabbit's ear, and lots and lots of wildflower seeds in that big swathe along one side, the patch that currently looks empty. The azalea blooming by the front door is incredibly vibrant right now.

Along University, down the south side of the yard, are lots of rose bushes, interspersed with Russian sage and two butterfly bushes. 

Blanche bemusedly surveys her domain. The shrub almost directly in front of her, to the left of the wooden trellis, is actually a Jane magnolia tree, a saucer magnolia.

Now Playing: Brahms, Symphony No. 4 in E minor, "Andante moderato." I love the opening to this movement so, so much. It's contending with the first movement of Beethoven's "Eroica" symphony for favorite Classical piece right now.

I discovered tonight one reason to be slightly melancholy about changing my last name: the codex in which Beowulf is found is often called the Nowell Codex, after a sixteenth-century antiquarian. Put that last name through a spelling permutation, and what do you get? Yes, yes, I know my family's last name is technically Dutch but hey, the connection always brings a certain glow to my heart whenever I stumble across that term for the manuscript.

Even when it comes early, I love this time of year. Above, tulips in the church parking lot. Below, the dogwood tree just outside Scott's dining room window.

Strong storms this evening--typical March weather for the "Midwest," I guess. (Does Indiana count as the Midwest?) Thankfully we had a rainbow out of it all.

Hail on our front porch.

All the trees are blooming, a glorious overabundance of flowers everywhere, even on campus.

Now Playing: Corelli, Concerto Grosso in F, Op. 6, No. 2, Grave - Andante Largo.

Another spectacular sunrise yesterday morning.

Daffodils at Scott's house are phenomenal right now. These ones with the pale peach centres, above, are a variety I've never seen before.

I've been reading Manalive by G.K. Chesterton over spring break, thanks to Anna.

Oddly enough, some of the moments that stood out to me most were when characters were talking about marriage (!). I was surprised to find so much wisdom in Chesterton about that particular subject since I usually think of him as being wise in matters of life philosophy, but I suppose that, given the topic of this particular book, I really shouldn't have been so shocked.

Anyway, a few quotes:

"'Imprudent marriages!' roared Michael. 'And pray where in earth or heaven are there any prudent marriages? .... You never know a husband till you marry him. Unhappy! Of course you'll be unhappy! Who the devil are you that you shouldn't be unhappy, like the mother that bore you? Disappointed! Of course we'll be disappointed! I, for one, don't expect till I die to be so good a man as I am at this minute...."

~

"'Oh, what's the good of talking about men,' cried Mary impatiently; 'why, one might as well be a lady novelist, or some horrid thing. There aren't any men. There are no such people. There's a man; and whoever he is he's quite different.'

'So there's no safety,' said Diana, in a low voice.

'Oh, I don't know,' answered Mary lightly enough; 'there's only two things generally true of them. At certain curious times they're just fitted to take care of us, and they're never fit to take care of themselves.'"

~

"'Don't you be frightened,' said Mary. 'All over, these men have one advantage: they are the sort that go out.'

A sudden thrust of wind through the trees drifted the dying leaves along the path, and they could hear the far-off trees roaring faintly.

'I mean,' said Mary, 'they are the kind that look outwards and get interested in the world. It doesn't matter a bit whether it's arguing, or bicycling, or breaking down the ends of the earth.... Stick to the man who looks out of the window and tries to understand the world. Keep clear of the man who looks in at the window and tries to understand you....'"

For one thing, Chesterton's sense of humour is often impeccable, with his peculiar blend of uproariousness and sarcasm. For another thing, the human balance of these ideas seems very appropriate. As a whole, the novella deals with loving the everyday:

"'... I think God has given us the love of special places, of a hearth and of a native land, for a good reason.... Because otherwise... we might worship that.'

'What do you mean?' I asked.

'Eternity,' he said in his harsh voice, 'the largest of the idols--the mightiest of the rivals of God.... if there be a house for me in heaven it will either have a green lamp-post and a hedge, or something quite as positive and personal as a green lamp-post and a hedge. I mean that God bade me love one spot and serve it, and do all things however wild in praise of it, so that this one spot might be a witness against all the infinities and the sophistries, that Paradise is somewhere and not anywhere, is something and not anything. and I would not be so very much surprised if the house in heaven had a real green lamp-post after all.'"

In other words, we love the specific, real, and concrete because we worship a specific, real, and concrete God, and not an airy-fairy generality that we've made up ourselves.

This is why the ideas about marriage seem apropos: Instead of worrying about "people out there," other possibilities, the vague exigencies of the future, it seems much more fitting to focus on this person in front of me, the one God has given me to love, right now, in this moment (and leave the future to take care of itself, if such a thing is possible for the human mind).

Which is why I love this quote that I stumbled across today in The Fellowship of the Ring, concerning Rivendell:

"The future, good or ill, was not forgotten, but ceased to have any power over the present."

A focus on the present good and the present blessings, thanking God for what He has given right now, without letting the future overshadow or overpower the present, specific, concrete reality of this moment here. This also precludes, one would hope, idolatry of the future, or of oneself in the future--or in the present, for that matter, since when you're busy being thankful and enjoying, it rather crowds out too much selfishness and introspection.

High ideals, and probably impossible--but good to think about, at least.

Crazy month, March: now the saucer magnolias are all in full bloom, the daffodils are out, and every bird in the world seems to be singing outside our windows.

Some absolutely amazing photos of our solar system here.

Now Playing: Chris Thile, "Not All Who Wander Are Lost," "Sinai to Canaan, Part I."

