Psalm 23: a meditation

From verse1-3: Mr. F, Violin and Swan-Elfs' father, gave a talk on this one in Sabbath worship last week. As he pointed out, the first verses do not promise moral prosperity, although God does provide for our spiritual needs. Rather, it promises spiritual prosperity, which is far better. During the time of the kings, one of the greatest horrors to come upon the nations of Israel and Judah was their spiritual poverty. They cried out for word from God, but none came, because their hearts were hard.

From verse 5: God prepares a table for us. Now, I'll follow a rabbit trail here. The table is an important sign of hospitality throughout ancient literature. God and His angels ate with Abraham in the Old Testament (which isn't just ancient literature, of course). In The Aeneid, Dido invites Aeneas and his men to feast with her people to show them her good will. Inviting someone into your home, taking in strangers, was the highest honor. A peculiar custom among the Celts was that, on Hallowe'en night, every house had to open itself to whoever came seeking shelter. It was counted a blessing on that house if they had a guest, a stranger who came in peace, sleeping under their roof that night. Hosts were held to a high code, and guests were also required to honor that code: if either side broke the law by doing some violence, it was cause for great dishonor, and perhaps even for capital punishment for whoever had trespassed.

In the sense of physical acts, eating is one of the most down-to-earth things humans do. Spiritual beings do not eat in the sense that we do; only physical beings can eat. Yet at the same time, by a complicated process known fully only to the God who made it, we are taking nourishment through the things that we consume. It is a great wonder that God, the Son of Man, should condescend to use even the most commonplace, most physical action through which to reveal Himself to His disciples. He showed them His greatest sacrifice when He ate with them at His last Passover, when He instituted Communion. He was made known to two of His disciples after walking with them on the road to Emmaus only when He broke bread with them. He proved His reality to the rest of the twelve disciples by breaking bread and eating with them. Indeed, one of the greatest events in human history will be the Marriage Feast of the Lamb on the last great day.

When I think of the table mentioned in Psalm 23, though, I think primarily of Communion. It is in Communion that God and man are made one, that God comes down and meets with His people in the supreme act of hospitality, in the remembrance of past meals and the promise of future feasts. It is at Communion that we can realize how great and how precious was the sacrifice made on our behalf, and it is at Communion that we can thank and praise the One who made that sacrifice. Not only does God bring us to His abundant table, but He does it "in the presence of our enemies". When we are suffering the greatest temptation, when we are burdened with sin, when we are in the depths of despair, when we are lonely and tired- it is then that God invites us to come to the table to be refreshed, encouraged, and cleansed. Is it not amazing that blood, which usually stains something so much that it cannot be washed clean, can, through Christ's sacrifice, wash us cleaner than any water? Thus the table is like the rainbow. It is God's enduring promise of protection, strength, and forgiveness.

From verse 6: Mr. C once quoted this verse to remind me that goodness and mercy are always following me. I cannot escape them. They chase God’s people. If He chooses to open our eyes, the way He opened the eyes of Elisha’s servant so that he could see the chariots of fire and the angels on the hills around Samaria, then we shall be able to see all the mercies that He has done for us. We shall be able to see that everything we do glorifies God. Despite our depravity, thanks to His great plan, we cannot not glorify Him. And we will dwell in His house forever. Forever. Not just Sabbaths. Not just five-day church camps. Not just eight-hour sleepovers or one-hour Bible studies. Always. No longer will we sing, as we do in Psalm 84, “Blessed are they who are in Thy house, for they will still be praising Thee”- for we shall be in His house with the blessed, and we shall be blessed ourselves. Like an ambassador who bears his master’s banner before him and wears his master’s livery upon him, we carry Christ’s goodness before us and His righteousness upon us so that we are acceptable in God’s eyes. Not on our goodness, but on Christ’s goodness; not because of our hospitality, but because of His hospitality. Thanks to the mercy that follows us, that dogs our footsteps like a pursuing Ranger, we will be in God’s house forever, forever fellowshipping with Him and with His people around His table.

Rosemary Sutcliff, who is, after all, one of my favorite authors

I promised Marigold that I'd post this. This isn't a complete list of the books Sutcliff has written, and it's not even a complete list of her books that I've read. It leaves out her re-tellings of legends (such as the Arthurian tale, the story of Finn MacCool, the story of Beowulf, etc.) and a couple of other books that weren't that wonderful- including one where she treats the Covenanters as though they were ridiculous radicals, and since some of my ancestors were Covenanters, I didn't particularly appreciate this.

Here they are, in chronological order:

Warrior Scarlet
Outcast
The Eagle of the Ninth (A.D. 20)*
The Mark of the Horse Lord
Frontier Wolf (A.D. 343)*
The Silver Branch*
The Lantern Bearers*
Sword at Sunset*
The Shining Company (A.D. 600)
Blood Feud
Sword Song
Dawn Wind*
The Shield Ring*
Knight's Fee
Lady in Waiting (Queen Elizabeth's time- approx. A.D. 1580)

The books that have asterisks next to them are members of a series that Sutcliff wrote. The series follows a family whose crest is a dolphin. It takes the family from Roman times through the time of the Norman invasion- an excellent series if you're trying to learn early British history and don't want to have to get it all from textbooks.

Sword at Sunset is, in fact, a sort-of retelling of the Arthurian legend, but it's told as though it were a real story, and not as though it were a legend (the way it is in her other retellings of it). I really like it, as long as you skip certain paragraphs where her romance is a bit too graphic for my taste.

The Mark of the Horse Lord and The Shining Company are also two of my all-time favorites. In my opinion, you could read The Shining Company over and over again, and it would never get old. Sutcliff based it on an epic poem written by Aneirin, who was a real man, about the Company. I found it once in a thick book of ancient Welsh ballads- it's a touching, glorious memorial to the men who gave their lives fighting for their country. (Now why can't we make anything as splendid for our war memorials?! :) As a warning: these two books are probably the saddest ones on the list, excepting Sword at Sunset. I'm afraid I'm the sort of person who would rather read a "tragic" book than a "comic" book (using those terms in the old Greek way). Also, I've found that "tragic" books in general are often written better than happy books. I have yet to figure out why that is....

Anyhow, a smattering of these books are probably in just about any public library, and if they're not in your public library, your university library likely has some of them, and if you can't find them in either place, use interlibrary loan. Oh, yes, and they sell them very cheaply on the used listings on websites such as Amazon.com.

Enjoy!

Psalm 87: a meditation

Psalm 87 was not one of my most favorites until I started to think some more about it....

From verse 1-2: It's amazing to see how much God loves His people, and how carefully He chooses those who will be His people. Someone who doesn't believe in predestination is, I think, taking away from God's glory, in that this particular aspect of God's character adds so much to His glory. He always goes against the wisdom of the world and chooses the little things instead because He has a wisdom that is greater than that of the world. He could have chosen Assyria or Rome to be His "chosen people"; instead, He picked Israel. He could have chosen to have Queen Elizabeth or Herod's wife to be Christ's mother; instead, He chose Mary. Indeed: He could've chosen to save Virgil or Homer, but instead, He chose me. The thought is very humbling, because it certain wasn't as a result of my own writing talents!

He loves His people so much that He plans everything: right down to the color of the dress Violin will wear to church tomorrow, or what Mari and her family will eat for supper tonight, or whether Princess's family's cows will break out of the fence. But think of it this way: often, Christ Jesus is spoken of as being the foundation of the church. He is the church's cornerstone. We are in Christ, part of the great building that He has begun. So, by loving the church, God is loving Himself.