No existential musings today, just a quote stolen from Anna's blog: 

For the true apprehension of beauty, like faith itself, is an exercise in laying claim to what is already ours. There is a low door in the garden wall, and it opens on an inheritance: this is my Father’s world, and He has given it to me... In short, if we find ourselves wandering through this beautiful world of ours with ink-stained fingers and dreamy eyes and a slightly lopsided ivy crown, gazing about like we own the place, it’s because we do. 

-Lanier Iverson, "On Possessing Beauty"

From tornadoes on Friday to snow on Sunday. I'm wondering if it will ever really be spring here, but of course I wondered that last year, too, and it magically came eventually.

A crocus blooming today for the first time in Scott's yard. Thankfully, no white rabbits were nibbling on it.

After the recital.... Laura with her lovely chrysanthemums.

This past weekend, Scott and I drove to Beaver Falls, PA for Laura's junior piano recital. The drive back to Indiana was particularly striking since we took state highways down the Ohio River valley, past old steel towns. Old houses huddled in the shadow of abandoned mills, their views of the river entirely blocked by enormous sheds and towering smokestacks. Houses whose elegant wooden facades were peeling and crumbling, their porches sagging, their windows boarded over. It all seemed particularly haunting given the weather: a steel-grey sky, dry snow swirling endlessly across the windscreen. Hillsides cloaked with tall, straight, black trees, the river rolling steel-grey and flat under the flat sky.

Seeing my mother, Laura, and Stephen was delightful though, with Mrs. P, Stephen M, and Keith as well. Laura played beautifully; probably about seventy or eighty people came to the concert. On Saturday, we went out for breakfast at BFCAT for their legendary waffles, and then downtown to Athen's (yes, that's how it was spelled) for lunch. I think Scott and I both could've spent much more time with everyone, but we wanted to be back for church in Bloomington on Sunday, so we ended up driving fifteen hours out of the last thirty-six.... Sweetened with some Father Brown mysteries and a sermon by Pastor D, of course!

Church today was well worth coming back for. Pastor H has been preaching on Joshua, a surprisingly encouraging book, as it turns out. Today: Joshua 5, preparation for fighting against the Canaanites, about how God equips His people, sets them apart as His own, feeds them, provides for them, strengthens their faith. A timely reminder that it's not what we do so much as who we are that God cares about (of course, what we do flows from who we are, necessarily).

The weather today has also been gorgeous, a pleasant change from that bleak Ohio afternoon. Daffodils coming up and crocuses blooming in profusion.

Stargazers to help drive back the grey days.

This weekend Scott and I are driving up to Beaver Falls for Laura's junior recital. It will be a whirlwind fourteen-hours-in-two-days drive, but well worth it.

Now Playing: Some sort of Indie pop music in The Pourhouse where I'm sitting.

I'm grading essays for W131 right now. Slowly, slowly, slowly.

Scott has been painting away.... The office is now a lovely shade of robin's egg blue. Since it's up at the highest corner of the house, the room feels like an aerie or the cabin at the bow of a ship.

Now Playing: Brahms, Requiem, "Behold, all flesh is as the grass."

Scott and I went out for sushi yesterday for lunch. The colorful plate made a vivid contrast to the snow outside (by this morning, most of the snow has melted).

Now Playing: The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring soundtrack by Howard Shore, "The Prophecy." I know, I know, but I just can't give it up. It's such good study music.

Right now I ought to be revising a short paper that's due tomorrow in my Cosmopolitanism in Medieval Literature class. The professor assigned it last Tuesday and gave us a week to complete it, but she also said she didn't want us to spend too much time on it. I feel sort of as though I cheated because all day Wednesday and Thursday, I had two documents open: this paper, and the poem I was writing for workshop tomorrow. I'd poke at them both by turns, but I'm not sure whether that approach helped or hindered.

Anyway, this past weekend was lovely: Laura, Mary, Cindy, and I drove up to Chicago. We stayed with Laura's grandparents overnight (they have a house by Lake Michigan, an hour's train ride east of Chicago) and took the train into the city the next morning. We ate brunch at the Bourgeois Pig, a restaurant about as delightful as its name would indicate. Some of the best waffles I've ever had.

We spent most of the day at the Art Institute. Balm to my soul: it's been a long, long time since I've been to a real art museum. Their collection of Impressionist paintings is fabulous. I stood for minutes on end, mesmerized by A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, Seurat's famous pointillist painting, and was startled into delight by one of Monet's Waterlilies, by vivid blue and deep green. They had Corot, Constable, and Turner as well--like running into old friends. Toulouse-Lautrec lent his nightmare-like gargoyles to the Impressionist wing, and Degas a few restrained, delicate pastels.

For a late lunch we joined one of Laura's friends at a pizza place for Chicago pizza. Crust as flaky as pie dough, and an enormous wedge of sausage down the middle. Then we took the train back to Beverly Shores and drove to Bloomington. The moon rose in the southeast, very low, enormous, orange and lavender.

And now it's back to work: paper for class tomorrow, poem for workshop tomorrow, film screenings in W131 this week, a presentation on Thursday, and so on and so forth.

Apparently, spring is the time for gorgeous sunrises. We're battening down the hatches for snow here. If Oklahoma got it, amazingly, then I'm guessing we will, too. Poor daffodils!

This morning I went running, and it was snowing. Little tiny snowflakes. So apparently spring isn't here yet after all....

A slice of life in Bloomington.

This past Wednesday evening, we celebrated the first orchestra concert of the semester--Rachmaninoff's 2nd piano concerto and Brahms's 4th symphony--with dinner at Scott's house. I made curry, which has become my specialty, and Mary made pears soaked in rum sauce. Her plan: to set the pears on fire, in a reprise of her attempt at my birthday party back in November (she used wine that time, which didn't work).

Scott, Laura, and Eric helpfully suggested that a cast-iron skillet might be a better place for the not-yet-flaming pears than a thin metal baking sheet.

On goes the sauce....

 Partners in crime, as usual. Scott provides the lighter.

Success! We stood around and watched the sauce flare up in small, petal-shaped blue flames before we ate the pears with vanilla ice cream.

A lovely sunrise this week, one of the few perks of waking up at half six every morning I teach.

There he is, ladies and gentlemen, a cardinal perched up in that saucer magnolia. I love cardinals because when they start to sing, it's usually late winter or early spring, and their cheer-cheer-cheer-cheer calls often signal the end of the most bitter weather. This morning I walked home from campus and was treated to not only cardinals, but also chickadees and sparrows (a trio of them nearly ran into my head), as well as snowdrops and crocuses blooming at the feet of trees. It felt very much like Aslan's spring in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (minus the snow!).

Now Playing: Sufjan Stevens, "Come Thou Fount."

The sun finally came out on Friday! I woke up, and the roofs were dusted with a fine mesh of crystalline snow, but the sun was shining. 

Campus manages to look beautiful all the time, but afternoon sunlight brings out the clearness of the limestone best, I think. This is Memorial Hall, where my medieval literature class meets this term.

I'm falling in love with Felix Mendelssohn again. He's so happy, particularly on dreary days like today, which has come at the end of a string of dreary days. I'm not sure I've really seen the sun all week....

 Nevertheless, there's hope. Snowdrops are coming up in Scott's yard under the crab apple tree.

His cat Blanche remains disgusted with the weather--poised on a stepping-stone, trying to stay out of the wet grass. It was her idea to go outside....

Lisa made an amazing meal for us tonight: marinated chicken, stuffing, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, and a pear-and-onion salad contributed by Mary. Then she baked this enormous cake for dessert, three layers with icing packed between each one. Thomas, Eric, Scott, Mary, and Peter came over.

An opportune moment: a terrible ice storm is brewing outside!

Bob installed Scott's new bookshelves last Thursday. They fill the south wall of the living room, floor-to-ceiling.

Even in winter, Dunn's Woods are lovely. I walked through them on my way home from teaching this morning, and the pattern of the branches against the morning sky--the clouds from yesterday's cold front have finally dispersed--was so intricate.

 

Often on Sunday afternoons, I'll walk the southern portion of the B-Line. It's about four miles round trip. Today the snow we had earlier this week was still lying lightly on the ground under the shadows of the trees.

First day of classes here at IU. My alarm went off crisply at half six, long before anyone else was awake. It was pitch-black outside still, the full moon setting in the west and shining through Lindsay's window (her bedroom door was open since she's still gone).

I managed to fit in breakfast, scanning over lesson plans, replying to a smattering of e-mails, and quiet time before leaving the house at twenty past eight. This semester I teach at five past nine on the third floor in Ballantine, in a room much less sleek and glossy than the room I had last term. When I opened the door, twenty-two blank, dazed faces glanced furtively at me. I tried to smile at them, but my hello-you're-strangers-don't-eat-me smile isn't very convincing. Need to keep working on that.

Class went well on the whole. Picking up on Dr. E's unorthodox methods, I decided to ask my students to go by last names this term. Everyone is "Ms" or "Mr." We'll see how that's received. I'm hoping that it will make the classroom feel slightly more professional. Since Mary and I are teaching the same syllabus, centered on the theme of monsters, I used an opening exercise with a Zombie Uncle Sam image, which actually generated some interesting discussion about nationalism vs. individualism and the connotations of black-and-white as opposed to colored photography.

Highly relieved to be done, I swung out of the classroom ten minutes early (first day never takes full time) and walked to Scott's house. The morning was pristine: a sky almost autumnal with the depth of its blue, air perfectly clear, almost warm, and birds beginning to sing again everywhere. Cardinals, mourning doves, sparrows, chickadees, birds that have been silent for the past couple of months. At Scott's house he met me on the front step, and we walked around looking for daffodils. They're beginning to shove their way through the damp earth already.

At home again I spent the rest of the morning working on lesson plans and writing e-mails, tidying up loose ends. By the time I ate lunch, I'd finished everything on my task list for today, so I spent the afternoon luxuriating in Anathem by Neal Stephenson. The book ate me alive. So dense, though, that I couldn't take it all in at once, so I dozed some, worked on wedding plans some, and then practiced my flute for the first time in months. Bach sonatas. Gorgeous. The book left me sitting in the dark in my room, head in my hands, thinking hard about the possibilities of parallel universes, Christianity, and C.S. Lewis's Space Trilogy.

In the midst of this, Laura shouted upstairs that tea was ready. She, Lisa, Lindsay, and I ate tea together for the first time in months. Delightful. Laura had made corn chowder, and we sat around and narrated our Christmas holidays to each other. Afterward we curled up on the sofas and had our "family" Christmas. Wee fun presents--scarves, jewelry, stationery, wacky or weird things that make each other laugh. We sat around, giggling over our presents for awhile.

At about nine Scott came over. He and I chatted with Laura for a bit, then went upstairs. Told each other about our days. Wedding-planned. The usual.

This makes me smile every time I come into my room: BOOKS.

I've spent the past couple of days being somewhat lazy at Scott's house. He's been in Chicago, so I've been keeping an eye on the cats, nominally at least--they don't particularly like to have an eye kept on them, in typical cat-fashion, and I prefer not to have their eyes kept on me (ever been stared at by a cat? creepy--always stare back). But I've been studying theory for my next medieval literature class (already!), e-mailing up a storm with Mary as we prepare our syllabus for W131 this semester, and reading Anathem by Neal Stephenson. In other words, I'm a book-stealer, the worst sort of guest to have: Scott left his novel behind, just started, and I picked it up and am now over four hundred pages in.