From verse 3: God's city is to have a glorious reputation. As members of that city, we must seek to give it a good reputation. We just had a meeting to plan VBS for our church, and as a part of that planning time, we prayed that we might be good witnesses. We are His ambassadors, so we need to be careful in who we are- how we dress, how we talk, what our attitudes are.

From verses 4-6: All the nations will bow to Christ. It'll be either repentance or ruin for them. There will be members of every nation in God's Kingdom. But God will also keep people in His church. He doesn't just bring them in- He makes sure that they stay there. Covenant children are born in Zion, and they will be established in Zion. So there will be both the newcomers and those who have been members of the Kingdom for generations.

From verse 7: Not only does God bring people into His church, but He brings their talents into His church. He sanctifies people, and He also sanctifies their work. As people enter the church, they are to bring their talents into submission to Him- just the way the craftsmen did in building the Tabernacle.

From God comes all inspiration. Though there are many artists and scientists who are alive right now who don't acknowledge God's greatness, they could never paint a stroke or work out an equation without His Spirit. By subjecting our talents to God, we are released to share our talents with others as a witness to His greatness. By acknowledging God as the supreme Author and Scientist (He was the one who made this world, after all), we add to His glory. And that is Man's highest calling.

Rabbit trail here: Think of yourself as being like the wind. God determines how far the wind blows. He tells it to blow over a certain field in Kansas, and it does. It doesn't step over its bounds and blow down the Empire State Building because that would be for it to disobey its Maker, and the wind can't do that. On the other hand, the wind doesn't say to God, "No, I don't feel like blowing today," and disobey Him by not blowing over that specific field. It goes as far as God has told it to go. Now, we are similar to the wind, in this way: God has given each of us a calling, and He outfits us with the tools we need to fulfill our calling. If He tells us to use our talents in a certain field, and we say, "No, I'm too lazy," or, "No, I'm not good enough," then that's disobeying Him. Or if we say, "No, I'm going to lie and cheat and overwork myself to become as famous as possible," then that's also disobeying Him. We need to be like the wind, and blow just as far as God has given us: whether it be only as far as our own particular little patch, or whether it be across the whole world. If we are restless with narrow bounds, He gives us contentment. If we are ambitious for more room, He gives us humility. If we are afraid to use our talents, He gives us courage.

An example of this (and this is going to sound familiar) is Eric Liddell. He was one of the fastest men in the world. He ran races and won an Olympic gold medal. When he recognized God's calling on his life to become a missionary, he followed that calling. He left behind the glory and acclaim of the world to work in China. However, he did not leave behind his talents. He took his running ability with him to China. Even in his last days, when he and many other missionaries were imprisoned on the grounds of a school, he kept up everyone's morale by running races and organizing athletic events to keep people occupied and cheerful. He didn't waste his ability to run, but he used it to glorify the God who had given it to him.

So, we are truly called to be "nobodies" (recognize this? :). This doesn't mean that we don't use our talents in the field where God has called us, whether it be parenting a family of fourteen or performing as a world-class cellist. It means, instead, that we give the glory to Him and use the talents He has given us, always remembering Psalm 87:7: "The singers and players on instruments say, 'All our fountains are in You.'"

weird personality quiz off Swan-Elf's blog

Swan-Elf has her own blog (of course), and there's this link to a rather peculiar personality test. Like most such tests, the questions are all slanted (you can tell that they want right-brain people to click one answer, and left-brain people to click the other). But I tried to answer them honestly, and I think that it rather threw the test for a loop (me as a photographer?!).

By the way, Swan-Elf's blog address is:

http://www.xanga.com/home.aspx?user=therambler91

in case you're interested in taking the test yourself. If you do, show me the answers! Anyhow, here are the results for you to look at and laugh at:

Your #1 Match: INFJ

The Protector

You live your life with integrity, originality, vision, and creativity.
Independent and stubborn, you rarely stray from your vision - no matter what it is.
You are an excellent listener, with almost infinite patience.
You have complex, deep feelings, and you take great care to express them.

You would make a great photographer, alternative medicine guru, or teacher.

Your #2 Match: ISFJ

The Nurturer

You have a strong need to belong, and you very loyal.
A good listener, you excell at helping others in practical ways.
In your spare time, you enjoy engaging your senses through art, cooking, and music.
You find it easy to be devoted to one person, who you do special things for.

You would make a good interior designer, chef, or child psychologist.

Your #3 Match: ENFJ

The Giver

You strive to maintain harmony in relationships, and usually succeed.
Articulate and enthusiastic, you are good at making personal connections.
Sometimes you idealize relationships too much - and end up being let down.
You find the most energy and comfort in social situations ... where you shine.

You would make a good writer, human resources director, or psychologist.

Your #4 Match: ESFJ

The Caregiver

You are sympathetic and caring, putting friends and family first.
A creature of habit, you prefer routines and have trouble with change.
You love being in groups - whether you're helping people or working on a project.
You are good at listening, laughing, and bringing out the best in people.

You would make a great nurse, social worker, or teacher.

Your #5 Match: INTJ

The Scientist

You have a head for ideas - and you are good at improving systems.
Logical and strategic, you prefer for everything in your life to be organized.
You tend to be a bit skeptical. You're both critical of yourself and of others.
Independent and stubborn, you tend to only befriend those who are a lot like you.

You would make an excellent scientist, engineer, or programmer.

I live up to (one of) my name(s)

Yes, the short post Swan-Elf has been waiting for....

As you know, my "real" name is Frodo Baggins. And I've been living up to it, too. Two nights ago, I rescued my dear sister from a member of the Shelob family: it was an enormous daddy-long-legs that had decided to perch on the bathroom cabinet and watch while my sister showered. Needless to say, she was not too pleased at the spider's interest.

Yesterday morning, I awoke to find another cousin of the aforesaid Shelob trying unsuccessfully to blend in with my bookshelf. This menace met a similar end and was given a prompt burial-at-sea (as we call it in my household).

Frodo Baggins Lives On! :)

(Now that was an interesting post....)

Trip to Texas- Part 4, in which we travel the mission trail and return home

May 19, 2005

My mother and I went on the San Antonio mission trail today after we’d packed a picnic lunch into the car. We visited Mission Concepcion first. Our footsteps echoed in the little, low-ceiling roomed adjoining the sanctuary. An ancient, dim fresco of a moustached sun face peered down at us from the whitewashed ceiling. We crossed between the weatherworn old walls, darkened by the sun and the rain, crumbled by the wind, but still standing, set up by the Spaniards and the Indians, over all these hundred years.

Then we went on to Mission San Jose, the “queen of the missions”. Its original walls still stand: the old quadrangle. Along that quadrangle, the Indians were housed, and every couple of doors, there was a stone, beehive-shaped oven for baking bread. We visited the old grainery, barrel-roofed and deep, like a football player. We walked along the rooms adjoining the sanctuary, where the wooden roofs and floors have rotted away, leaving only empty arched windows behind. We stood before the rose windows, admiring the scrollwork which curved like frozen petals around the glass. We visited the old mill, which, the past times we’ve seen it, has been dry and dusty. Today, though, we were surprised and delighted by the sound of running water. They had got the old mill working again. The original wooden wheel in the bottom story turned ponderously as the water from the channel splashed down onto it, and that wheel rotated a shaft, which caused a pair of heavy limestone millstones upstairs to grind white grain between them. I watched in joy as the water flowed liquidly over the sluice gate, through the old limestone channel, and onto the worn wooden wheel. Two hundred years of silence, and now the mill is working again. My grandfather would have been even more delighted than we were.

Then we drove to Mission San Juan Capistrano. It sits in a bad part of town, on a neglected stretch of rough lawn. The sanctuary itself was originally meant to be a grainery, but when the work on the new sanctuary stopped because of lack of manpower, the grainery was left to serve as the sanctuary, and has done so for many years now. Just as we had done at the other missions, we went inside the sanctuary. It was much more heavily decorated than the other two missions. I started as I realized that there was a life-sized, realistic wooden statue of Christ lying in one corner, enclosed in a glass casket as for a funeral. A mockingbird jeered raucously from the steeple outside, fluttering and whirling its wings so that it swooped down over the prickly pear growing by the sanctuary door.

We ate lunch under a hackberry tree in the mission parking lot. Two scruffy tabby cats eyed us hungrily, meowing whenever they thought we were likely to throw them a tidbit. When another couple settled down at a nearby picnic table, the cats hurried over to beg (successfully) from them.

Before we drove on to Mission Espada, we visited the Espada aqueduct. The aqueduct spans a creek that flows as golden as amber between the old stone arches. Another stream of water flows through a trough above the arches, stirring the thick strands of pondweed growing from the stone walls. Orange-bellied fish hung in the water of the creek under the willow trees.

At Espada, a mangy dog snoozed in the shade under a car in the parking lot. We strolled along the line of the old mission walls to the sanctuary. We opened the creaking wooden door (that famous door whose surrounding stone arch is irregular, perhaps because of an architect’s mistake).We stood reverently on the stone threshold, our feet on the age-worn troughs that hundreds of other feet have worn. But I felt like laughing when I noticed that, in one corner, there stood an old stone basin, and, perched on the edge of the basin, a plastic water cooler labeled, “Holy Water” in black marks-a-lot.

Leaving the serenity of the missions, we drove to downtown San Antonio. Skyscrapers- office buildings, hotels, the Tower of the Americas- ranged along the grey horizon like the cliffs of an escarpment. After we parked, we descended a flight of stairs to the river. People bustled around us, talking in Spanish, French, and English. We went on a riverboat ride, motoring down the green-glass face of the water. Scarlet hibiscus flowers, their bells ruffled like the skirts of Spanish dancers, leaned out over the water. We sailed under arching stone bridges, past walls of lush foliage, by cafes where the awnings were all the colors of the rainbows, the colors of a jewel box. We sailed past churches, past office buildings, past the hospital where my uncle was born, past the hotel where my parents spent their wedding night. Pigeons stalked along the stone banks, and the clatter of their startled wings filled the air. Silk banners blew on the breeze from the walls of the malls. We passed a mallard asleep on a wall with its green head tucked between grey wings, and a little flock of ducklings that hurried for the shallows when they felt the swell of our boat. The smells of coffee and Mexican and Italian food floated down to us from the cafes, mixed with the music of jazz and mariachi bands.

May 20, 2005

We spent this morning lying around the hotel, reading, and this afternoon driving north towards home. I sat in the back seat and read “Father Brown” mysteries. Thick patches of red golardias flashed past, red as old blood under the mesquite trees. We drove by golden fields of wheat nestled between the blue-green hills, stretched out like yellow taffeta cloaks between the hills’ shoulders. This evening, we checked into a hotel in Stephenville. My mother and I swam in the hotel pool- until she noticed a waterboatman paddling through the pool on feathery legs. I found another beetle of the same variety pushing itself cheerfully on its way through the water. As my mother said, “If a waterboatman can survive in there, it’s not clean enough!”

May 21, 2005

We continued our drive home today. We passed through Windhurst and Scotland- two towns inhabited by Catholics, one with Germans, and the other with Scots. Both towns were exceedingly tidy, surrounded by stretches of clean pasture in which grazed herds of healthy dairy cattle. We also drove through Mineral Wells, one of the saddest towns we saw on our trip. It’s an old town, like most of the other towns out here, but unlike the other towns, it was once a bustling, wealthy place. Two huge hotels stood as silent witnesses to this past glory, like two decrepit queens, staring sadly at one another across the maze of dusty streets and empty businesses. Both of the hotels were magnificent structures, many stories tall, complete with balconies and turrets. But their crenellated yellow bricks were crumbling into dust, trees were spouting from the balconies, and many of their gleaming windows had been shattered.

Cliff swallows swirled in clouds around their nests under the highway overpasses, their wings flashing like a host of iron spears. In one place, a cow had broken loose from its pasture and strolled into the road. My grandmother slowed suddenly and honked her horn at it. The cow swung its broad head towards us (its horns were probably four feet long from tip to tip), and ambled off the road. When we passed some cars going the opposite direction from us, my grandmother flashed her lights at them. “They’ll think it’s a policeman ahead, when it’s only a cow!” she laughed. We ate a picnic lunch at Lucy Park in Wichita Falls. A trio of girls flew down the sidewalk on scooters, reminding me sharply of the Swan-Elf and her two younger sisters.

We returned home late this afternoon. Brother2 was upstairs playing on the computer, and Brother1 was at play practice, but Daisy was home, having just baked snickerdoodles, and she greeted us with big smiles and hugs. Mandy and Sandy, our cats, were glad to see us, too- but showed their affection in a lazier fashion.

I was happy to be home again. Even the smells here are different. San Antonio’s air is sharp with diesel fumes, creosote, and cigarette smoke, but my home smells sweetly of hay and locust trees and earth, and right now, the air tickles my nose when I breathe because of the polleny scent of the catalpa flowers. Everything fits here- even if I feel like ghost here sometimes, I am a ghost in my own place, instead of being a ghost who returns to its home and finds everything violated, like the ghost in “Hamlet”.

Trip to Texas- Part 3, in which we go to San Antonio and visit the McNay

May 17, 2005

We said good-bye to my cousins this morning after breakfast. My mother and I drove with my grandmother to San Antonio, while my father and my siblings drove back home.

We drove south through the pine woods. We passed clusters of houses huddled close to the woods, “Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf in the forest,” as my grandmother said. Then the land changed, and instead of pine trees, there were little, scrubby mesquite trees and live oaks everywhere. We stopped for lunch at a bakery in Caldwell. They had excellent sandwiches, and for dessert, my mother bought a kolache for each of us. Mine was blueberry, and the gooey filling stuck to my teeth as I bit through it. We drove for miles through comparatively-uninhabited country. There were lots of black vultures and lots of historical markers (some historical nut seems to have gone through Texas and put a marker every couple miles or so), and lots of cattle, but that’s about it.

Suddenly, we came out onto a line of cities: San Marcos, New Braunfels, and San Antonio itself. The cities were industrialized, with malls and businesses lining the bustling highways. There were gravel quarries, opening like hideous gashes in the green cloth of the land, showing the pale skin beneath, and there were ticky-tacky houses (as my mother calls them)- apartment complexes thrown together that would blow away at the first hurricane.

But the loveliest, thickest, lushest patch of coreopsis that I saw on our whole trip was nestled in an empty quarter-acre between two malls- a golden slice of glory set between the blank white walls.

After we checked into the hotel, I went swimming for the first time this summer. We went to the Cracker Barrel for supper. The yellowed screens in the windows made it look as though the world outside had reverted to an older, colorless age. After supper we drove through my grandmother’s old neighborhood, past her old house. The thick bushes around the house had been cut down, and the house looked as naked without them as a woman looks without her hair, but other than that hardly any changes had been made. We went to visit an old friend of my grandmother’s, who welcomed us gladly into her little house. Two dogs barked cheerfully at us from under the front porch. We sat on the front porch and talked while the colorless sunset faded into blue behind the black lacy patterns of the phone lines. When we returned to the hotel, we settled down and spent the rest of the evening watching basketball games on TV. The players looked like the powerful hawks that medieval lords used to keep- muscular, with the same broad, hooked noses, the same tense, terse, dangerous energy, the same quick eyes and sudden movements.