Today Laura and I have been playing with wedding invitations. Rather, she's been playing, and I've been reading and stressing out by turns. Oh, the joys.

Now Playing: Tchaikovsky, The Nutcracker, "Final Waltz and Apotheosis."

Back in Bloomington now, and nothing has slowed down, it seems. At least not in some ways. Planning, planning, planning, and I find myself struggling not to live life as though it's a series of tasks to be completed. Before we left Stillwater, I found a wedding dress, and Alyson, Mary, and Laura now have bridesmaids dresses, so that's one item off the checklist. I was staunchly resolved at first not to let our pastor's wife help, but she offered to assist in the search for a reception venue, and since planning this wedding has turned out to be somewhat of a herculean task, I've been so grateful. It's probably really not that much of a task; it's just that the pieces haven't really started to fall into place yet (aside from bride, groom, minister, and church, that is).

On the other hand, it is good to be able to work on all of this. And to have a quiet house, wake up late, read Tintin comic books over breakfast, and cook for Laura, Scott, and co. Soon everyone will be back, but for now it's pleasant not to be surrounded by people. Quiet, time to think.

Now Playing: Girls in the study.

It's been awhile since that last post, unfortunately. I'm seeing a trend here: last post near Thanksgiving break, this post during Christmas break. Perhaps more regular posting should be a New Year's resolution.

The past month has been eventful. Scott proposed the week after Thanksgiving, after talking to my parents during Thanksgiving break. I knew he was talking to them, and that it had gone well, but I had no idea when anything was going to happen after that. It felt rather like falling off a cliff. Ever since then we've been wedding-planning on and off. Wedding-planning made the ten-hour drive to Tulsa for Nicole's wedding pass much more quickly than usual.

Nicole's wedding was on 18 December at Christ Presbyterian Church in Tulsa. I was one of five bridesmaids, two maids-of-honour, and three junior bridesmaids. Quite a production. It was beautiful, though. Perhaps that's what we're supposed to say about every wedding, but her wedding really was lovely. The lovely awkwardness of watching her walk down the aisle, hardly able to bear looking up at Matt, hardly able not to look up at him. The elegance of her lace dress, of the white lilies we were all carrying. The quiet fitness of them standing side-by-side at the reception afterward. Their calm, in stark contrast to the bustling, noisy, jewel-colored hurricane surrounding them.

After scrambling around all weekend, returning to Stillwater brought a welcome break. We basically spent the weekend chilling out at my family's house. Laura, Stephen, Scott, and I would go for walks or sit in the living room, reading. Laura cooked lots of delicious food. My mother, Laura, and I shopped for wedding dresses. And so on.

On Thursday Scott and I drove up to Ponca City for Syneva's family's annual ball. Bittersweet: Amanda, Syneva, and I were the only RUF people there. Everyone else has moved on. Also, Scott was totally overwhelmed by the prospect of dancing and spent the night up in the stands, watching. It was still really good to get to see Syneva and Amanda and to hang out with Syneva and her family afterward.

Christmas here was extremely laid back. My father's parents came over Saturday night and Sabbath day for lunch, and we opened presents Saturday night.

Peppered throughout all this, I've been getting to see friends. On Monday, a trip to Enid for tea with Katie, Missy, Mr and Mrs W, Elizabeth, Anna, and Ruth; later, coffee with Sarah; yesterday, a scavenger hunt around downtown, particularly in the antique mall, with Elizabeth and Scott; today, coffee with Jenny. 

And today... the infestation began! At least, that's what my mother called it, with her best good Fearing humour. The cousins, minus Uncle Kirk, drove up from Texas to spend the week with us. The girls and Peter just finished watching the latest Dr. Who episode; Aunt Lisa and my mother are sitting in the living room, knitting and talking; Scott and my dad are reading, and so forth. Full house, fun times.

 The annual Christmas ball in Ponca City, 22 December--the Fairfield Fancy.

Lilies from my bridesmaid's bouquet from Nicole and Matt's wedding, 18 December.

Another musical weekend: on Friday Scott, Carmen, Bob, Eric, and I (we were only a small part of what turned out to be a large grad student contingent from across the disciplines) went to see IU Opera's production of La Boheme. Scott's opinion was that they should all have gotten jobs, which was a fairly accurate assessment of the plot. Brendan, one of Scott's friends, wondered where the old Classical idea of unity of action has gone, and I'd tend to agree. Maybe being forced to include a whole plot in a 24-hour time span would help librettists make stories that were more interesting. (But do operas really need plot?)

Anyway, the music was gorgeous, and the theatre department made full use of the stage's capacity. At the beginning of the second act, the set unfolded like a piece of elaborate origami, both rotating and moving forward on two enormous smooth turntables set within one another. Quite impressive.

On Saturday we went to a performance by the Bloomington Symphony Orchestra, a semi-professional group made of people from the community. They played Brahms's first symphony, which was absolutely amazing. It's a monumental, brooding piece of music, in C minor, with a beautiful hymn tune in the fourth movement and some wonderful violin and flute solos in the second and third movements.

And now it's back to work, for a brief time at least. I'm slogging through my twenty-five-page seminar paper. Outside it's raining, and the air smells like wood smoke, which always reminds me of Northern Ireland. Tomorrow Scott and I leave for Oklahoma and Thanksgiving festivities with family. Grading in the car, woo hoo!

The images below are from last Monday's field trip to the Lilly. I'm working on a project for the seminar class on late medieval literature, a project having to do with the Pieta in Books of Hours (and other sources--Margery Kempe, Thomas Hoccleve, John Lydgate, etc.). Scott came in with me to see what he could find in the Lilly's holdings for crusade narratives, but we spent most of the time examining these lovely, lovely illuminated books.

Posts have been woefully sparse since school began. My apologies. Here is a brief rundown of today. Maybe you'll get a taste for what life has been like this fall. 

25 October 2011. Very tired today. My own fault, I suppose. It is rather demoralizing to wake up just over five hours after you went to sleep, to a world that looks almost exactly the same: pitch-black outside, pitch-black inside. Shower, e-mails. LMB made baked oatmeal for breakfast, which was delicious. By the time I stepped outside to catch the nine o’clock bus, the morning had become spectacular: lapidary, crisp, the sky brilliant, leaves and lawns infused with yellow sunshine. I walked briskly from the bus stop to Weatherly, where my office is, and met for about five minutes with one of my better students about the essay due tomorrow. Then I walked to Scott’s house. As I walked, I thought hard about the final project for L758, my late medieval literature seminar, for which I'm hoping to write a paper about theories about absorption in art, and about late medieval Books of Hours.

At Scott's house, Blanche, the white cat, greeted me. Scott was just leaving to meet with his adviser, so we stood outside and chatted for a bit before he left. He has very kindly given some of us keys to his house. I went indoors, curled up on the living room sofa, and dozed for about half-an-hour. The old furnace purred up through the 1930s-vintage grates, the white sunshine fell in still oblongs on the dark hardwood floor, and the cats rattled their food bowls in the kitchen. Eventually, I went back outside to sit on the patio and read my Bible, Isaiah 6 this morning. The passage worked oxymoronically for me: reading about God's holiness, I was struck by His nearness, by the parallel between the hem of His robe filling the temple and the woman in Mark 5 touching the hem of Christ's robe and being healed.

Scott came home, and we sat on the back patio, talking over tea/coffee in the cool autumn sunshine. Blanche tried to poke her face into our cups but was deterred by the steam. At about half eleven, Mary came over. The three of us went inside, ate lunch, and discussed our seminar readings for this week about Pearl. Then we walked to campus for class at one o'clock.

Seminar today lasted from one until four. After the seminar I stayed in the classroom with the other half-dozen grad students who are also in Old English from a quarter-past-four to half five. Today we had a midterm exam. I had studied thoroughly, I thought, but there were still a couple of questions out of left field that made me flounder. Oh, well. Nothing I could do about it. At half five I went to another talk for W501, this time by an expert in teaching composition. She led an engaging workshop. 

Mary and I ducked out at the end to drive out to the Cs' house. For Bible study this semester, we've asked women in the church to present to us once or twice a month about their life experiences, testimonies, lessons, etc. Mrs. C had graciously offered to host us at her house and lead the first of these talks. The Cs are quite lavish in their hospitality. Everyone came tonight: Carmen, Courtney, Cindy, Laura, Lisa, Mary, and even two Chinese girls, Lilly and Charlene. Mrs. C was as upbeat and joyful as ever. Afterward she and her daughters served pumpkin pie and apple pie to us, and we all stood around and talked.

When we got home, I went straight up to my room and sat down to answer a stack of student e-mails: questions about and a draft of their essay due tomorrow. Now it's time for bed. It will all begin again in the morning. Tomorrow I need to translate a long passage from Bede for Old English on Thursday and start reading the York Mystery Plays for seminar next week. Also in class I'll be given a nice thick stack of essays to grade.

Now Playing: Antonin Dvorak, "New World" symphony.

Photos of our house-painting party this past Saturday are in this album, and photos from Bob's birthday party are in this album.

Now Playing: Haydn, Concerto in C Major for Cello and Orchestra.

This piece has been stuck in my head all evening, which is my own fault, because I've been listening to it over and over again. Scott and I drove up to DePauw last Friday to see Yo-Yo Ma play, and this was one of the pieces he performed. It was a glorious day: high autumn, quintessential autumn, fields of stubble running smoothly into forest-eaves gilt and garishly colored like the painted rafters of a medieval parish church. Blue sky. Intense sunshine.

Yo-Yo Ma is quite a performer. His presence fills the auditorium when he walks onstage. He likes to talk a lot and make jokes, and while he plays he nods and winks at the audience or at the other musicians onstage. The concert hall at DePauw's music school has surprisingly excellent acoustics. The strings sounded amazingly warm, hospitable, joyful. Yo-Yo Ma also played one of Bach's suites for unaccompanied cello and an andante by Tchaikovsky.

Last week was an insanely good week for music. In addition to the Yo-Yo Ma concert, on Wednesday a group of us (Courtney, Matt, Mary, Eric, Lisa, Scott, and me) went to a performance by one of the IU symphony orchestras. They played Dvorak's "New World" symphony. Glorious. Almost every time I hear one of these orchestras play, I remember why recordings simply aren't good enough. The recorded pieces even out the tambres of the instruments, hide some parts, distort dynamics, etc., so when I hear a live orchestra play, the piece always has far more richness and depth--startlingly more, in fact.

Then the Saturday night before, we went to see Cosi fan Tutte, a production put on by the IU opera. A Mozart comedy: simplistic plot, cynical ending, good music.

Now Playing: Flook, "Haven," "Souter Creek."

Appropriate music for today: it's been raining all day. Rain, rain, rain. Tiny yellow sweet gum leaves on the wet sidewalks, pressed and curled like baby hands, and vivid scarlet-and-gold sugar maple leaves bright as headlights through a window, and brown-and-yellow elm leaves furled like sherds of pottery.