I listened to Loreena McKennitt, “The Book of Secrets” as we drove through the city today. San Antonio and California go with Loreena McKennitt- she makes me think of Moorish arches and tiles, and cool rooms between barred windows- just the way Enya goes with Quartz Mountain, and Kate Rusby goes with Violin and Swan-Elf and Princess, and “The Village” soundtrack goes with the pine woods in east Texas, and Mark O’Connor goes with Oklahoma.

May 18, 2005

My grandmother ran errands this morning, but my mother and I visited the Marion Koogler McNay Art Museum. It’s one of our old favorites. We wandered on the grounds for a while. My mother showed me a mountain laurel tree, and pulled off one of the fuzzy, silver-green “mice” for me (the “mice” are the tree’s seed pods). Koi flickered through the milky water of the lily pond like shreds of saffron cloth blowing in the windless depths.

After a while, we went through the cool entrance hall into the courtyard garden that sits in the middle of the original house, which was built like a Mediterranean mansion. The whitewashed walls had colorful tiles set in them, instead of tapestries. Along the stairs, the tiles told the story of Don Quixote, and beneath one of the windows, an enormous peacock spread its blue and green glazed plumes against a yellow background. The doors and stair railings and windows were barred with intricate iron fretwork, like twisted seaweed or peacock’s tails. This iron work was part of many of the other details of the big house: the chandelier in the entry area was decorated with tiny metal peacocks, swans, horses, dogs, and boars.

In the garden, a snarling clay lion’s head spouted water into a tiled basin fringed with ferns. The water the flowed down a tiny, tile-lined channel into a larger, tiled pool. Gardenias bloomed in one of the beds, filling the garden with the exotic smell of roses and citrus fruits. Palm trees cast fringed shadows on the brick walkways, and one of the cycads had produced a honey-golden seed cone, as it does once in perhaps fifty years. A wooden crucifix hung on one of the garden walls near a clay bell, and a little iron bell hung behind a metal screen.

We went indoors to visit the galleries. We passed through a gallery lined with paneling from an old European chapel, and through galleries of modern Impressionists- Monet, Courbet, Picasso. Monet’s “Waterlilies” floated on one of the walls, and on another wall was a painting by Courbet of a black pond overhung with autumn trees, in which the reflection of the trees flickered like koi in the dark depths. We found the sculpture gallery that I have remembered over these years- at one end stand the miniatures for the “Burghers of Calais” (I saw the full-sized statues at the Norton Simon Museum of Art in California a couple of years ago). The faces of the burghers were creased with pain and sorrow- some proud and dignified, others terrified and ashamed- in contrast to the sleek, youthful faces of the statues of Hercules and Theseus that stood in other parts of the room. As we left the museum (rather disappointed because so many of our favorite paintings had been taken down to make room for exhibitions of modern Japanese art), we stopped to chat with a pair of Hispanic nannies near the fountain in front of the museum. Their two charges, a couple of blond, fair-skinned children, clambered over the elegant rocks while the nannies prepared sandwiches for them for lunch. The two women greeted us gladly, and my mother joked with them about wishing that they’d brought along sandwiches for her. “If we’d known you’d be here, we would’ve!” one of them called.

My grandmother picked us up and took us to the Olive Garden to eat lunch with a couple of her friends. When lunch was over, we drove out to Fort Sam Houston to visit my grandfather’s grave. We wound along the road between narrow rows of white gravestones- lines and lines of gravestones. My grandfather’s grave is far out in one of the new sections, where the trees are still young. We stood and stared at it while the wind fanned our hair. The stone stood simple, stark, alone, undecorated: “Olin S. F---, Lieutenant JG. Beloved Husband and Father”. I thought about his skillful hands mouldering under the green grass at my feet, and the sorrow sat on my chest so heavily that I could hardly breathe. We were very quite as we drove back to the hotel, and my mother’s and grandmother’s voices had a harsh edge to them when they spoke. Back at the hotel, we hibernated like bats in the dark, cool room. My mother and I went swimming after our nap, and then we joined one of my grandmother’s friends at a Bill Miller restaurant for supper.

After supper, my mother and I walked around the track behind the hotel. The lot near the hotel is shared by an independent evangelical church and a Hasidic Jewish synagogue, and one of the two has thoughtfully built a walking track on the remaining couple of acres. We passed a friendly Hispanic woman who greeted us as we passed her, and an Asian father and his daughter, and an elderly man taking his Scottie dog out for a stroll. Boat-tailed grackles cawed jovially at us, their metallic feathers glistening in the westering light.

Trip to Texas- Part 2, in which we attend church and go on a bike ride

May 15, 2005

We drove to church at the Covenant Presbyterian Church in Lufkin today. Everyone at the church welcomed us cheerfully. The pastor preached about how if we are not faithful, Christ will remove the lampstand of our church (from Revelation). It was a moving sermon- especially since his own church has dwindled to maybe only twenty people. After we returned home, I overheard Aunt Lisa telling my mother that they’re very worried that their church will dissolve, and that they will be left with nowhere to worship.

After church, we took a group picture of all us kids. Brother1 was grumpy because he’d gotten rather carsick on the ride home from church. I napped for a bit and then went with Peter, Mary, and the ever-present Shayfur to the creek. We were just stopping to splash in a particularly deep, cool pool when something splashed into the creek and peppered us with sandy water. And then Andrew appeared around the curve in the creek. He throws anything to hand- sticks, sand, pebbles, etc. We joined him in seeing how big a splash we could create by throwing hard-packed balls of sand into the deep water. Even Mary joined in. Then Brother2 appeared. He tried to spear water skimmers with a stick. We were having a wonderful time getting ourselves filthy-dirty when Uncle Kirk called us up to the house for supper. One of my mother’s old friends, who lives near Nacogdoches, came over for supper. She’s an art teacher at a public school. She’s a woman with a loud laugh and a bushy, curly shock of black hair. The adults talked and talked after supper. Peter and I got bored and went outside to swing on the tire swing. We took turns pushing one another while Cypress, their other black cat (all three of their cats are black- except Shayfur, who has a white fleck on his breast and one white whisker), watched us. The dim evening crept through the woods and engulfed us in its green arms, until it was time for bed.