Work, work, work. I'm trying to do a better job of preparing my students for their second essay, which is due on Friday. Being observed on Wednesday doesn't help the stress level, unfortunately.

Another perfect autumn evening happened today when Scott and I came back to my house from medieval Latin reading group. It was just starting to sprinkle outside as we walked in the door. Laura sat against the sofa, facing out onto the back patio through the open door, reading. The house was quiet. Scott and I started to make tea for my housemates, Cindy, Mary, and Eric. Since Kroger's cilantro selection left much to be desired, Scott had the delightful job of picking out the slimy or brown leaves from the bunch, while I chopped up chicken and marinated it in buttermilk.

Chicken curry was the main item on the menu tonight, straight out of an Indian-food-made-easy cookbook I bought at Borders in Chicago. While the wok heated, I diced tomatoes and onions, furiously trying to have them ready before the butter in the bottom of the wok started to spatter. Scott and Eric stood by, watching. In the living room, Cindy, Ethan, and Laura were chatting.

With Scott and Eric still keeping a lackadaisical eye on me, I sauteed the onions and garlic with cinnamon sticks, whole cloves, cardamom, and turmeric. Then tomatoes. Then, when all of that had become this sweet-smelling, bubbling mass, I added the chicken, and it all bubbled away together. Mary arrived, exuberant, flailing, uproariously energetic, and set about making a pear-and-spinach salad.

Just before the curry finished simmering, I threw in the actual curry powder, and Scott added the fresh cilantro. While we waited for it, we munched on the salad, and when at last it was ready, we all sat around the living room, cradling our bowls of warm, creamy curry and rice, and drinking the rich, red wine Eric had brought. Rain spattered on the patio behind us, and a north breeze swirled through the still-open patio door.

But inside everything was warm, fragrant, rich. We all sat around and talked, planning a trip to the opera sometime in the next few weeks, discussing books, etc. Laura and Mary cooked up a scheme for making a B-rated horror film. To follow the curry we had a red-wine-and-chocolate cake Laura had baked, with delicious fluffy icing.

After tea, Ethan, Lindsay, Scott, and I drove to the IU Auditorium for an orchestra concert at eight o'clock. We scuttled through the rain, keeping our heads down against the chilly wind. Inside we found that we were joining a stream of people into the auditorium, up through the tunnel from the atrium into the auditorium itself. Red plush seats, gold railings, gilt trim around the stage.

The orchestra played three pieces tonight. The entire second half of the concert was Camille Saint-Saens's Symphony No. 3 in C minor, "Organ." Fantastic (medieval Latin fantastic-us , late Latin phantasticus , < Greek ϕανταστικός , < ϕαντάζειν to make visible (middle voice ϕαντάζεσθαι , in late Greek to imagine, have visions) OED) in the true sense of the word: Gothic, evocative of Jane Eyre and The Hunchback of Notre Dame rolled into one--perfect for a stormy September evening.

In highschool I used to listen to this piece over and over, imagining all sorts of wild, grim, Scottish-Highlands-type stories to accompany the music. Yet I love the opening of the final movement, and indeed the whole final movement, with its resolution into clarion, bell-pealing, golden-toned victory. The organ, of course, helps with this, with its bold, clanging chords, as do the strings, which have incredibly difficult phrases to play as they build anticipation. Such a great piece.


After the concert Lisa, who had joined us after class, and the rest of us met up with Peter, who's sitting first chair in the orchestra right now. We all congratulated him on a job well done before making our way home through the rain.

Laura, Lindsay, and I watched The Pianist this evening. Now I want to listen to lots and lots of Chopin, and maybe Beethoven's "Moonlight." A gut-wrenching production, though not quite as intense as Schindler's List. Having seen both those films, I think I'm finished with World War II tales for a little while.

Every time I watch a World War II film, it makes me wonder what would happen if that were to happen here, now, again--what we would do, what would become of us--not just our society as a whole, but my small network of friends and family. A natural reaction, I suppose. The images of burned-out, bombed buildings make me shiver with the closeness of such a happening. I look at my cozy townhouse and know that one packet of explosives would reduce it in a few seconds, adding it to that landscape of past and future ruins.

Laura and I were musing after the film about how World War II really isn't that far away. It still looms over our cultural landscape, even as other wars have begun to replace it in immediacy. I sometimes think that the Holocaust is the nightmare of academia, and that that is what drives gender and race studies--the fear of such brutal discrimination returning.

For most of my class of freshman composition students, though, World War II may be much more in the shadowy past. Laura has a great-grandmother who endured the war in a concentration camp in Latvia; I have a grandfather who was at Normandy. Losing that generation will mean losing perspective. Even though films can't capture the horror of that war, at least they force me to remember what is at stake when something like that arises again. And they prompt me to be thankful for the comparative peace I enjoy now.

This past week was crazy but good.

Last Friday, Syneva drove up from Nashville to visit. It was really wonderful to get to see her. She, Cindy, and I went out to dinner at a Turkish restaurant. Though the evening was really too warm to sit outside, we did, and we ate delicious minty soup and grape leaves. On Saturday, Syneva, Scott, and I braved the heat again in order to go to the Fourth Street Festival, where we saw works by all sorts of local artists--woodworkers, painters, sculptors, glass-blowers, leather-workers, potters, etc.

On Monday it cooled down suddenly, so Laura organized a bonfire to celebrate the beginning of autumn. We have a fire pit behind our house, which served the occasion perfectly. Laura bought a big bag of enormous marshmallows for us to toast. Grant G., Peter, Nathaniel, Eric, Cindy, and Scott all joined us.