May 16, 2005

Yesterday, Ross and I discussed bike routes to take. This morning, he took down the bikes from the rack in the garage. He dusted them off, oiled the chains, and adjusted the seats. Then he packed three candybars, and Brother1 and I grabbed our cameras and water bottles, and all three of us soared down the steep driveway into the street on our bicycles. We flashed through their wealthy neighborhood, through stripes of light and shade from the trees, heading east, then south. We biked past a run-down house which was gradually sinking into the weeds, and a pack of doll-sized dogs ripped from behind the curtain of weeds and chased us, yammering and yapping. We pedaled faster than their short legs could go and turned onto a farm-to-market road, wheeled past the Knights of Colombus building, and turned onto a county road. The golden breast of a field rippled away on our right, like the gold leaf on a manuscript page, set in the green-penned-patterns of the trees. We rode for two and a half hours in a labyrinth of curving back roads through the east Texas woods. The toes of the trees traced down to the road, and between them grew rich spreads of wildflowers. Honeysuckle and clover breathed sweetly on the breeze. We passed a meadow clotted with creamy asters. Vultures circled lazily on the thermals, their shining wings tipping as they tilted. We crossed a creek several times, for it wound across the land like a milky green snake. We passed horses glossy with sweat, and white cattle grazing in a field, and two friendly, fuzzy-faced donkeys who came to the fence to be scratched. We nearly ran over a three-foot-long kingsnake who was crossing the road in a leisurely fashion. White cattle egrets flew sparkling from a field of black cattle, like bits of white paper torn and blown on the wind. One of the cattle had long, drooping ears that hung down over her face so that she seemed to be wearing an old-fashioned sunbonnet. We toiled up the steep hills, our gears popping like the joints of an old woman, and then flew down those hills on our way home, skeining out like wild geese. Sometimes, we rode three abreast, talking above the hum of our tire treads on the rough pavement. When we turned home, we stopped on a bridge, and Ross brought out his candy bars. When we got back on the road again, a motley crew of dogs bounded from a patch of shade and watched us pass with wagging tails and smiling mouths. A huge cow lay in another patch of shade that was as deep as water. Slender young pine trees filtered the light as though they were a pane of dirty glass. The noon sun was high overhead when we finally turned back into the straight neighborhood streets. When the bicycles were put away, I collapsed on the cool tile floor in the dining room, stretching my sunburned legs.

After lunch, we watched “National Treasure”, and then we all went down to the creek again. Ross built a lovely little waterfall, and Brother1 and I helped him to dam up the creek further down so that the girls would have water in a system of “ship yards” for miniature boats that they’d built. I discovered a floating net of frogspawn nestled under the bank, but Lillian shattered it with a carelessly-thrown stone. Suddenly, then, the water wore through our dams, and in seconds all of our work was washed away. So we all trickled up to the house, where Aunt Lisa bundled everyone off to get showers.

Ross drove Brother1, Daisy, Brother2, Andrew, and Peter to the home school hat party for supper this evening. Lillian and Annalee went to a girls’ club meeting at IHOP, and the rest of us went out for supper to an Italian food restaurant. Uncle Kirk and I both ordered chicken, which turned out to be much, much spicier than he had remembered it. We had to hurry home in time for my class on the internet, though. I spent the evening sitting in Uncle Kirk’s study, alternately chatting on the internet for the class, reading my friends’ blogs, or staring at the shelves of books. He has all sorts of books: Rush Limbaugh, John Calvin, Upton Sinclair, J.R.R. Tolkien, human anatomy dictionaries, computer handbooks, systematic theologies….

When the class was over, I emerged into the living room to find the little girls rough housing with my father. They were having a pillow fight, until Annalee threw a dirty sock. “Hey! No using biological weapons! I think it’s against the Geneva convention or something,” my father laughed. When everyone returned from the hat party, the girls decided to sleep outside in the tent that Uncle Kirk put up the first day we were here so that Peter, Brother2, and Andrew would have a place to sleep (my parents were to stay in Andrew’s room and my grandmother was to stay in Peter’s room). They actually managed to stay out there all night, though Daisy complained that Cypress and Beamer stole all her sleeping bag.

Trip to Texas- Part 1, in which we arrive and play foursquare

The reason I haven't posted in a while is that my family and I have been gone to Texas for the past week or so. Here is the first part of the edited version of the journal entries I wrote while we were on the trip.

May 13, 2005

My family was up early this morning. There was the usual heap of baggage along the dining room wall, which, as usual, disappeared into the bowels of the car. We fidgeted around outside. It had rained heavily the night before, and there were gooey stretches of mud where my father had sown grass seed yesterday. A crimson cardinal swooped down and snatched some of the seed up in its beak. We had to wait until my grandmother arrived before we could leave, for she was going down to Texas with us. When she came, my mother and I chose to ride with her in her car, and then we set out. I sat in the back seat and stared out the window. Green hills rolled by. Purple vetch and red Indian paintbrush floated like stars in the lush grass. We ate lunch at an Arby’s in Henryetta. Since the milkshake machine wasn’t working and my father had ordered milkshakes for us, the manager gave us four fresh apple turnovers, which were crisp and flaky on the outside, with gooey apples on the inside. I drove my grandmother’s car from Henryetta to Paris, where we stopped for gas. We drove through Bogata and Pittsburgh, too. I was very glad when it was my mother’s turn to drive. We drove through high hills cloaked in pine trees: the Ouachita Mountains. Blue valleys opened before us. When we crossed the Red River into Texas, the banks along the roads were golden with coreopsis, swimming like yellow fish in a green sea of grass. Tall pine, oak, and sweetgum trees loomed over the road, striping the galaxies of flowers with shadow.

At last we pulled into our cousins’ house in Nacogdoches. Peter greeted us flailing a large stick and shouting. While the boys carried things inside, Aunt Lisa gave my mother a tour of their newly-landscaped yard. Brown anoles scurried over the rocks, eyeing us inquisitively. After supper, everyone except the women went outside to play foursquare. Mary was too little to play, so she just sat nearby and scribbled on the driveway with a piece of charcoal. I proved to be rather clumsy for foursquare (which is a cross between volleyball and basketball, but without any hoops or nets), so Mary and I went around behind the house to swing on the hammock. The cats oozed out of the deep shadows of the surrounding woods and perched on the garden wall, glaring at us out of huge golden eyes. The sky above was like a clear blue face, crossed with one sandy snake-trail of cloud. From across the lawn, I could hear Lillian squealing and the boys shouting in excitement. While they stood in line to take turns at the game, Andrew, Brother1, Brother2, Lillian, Peter, and Ross all hooted on their hand-horns, making a noise like a host of foghorns in the evening quiet. Marry giggled as I tickled her or tossed her about.

Eventually I went back indoors. Aunt Lisa was knitting a washcloth while she talked with my mother and grandmother. The others came in, too. Ross paraded around in his enormous hat, which he built for a home school hat party next Monday. He made it out of PVC pipes covered with newspaper so that it looks rather like the sail of a ship. Peter had an old captain’s hat to go along with it. We showered and went to bed. I slept in the girls’ room, with Lillian, Annalee, Mary, and Daisy. Just as I had begun to drift off to sleep, a soft, small object flew through the air and hit my chest. I sat up in sleepy indignation, dangling the stuffed animal in one hand, and saw Uncle Kirk standing in the door. “Whoops! I thought you were Mary!” he gasped. I laughed and laid the little dog down by Mary (who is only about three years old), and then lay down myself. Across the room, Lillian and Daisy giggled and complained about how they couldn’t get to sleep (maybe if they’d stopped talking, it would’ve been easier for them!).

May 14, 2005

I woke up to hear Daisy reading a Dr. Seuss book to Mary, though Annalee and Lillian were still both sound asleep. I dressed and tottered blearily into the dining room. My father used Ross’s laptop to check up on the news of the military base closing- we were very relieved to find that Vance AFB hasn’t been scheduled for closure. After breakfast, all of us kids went outside to play foursquare. By the way, here’s a list of my siblings and cousins and their ages, in order from youngest to oldest:

Ross: sixteen

Brother1: sixteen

Andrew: fourteen

Daisy: thirteen

Peter: thirteen

Brother2: twelve

Lillian: ten

Annalee: eight

Mary: three

The air became very humid, so us girls splashed down to the creek that flows through the woods in front of the house. The cold water flowed over our feet as we slopped through gooey sand. The sun slanted through the thick trees, shining through the hazy air. Shayfur, the black cat, followed us, meowing worriedly.