Then Emmaline flew into Indianapolis on Tuesday evening. Scott and I drove up to the airport to collect her. It was as though no time at all had passed since we'd seen each other; we picked right up with catching up on each other's lives. She stayed until Friday afternoon. Whenever I wasn't in class, we were doing things together: shopping at the mall, visiting Nashville to look at the artisans' shops, hiking Lake Griffey, exploring the zoo, or eating with friends from church. Scott even cooked a delicious pasta sauce for us one evening.

Yesterday afternoon was the church outreach picnic. Since I'm on the outreach committee, I helped set up, which took a solid couple of hours. During most of the picnic, I played with the small children, which was my designated job. Mostly that meant pushing Jane on the swing and opening bottles of bubbles and packages of chalk for the kids. It also meant that I got to talk to their parents--Wes and Angie, Amy, Minda--which was quite pleasant.

So it's been a wonderful week for hanging out with people, but now I'm a bit behind on school, so tomorrow will be an intense reading day.

Photos from last week are here.

Photos from last weekend are here.

Last weekend, Laura and I went to Chicago, a celebration of the end of the summer. We spent a lovely afternoon walking around downtown, especially Millennium Park. We met Anna R. for tea, went into Anthropologie, and visited the Art Museum, which was closed. That didn't make the lions outside any more impressive, or diminish the loveliness of the gardens as evening fell.

Scott, Eric, Laura, and I hiked to the waterfall at McCormick's Creek State Park this evening. Then we went to Mother Bear's for pizza and the Chocolate Moose for ice cream. A good way to celebrate the end of summer.

Now Playing: Mumford and Sons, "After the Storm."

It's moments of clarity and peace that I've come to value as most precious. Over the past year or so, fear and anxiety have never been very far away, and with them, the obstruction of God's grace that inevitably arises from sin. I become so anxious about the details of day-to-day life that anxiety frosts over God's providences, which ought to be windows onto His love and grace.

Case in point: in May, when the schoolyear finished and summer began, when Lisa and I found ourselves launched immediately into French classes, I was desperate for quiet. For time to reflect, to meditate, to pray, to be alone. The changes of the past year have been overwhelming--as wonderful as they've been in many ways--and I felt the compulsion to run and retreat from everything in order to get my head around what God had been doing.

But that desire for being alone only lead to more anxiety. I worshiped the moments of solitude I had and worried and fretted because I couldn't have more of them. Because I was worshiping solitude, not God, I couldn't it properly.

This week, though, I've suddenly, unexpectedly found that time given to me. I woke up on Monday to an empty house, and again this morning. This morning I cleaned the kitchen, baked scones, ate a scone and part of a peach for breakfast, drank tea, read some of Murder Must Advertise. And realized--as I'd known quite clearly all along, even back in May in the worst of it--that the anxiety was completely unnecessary. God knew when and where to give the time.

Now as I look forward to next week, when AI (Associate Instructor) orientation starts, I'm seeking the grace to keep God's love first in my mind and heart. Psalm 62:8, "Trust in Him at all times, o people; pour out your heart before Him; God is a refuge for us."

Also this morning I read Psalm 105:1-6,
               "Oh give thanks to the Lord; call upon His name; make known His deeds among the peoples!
               Sing to Him, sing praises to Him; tell of all His wondrous works!
               Glory in His holy name; let the hearts of those who seek the Lord rejoice!
               Seek the Lord and His strength; seek His presence continually!
               Remember the wondrous works that He has done, His miracles, and the judgments He uttered, o offspring of Abraham, His servant, children of Jacob, His chosen ones!"

I'm to be defined by these actions: give thanks, call, make known, sing, glory, rejoice, seek, remember. No mention of being perfect, of managing every detail of life smoothly, of being obedient or righteous. That goes against my grain. I'm supposed to be a "good little Christian girl", after all. 

In Christ there's no such thing. There are only children of Jacob--"worm Jacob," as God calls His people in Isaiah, to remind them that they're completely worthless and helpless on their own. So I'm to do what the Confession calls faith: receive and rest. And I do that by these actions, these actions that build my identity as a child of Abraham, who walked by faith. Faith in a Savior who has done it all for me.

Now Playing: Psalm 13B.

We're having communion tonight in Bloomington. A couple of appropriate quotes:

But Christ took all our sins upon him, and for them died upon the cross: therefore it behoved that he should become a transgressor, and (as Isaiah saith, chap. 53) ‘to be reckoned among transgressors.’ And this, no doubt, all the prophets did foresee in spirit, that Christ should become the greatest transgressor, murderer, adulterer, thief, rebel, blasphemer, etc. that ever was or could be in all the world. For he being made a sacrifice for the sins of the whole world, is not now an innocent person and without sins, is not now the Son of God born of the Virgin Mary; but a sinner, which hath and carrieth the sin of Paul, who was a blasphemer, an oppressor and a persecutor; of Peter, which denied Christ; of David, which was an adulterer, a murderer, and caused the Gentiles to blaspheme the name of the Lord: and briefly, which hath and beareth all the sins of all men in his body, that he might make satisfaction for them with his own blood.  -  Martin Luther, commentary on Galatians 3:13

Yet the duties God requires of us are not in proportion to the strength we possess in ourselves. Rather, they are proportional to the resources available to us in Christ. We do not have the ability in ourselves to accomplish the least of God’s tasks. This is a law of grace. When we recognize it is impossible for us to perform a duty in our own strength, we will discover the secret of its accomplishment. But alas, this is a secret we often fail to discover.  -  John Owen, Sin & Temptation

Now Playing: Sufjan Stevens, "Amazing Grace."