When Uncle Kirk returned from doing his morning rounds at the hospital (he’s a doctor), he took all of us except Aunt Lisa and my grandmother and Mary to the football field at the university. A light breeze stirred in the deep bowl of the stadium, but other that, the air was so still and humid that breathing was a chore. We played soccer. Other faces flushed from the heat, and Peter and I both got headaches from the sunshine, while Annalee got winded from stopping one of Ross’s hard kicks with her midriff. The score in the end was two to two.

We went home for lunch, and after lunch, we all collapsed onto the sofas and the floor in the cool shade of the living room. We watched “The Incredibles”, and when that was over and we were somewhat recovered from the heat, we all marched down to the creek to build a dam with Uncle Kirk. The humidity had dissipated in the afternoon. Shayfur was a member of the party, too, prowling along the bank, and peering at us through the vines and rotting logs. While Brother2 and Peter scraped up gravel with pickaxes, Lillian and I pulled sand from the bank, and Uncle Kirk, Brother1, and Brother2 scooped the sand and gravel on their shovels and packed it onto the dam. We paddled around in the mud, and Andrew threw depth charges (balls of sand) into the substantial pool behind the dam, creating quite a splash- and quite a lot of outraged screams whenever the splash hit anyone. Black dragonflies hovered over the water, dancing pas-de-deux together. Daisy, Peter, and I hiked up the creek after the dam was done. We waded where the water was shallow enough, and the sun-warm current rippled over our tanned toes. In some places, we hiked along the bank, where our feet sank in the soft sand and creepers tickled our legs. We clambered over rocky growths in the water, our feet disturbing shoals of minnows that flickered away into the shallows. When we returned to the dam, we found that the other boys were engaged in a hot mudball fight. I convinced them to ceasefire long enough for me to escape unscathed up to the house.

Brother1 caught an anole, and Annalee produced a box which she had constructed with a clear plastic top so that it would hold a living reptile or insect just right. Once inside, the anole obligingly changed from bright green to brown, in order to match the color of the cardboard walls. Its needle-thin ribs expanded and deflated rapidly under its thin, scaly skin as it breathed.

Ross grilled hamburgers and chicken for supper. After supper, we went outside to play foursquare again. Daisy rode the pedal-car up and down the driveway, with Annalee rumbling behind her on a pair of rollerblades, and Mary pattering behind Annalee on her own pink feet. A nighthawk soared through the stairs of the air, spiraling upwards, combing the clouds’ gleaming silver hair. I rubbed Beamer’s ears for him- he’s a magnificent black cat, and as I stroked him, clouds of silky black fur floated away on the breeze. I pushed Mary on the swingset, and the wooden beams mewed as she swung to and fro. Blue light drained from the sky, leaving golden dregs along the horizon. After the younger children were in bed, Ross, Brother1, and I sat around in the living room with the adults, listening to music: mostly Leahy, and an Andean group that Aunt Lisa likes. Ross, Brother1, and I went back to the boys’ room to talk for a while about music before we went to bed.

a flute, a viola, violins, pianos, and a lovely necklace

Last Saturday, Mrs. F, a woman who teaches viola, violin, voice, and piano in our church gave a studio recital. Even though I play the flute, I was allowed to participate. Although a good many of the other people who played will probably post their own records of what happened (and someday I'll get my links straightened out so that you can go to their blogs), I'll still do mine. The more facets on a diamond, the prettier it is- the more takes on an event, the more interesting it becomes. Right? :)

The recital was held in an old hall downtown. It was the first Church of Christ Scientist building west of the Mississippi River, if that's of any interest. It was built in the old classical style that you mostly only find in universities these days. The concert hall has wonderful acoustics, there's a museum in the basement, and there's a sweet little old-fashioned garden tucked away by the west wall.

We were the first to arrive, so we stood on the steps and fooled around while Brother1 investigated all the doors. He managed to let us in through the museum in the basement of the building because one of the museum doors was open (it's one of those small-town museums that has button collections, stuffed animals (buffalos, eagles, etc.), old wedding dresses, and other random artifacts).

I marched back to the Green Room behind the stage to put down my flute case and snap my flute together. Daisy plinked away on the tinny old piano in the Green Room behind the stage while Brother1 warmed up on the big grand piano on the stage. He was to play "Solace", by Joplin (he loves ragtime). As the other participants arrived, the one and only table in the Green Room became littered with violin cases. Meri and Abi got out their violins and began to play around. Princess gulped down quarts of pineapple juice to keep her vocal cords in working order.

Mrs. F lined all the violin/viola students up and made everyone tune. The hall was cold, and when it was my turn to tune, I was a bit flat. I actually played with the wife of one of the piano professors, though the other students played their pieces to the accompaniment of Mrs. T, who is Mrs. F's mother and came here from her hometown specially for the occasion. She's quite a good pianist- they both were. I have to say here that I was especially pleased with my accompanist's playing since for the past three weeks she's been working her fingers to the bone playing for recitals and juries for the college students on campus. It was a near thing that she was able to play for me.

Violin (she plays the violin and somehow she's *like* one in ways that I can't explain, even though I know she'll clobber me for saying so) and I went first with our duet. We played quite well, though I felt as though I were playing in a vacuum. All I could hear was myself and the piano. It seemed sterile somehow- people were still coming in, and every so often a certain young boy sitting in the front row would flash his camera at us. I don't mind people taking my picture while I play as long as they turn the flash off! But we played without a mistake, and bowed to the applause that came after. Applause always seems to come after you play, the way a really hot day in March is always followed by cold weather.

It felt as though there was no pause at all, and as though no one was listening to me, as the pianist and I launched into the Barber "Canzone". The "Canzone" was transcribed by Samuel Barber for flute and piano from the second movement of his piano concerto. It's a piece that reminds me of very cold, deep green water, or of smooth glass. It's a sad, dark piece. I contrived to enjoy it as much as I could, to remember as much as I could how it was the lament of Eltarvai for Elya. After the low C sharp, though, I came in wrong, and that threw me off for the last line of the piece. I couldn’t hold out the last note for its proper shivery, goose-bump finish. sigh

We started into the third movement of the Mozart G Major concerto. Now, this particular movement of the concerto has always reminded me of the Fs' family. There are places where I can just see Pearl and Ruby swirling around in dress up and pretending to be fine ladies, and other places where the three LittleAnnoyingBrothers chase Pearl and Ruby around with paper airplanes, and other places where Justine (who is six) pretends to be a terrible villain and ties Violin up in a chair. But, as happens when a performer gets nervous, it went way too fast, and the pianist couldn’t keep up with me, and my fingers went all screwy, and there was no fun or bounce in it at all. People actually clapped right before I began my cadenza, which made me want to laugh and cry at once, and so I was all flustered.

Somehow, my whole performance was just plain ruined. It was all so surreal. I had seen the true performance many times: practicing by myself, practicing with the pianist, playing for myteacher, playing for studio class; but this recital was like the reflection of a familiar face in a warped mirror- unsatisfying, ugly, showing off all the little quirks and weaknesses. It made me sick, because I always dream of playing these pieces for this particular audience- for my best friends, my grandparents, my friends’ parents. Yet when it actually comes to it, the performance is just a bunch of fluff, a will-o’-the-wisp, a poor imitation of reality. I suppose that’s why I like poetry so much from the performer’s perspective: you can read it, and write it down on a piece of paper, and work over and over it, and when you have done, it will stay the way you want it to stay.

Whenever I perform, it's like one of those nightmares that you know was terrible but you can't quite remember because it was all too strange to take any hold in your brain. It still scares you, though....

When I was done, it was the turn of the beginner violin players. Then came Brother2 on the piano, and Daisy on the violin.

Daisy's piece was a pair of Russian folk songs that couldn’t decide whether to be hopelessly morbid or hopelessly ridiculous. They switched back and forth between doom-and-gloom and this silly little plucking melody seemingly at random.

Meri's piece was a lovely classical one that had lots of flowing arpeggios, running gracefully up and down, as smooth and slender and joyful as she is herself.

Then Daisy played Chopin's “Prelude in D flat major” on the piano, which always reminds me of a fairy tale (the happy melody at the beginning is like the heroine and the dark stuff in the middle is like the villain) or a funeral (the happy melody at the beginning is like flowers scattered on the grave and the dark theme is like the sorrow and the sweeping, cold wind). Once, when Violin and SwanElf (who are sisters) came over for a sleepover, Violin got Daisy to wake the two of us up in the morning by playing this "Prelude". We heard the evil chords come in, and SwanElf giggled, "Now all we need is the villain!"

Next Princess sang Psalm 30A and a selection from “Oliver!”, "Where Is Love?". She has a voice that as thin and shining as her long, pale blond hair. She put just the right plaintiveness into her voice for the song from "Oliver!".

Then SwanElf played the viola. I very much liked her first piece, which was as gay and cheerful as she is most of the time. Her face was as mobile as though she were deep in conversation with her viola- smiling, grinning, grimacing, frowning.

Then Violin played a lovely Vivaldi violin concerto. The last movement reminded me very much of one of Vivaldi's flute concertos. It was a very baroque piece- intricate as brocade, with many shining threads and trills and arpeggios. While Violin played, Daisy and Ruby, sitting at opposite ends of our row, made faces at one another. SwanElf was sitting next to Ruby, and I was sitting next to Daisy. I tried to discourage Daisy, but SwanElf only grinned at Ruby and at me, which didn't help matters in the least.

Last, Mrs. F played a violin piece. She told the audience before she played that she always plays each year to remind her of what it is to be a performer, so that she can sympathize with us. Her piece was sweet and sad, and reminded me of the story of Theseus and the Minotaur, and how Theseus’s father thought that he was dead when he returned with the black sails on his ship.

After the recital was over, Violin, Meri, Princess, and I brought out our instruments and fiddled around on stage. SwanElf finally got us organized so that she could take our picture, and then everyone went off to eat refreshments. I sat alone on the edge of the stage and chatted with Mrs. T a bit. My grandmother came up and handed me a pink-and-white polka dot bag. “For your graduation,” she said. I went into the Green Room and cleaned out my flute.

After I put my flute away, I slowly strolled up to join the others in the entry area. Justine and Mary were both curious about the bag, so I escorted them over to a bench and sat down on the green velvet cushion. They put their elbows on my legs and peered at my lap as I carefully pulled out a delicate parcel done up in pale blue tissue paper, with white ribbon. I gently undid the wrapping paper and took out a white box. Mary and Justine leaned closer. The white box revealed another white box, but this one was the sort of velvet-covered box that you keep necklaces in. I eased this box open, and an opal greeted my gaze, sparkling up at me with red and blue and green fire. It was a large opal, clasped in a gold swirl, with five little diamond chips caught in the curve of the swirl next to it. The whole jewel hung from the finest of gold chains. Mary reached out a stubby pink finger to poke at it, but Justine had lost interest. I sat, caught in wonder, staring at the wonderful thing- I have always wanted an opal, and here it was, for my very own.

Voices swirled about me, calling me, chafing me, shouting at me to go here and there. J.D. presented to me a page of his drawing notebook for me to sign, as all the other performers had, and Mrs. F sat down beside me to talk to me about how much she’d enjoyed the “Canzone”. Then my mother hustled me off to take a group picture on the stage. My mind was in a whirl. All I wanted to do was sit and gaze at that marvelous gem. I went up to my grandparents and gave them both long hugs, full of amazement and gratitude. My mother took the gem on its chain and clasped it round my neck.

All this while, the reception had begun to break up. Everyone was outside. Violin and I lugged things (instrument cases, stands, music, camera, etc.) to the car. The younger boys played tag on the green lawn near the ornamental garden. Pearl and the smaller girls ran about on the graveled paths, among the irises and clematis and peonies.

And then we all hugged one another good-bye and went home.

Grandmother, Guthrie, and the Yarn Store

Warning: this post contains lots of long and flowery descriptions.

Today my mother, grandmother, and I went on an expedition to Guthrie, a town about forty-five minutes away from where we live. The goal of the expedition was to buy a special set of knitting needles so that my grandmother can knit baby hats for the local hospital. (None of the shops in town have needles the right size).

It's a lovely drive from where we live to Guthrie. We took a winding back road that went through the "booming metropolis" of Mulhall, which is a sleepy little town where the houses are either brand new or run-down, and where everything is lightly powdered with red dust. We drove over Skeleton Creek on a narrow bridge. The silk sleeve of the water rippled over the white, sandy skin of the creekbed underneath. Wildflowers starred the roadside grass, shimmering in the breeze, like stars in a green, windy sky. Fields of ripening wheat basked in the warm May sun, flat and open to the sky in the river bottom.

My mother commented that people who disparage this part of the country have probably never been here.

Guthrie itself is an old town. Its downtown area has been around for about a hundred years, I guess. The buildings are all tall and narrow, built of sun-warmed sandstone blocks, and lovingly re-painted and refurbished so that they look much as they did when they were first built. The downtown sits on a long hill so that all the streets slope rather steeply. We pulled up in front of S.W.A.K. ("Sealed With A Kiss"), the yarn store, and went inside. While my grandmother bought her needles and chatted with the proprietor, my mother and I looked around.

It was truly a wonderful place. Yarns were carefully stacked together on antique desks and booshelves, or piled in intricate baskets. There was eyelash yarn, delicately fringed, and yarn similar to eyelash yarn but not fringed- more like the fins of an eel than an eyelash. There was fuzzy, ropy yarn, and yarn woven through with metallic thread so that it glittered. There was heavy, coarse yarn, and yarn fine as a baby's hair. There was yarn as fly-away as cat fur. There were strings of beaded fringes, iridescent, sparkling. Yarns silken as glass, smooth as a curried horse's flank, rough as carpet.

The colors were the best part of all. Many of the yarns had more than one color, so that the colors were interwoven or stained together, as though the yarns were tapestries in and of themselves. There was a shelf full of pastel baby colors.

But my favorite colors were in an old, green-enamel bathtub full of skeins of vividly-dyed yarn, each skein with its own true color, like an Aladdin's chest full of yielding gems. Scarlet and crimson and ruby; saffron and gold and daffodil-yellow; salmon pink and rose and magenta; sunset-orange and burnt orange and warm ochre the color of Oklahoma soil; earth brown and black and bright white; grey soft as rain clouds and pale as foam or a dove's breast, and starry silver. Green vivacious as new leaves, and deep as the shadows in a summer forest; clear, colorless crystal blue of the evening sky just above the sunset, and deep blue the shade of the sky on an autumn afternoon; aquamarine of water over white sand, and polished turquoise. Lilac, amethyst, royal purple, dark purple the color of the night sky. Bronze, and copper, like polished wood.

The colors were so alive that I could taste them. I could hardly drag my eyes away.

The shop had buttons, too: smooth wooden buttons, and iridescent ones, and metal clasps wrought from intricate filigree. Cats, birds, fish, ladybugs, giraffes, and Peter Rabbit.

Anyhow, after we left the shop, we strolled up to a cafe. My grandmother had coffee, but my mother and I ordered raspberry iced tea. We sipped it, and talked, and it was all very sweet.