Elizabeth visited yesterday. We sat outside on the back porch for an hour or so, and she told me all about the RPM team to Covenant Fellowship that she's been leading for the last month-and-a-half. Lots of great stories about inner-city Pittsburgh people...! Scott cooked dinner for us, and then he, Laura, Elizabeth, and I walked down to the Chocolate Moose for ice cream. We met a bunch of people there--Mary, Mallory, Eric, and Olivia--and sat in the park with our ice cream, by a fountain, under the brilliant three-quarters moon. Elizabeth and I talked all about Cyprus.

Today the weather is still cool and clear. It feels as though I'm back up at Horn Creek, or in Northern Ireland on one of its best days. A green hummingbird keeps visiting the zinnias on our back porch. It zooms up to look in the back door, then zooms to the zinnias, then to the lantanas, its tail scintillating as it hovers.

Tonight we're watching TTT EE and eating Chinese food! Ah, these final lovely days of summer.... I finished Have His Carcase earlier this week and started Excellent Women, a novel written in the 1950s by a British novelist, Barbara Pym, and recommended to me by Syneva. It's a bittersweet read, told from the perspective of a single middle-aged woman in the shadow of WWII. Like Jane Austen, but more melancholy.

Thunderstorm tonight to the northeast of us. No rain for our house, though.

Now Playing: Bach, Mass in B minor, "Gloria/gratias agimus tibi propter."

Photos from this past weekend and yesterday are in this album again.

Yesterday we had another poetry dinner, this time out at Scott's house. Eric grilled Mexican carne asada for us, and the rest of us chipped in. It was a delightfully colorful meal: a peach-and-spinach salad from Mary with purple onions in it, red and green peppers and onions on the grill, grilled corn-on-the-cob, guacamole, pico de gallo, and of course a ridiculous spicy salsa that Eric concocted. Never had anything so intense in my life! It tasted smoky, but perhaps that's only because it was slowly sizzling the lining of my mouth away.

That was appropriate, though, since the theme of our evening was fire. Scott read a tongue-in-cheek story about romantic passion by a Victorian author, Lord Dunsany; Cindy contributed along the same theme, with a reading of the lyrics to Cash's "Ring of Fire." I took it in another direction and blazed through the passage in The Hobbit in which Thorin and Co. are trapped in the pine trees by wargs and goblins. Eric and Lisa both wrote poems for the occasion, which kept us in stitches.

Highlights from this past week:

Meeting Mary's sister, Emily, at the party Mary hosted for her on Thursday.

A summer festival orchestra concert on Friday night at the IU auditorium. The program included the William Tell overture, The Pines of Rome, and Beethoven's 7th symphony. Absolutely gorgeous. I love the second and third movements of The Pines of Rome in particular, with the second movement's evocation of the catacombs and third movement's liquid, languid clarinet solo. Of course the Beethoven was stunning. The second movement of that symphony is almost enough to move one to tears. This time I found a new appreciation for the first and third movements, though; it was as though some huge, shining, overjoyed creature had escaped from backstage and come romping out into the concert hall.

Spending Saturday afternoon at Oliver winery with Scott, sitting on a blanket under maple trees, and reading part of The Story of the Champions of the Round Table and the first Father Brown mystery ("The Blue Cross"). His first introduction to G.K. Chesterton, whose inimitable style really shines in those short mysteries.

Later on Saturday, celebrating Eric's birthday by going out for sushi and then retiring to our house afterward to watch the extended Fellowship of the Ring with our (appropriately numbered) group of nine--Eric, Scott, Mary, Malory, Emily (Mary's sister), Lisa, Laura, Cindy, and me. We tried out mochi ice cream as a treat halfway through the long film.

And even though today is part of this week, not last week, seeing Uncle Scott and Aunt Anna at church today was definitely a highlight! The sort of lovely people who really communicate the love and joy of Christ, even as they prepare to return to hard work in the year ahead.

Now Playing: The Decemberists, "The King Is Dead."

Today has been blissfully peaceful as far as summer days go. I got up to run and listen to a sermon by Pastor D about the beginning of Ephesians 5, loving people. Later on, I had the chance to talk to both my parents, which was good.

This morning I managed to finish a chapter of French before lunch: imperfect, passe anterieur, more faire clauses, and so on. Lisa left for class at about noon. I baked peach scones, cleaned the house a bit while they were in the oven, and then spent the afternoon working on an article about a play for a database. Somehow I managed to finish a rough draft by the time Laura came home from work. She bounced upstairs and sat with me, flipping through pictures from the summer so far.

While I made tea downstairs--chicken, rice, green beans--Lisa sprawled on the sofa, browsing cooking magazines, and Laura sat nearby, strumming hymns on her guitar and singing. We ate together, and then Lisa and I went to Bible study at eight. The women's study this summer is working through Women Counseling Women, a book of essays edited by Elyse Fitzpatrick.

After Bible study I walked home. The evening was perfect, as perfect as a summer evening could be. The wind had changed to be from the northwest in cool gusts; the sky was cloudless; the air was dry and fresh. The sky resonated with deep color, as though it were the undulating silk of a pavilion roof, azure, peach, ochre. Bats zigzagged across it. I talked to Scott on the phone.

Nighttime was actually clear enough to be able to see Cygnus, Casseiopeia, the Big Dipper, and a hint of the Milky Way. Inside, the house smelled like chocolate chips and brownies. Laura had been baking for Mary's party tomorrow. She and I chatted about Les Miserables, which she'd watched while she was cooking, and then I went upstairs.

The new-ish beetle!

With the good ol' Buick still hanging out in the background. Looks like it's going to continue its trek north to Pennsylvania with Laura this fall. No retirement yet!