After, we drove around the down town a bit. There was an interesting variety of businesses housed in the old store-fronts. Restaurants, antique stores, and clothing shops shared space with a theatre, a dance studio, a "doctor's" office (for face-lifts and that sort of thing), a veterinarian's clinic, a pet store, an art gallery, a museum about printing presses, and the Double-Stop Fiddle Shop. Virginia creeper climbed up the sandstone walls and veiled the alleyways, rustling in the wind.

And then we said good-bye to Guthrie for the afternoon and drove home. Our time in the car probably exceeded the time we'd actually spent in Guthrie, but, hey....

Psalm 95 - a meditation

Here I go again....

In the first verses of Psalm 95, the Psalmist gives three reasons why we should praise and thank God. First, he says that we are praise God simply for being God. This, of course, is the greatest answer to all the questions about God. We are to obey Him simply because He is God, and we are to praise Him for that same reason. No one else is worthy of the same sort of praise or obedience because no one else is God. Second, we are to praise God because he created the world and sustains it. He keeps the sea in its place and guides the stars in their courses. Last of all, we are to praise Him because He takes care of us. He is our shepherd, and we belong to Him. Every man takes care of His possessions, and so God takes care of us.

This aspect of the Psalm leads to some other interesting ideas. Sheep are not simply supposed to wander around on their own. If they did, they would soon get lost and be eaten or fall off a cliff (they are rather stupid animals, which also, perhaps, says something about human beings). Instead, God has placed His people in a flock with other sheep. We are not alone. This is one of the blessings of belonging to God. Not only do we have fellowship with Him, but we have fellowship with other believers. We find protection and encouragement from remaining with the flock, and if one member of the flock leaves, the other members of the flock are hurt because of it. This is another cause for us to praise God: He does not neglect our need for companionship, but fulfills our need by He placing us in families and giving us friends so that we may grow in grace.

Towards the end of the Psalm, the psalmist recalls Israel's past history. He talks about the rebellion in the wilderness, God's patience for forty years, and God's final judgment. This lends to the analogy of the flock: History is like a sheep-dog. Christians, the sheep in God's flock, look at history to see the pitfalls along the way and to learn to avoid danger. As men remember history, God pricks their hearts so that they will not commit the same mistakes as their ancestors did. God uses the Law and Conscience, too, asHis sheep-dogs to guide Christians along the road toward Heaven. These three dogs work together to keep Christians in the right way. Just as the Israelites disobeyed God in the wilderness and He punished them with death, so the sheep who don't heed the sheep-dogs will never reach the safe pasture.

As a note, another of the things that God uses to keep Christians along the way is His shepherd's rod. These are the circumstances that the Christian meets in his life: difficult people, illness, poverty, persecution. If a Christian won't heed the nipping of the three sheep-dogs, God uses His rod on their backs to keep them from sin (this isn't really my idea but something that Mr. F, my Sabbath school teacher, brought up). As a Christian refuses to obey God, He uses harder and harder blows of the rod to bring him out of sin. The hardest blow of God's biggest rod is death itself, which serves to sanctify and purify the Christian. It is the last step on the road to Heaven.

Band Performance: April 28

I'm first flute, fourth chair in the concert band of the local university here, and we had our last performance of the semester last Thursday. Here is a more comprehensive account than you ever wanted.

After supper, I got dressed in sleek black slacks and black top. Dr. P, the conductor, has made a big deal this year about the girls being modestly attired in the band. Apparently, last year, there was a big problem with people wearing strapless dresses and dresses that didn't go below the knee. Not, of course, that I would ever try to wear one of those sorts of dresses to a band concert. Anyhow, while I daubed that peculiar substance called "make-up" on my face, I listened to an NPR report about how unbiased they are. It was enough to make me want to laugh aloud, but I couldn't for fear of smearing the mascara. :)

I drove myself to campus, my feet in their black ballet shoes (I always wear ballet shoes on stage because the don't clomp or squeak the way normal shoes do) pushing down uncertainly on the pedals of the car, unused to the feeling of vulnerability through the thin soles.

Families were already gathering in the entry area of the concert hall, buying tickets, socializing, taking pictures. I pushed my way through the crowd and padded down the hall of professors' studios to the band room, where everyone was gathering to warm up. Meredith, one of the principal French horn players, swished around in a flattering black dress. Three of the other flutists and I admired her, and she grinned at us as though she were a little girl. The dress had a gauzy over-skirt, with a swirl of silver sparkles flung about her knees so that it looked as though the Milky Way had descended onto her gown.

We warmed up on the familiar B flat scale, Dr. P leading us carefully, calling us on, as a hunter calls on his dogs. In a sense, we were his dogs: a pack sent with our noise and our music to hunt down Silence.

At last, the chafing of the waiting was over. We filed onto the stage. I was one of the first ones through the stage doors, gliding past the copper-sheathed kettledrums and forcing my way through the semicircles of black chairs. I clutched my flute in my right hand as though I were a warrior grasping his sword. The stage lights threw a hazy silver veil between the stage and the audience, but still as I peered into the darkness beyond the light I could recognize members of my family and a couple of my friends, Princess and Marigold, sitting in the audience, grinning at me.

Presently the full band had assembled on stage. Behind me, I could hear the trumpeters warming up, the percussionists testing their various instruments, the clarinetists running their owl-hoot scales. Sitting on the front row between a flutist and the one oboist in the band, I dangled my feet above the floor and ran chromatic scales, trying hard to concentrate on the sound from my flute, trying hard to make sure that I wasn't out-of-tune (sharpness has been my bane for the past semester :). The oboist gave us our tuning note a couple of times, and after each time, we sat in uncomfortable silence, waiting for Dr. P, and when we realized that he wasn't coming, the flutist sitting beside me would giggle, and one of the trumpeters would whack out a note, and we'd start warming up again.

Dr. P did come at last, though, and the concert started. We played "Courtly Airs and Dances", a set of four Renaissance dances, each with its own definite character- the "Intrada" and "Allemande", first and last, both regal, buoyant movements; the "Basse-Dance", with its carefully intertwined melodies like French lace; and the fiery "Sartarello". Then came "Down Longford Way", a soothing arrangement of an American folk tune, and after that "Crystals", a piece designed to show just how many weird sounds a band can produce. It's full of harmonics and peculiar trills and all sorts of percussion tricks- not a lovely piece at all by my standards. Last, "Tricycle", a sweet, jazzy little piece running on three melodies.

After our part of the concert was over, I hurried out to pick up my instrument case, then quickly went to join Princess, Marigold, and my family in the concert hall because the symphonic band was up next. The symphonic band played the usual sort of band pieces- loud and brassy. I must admit that I liked our half of the concert better, even if we are considered the lowest-ranked band at the university here. Our part of the concert had much more variety. There were a couple of nice interludes in some of the pieces- poignant clarinet/flute duets and the like, but other than that, it was all the same noisy, marchy stuff. Doubtless more technically difficult than the concert band's music, but perhaps not as interesting to listen to.

When the concert was complete and after all the clapping, I waited with Princess and Marigold until their father came to pick them up. They sat on a bench outside the concert hall, and I stood with them, shivering in the cold wind. When they were gone, I hurried between the English building and the Visual Arts building to the parking lot behind them. I drove home past the massive bulk of the football stadium. The tunnels beneath the tall tiers of seats reminded me of the old passages under the Colosseum. Electric lights cast garish shadows on the stark concrete walkways and steel supports. Futher down the road, three Indian men hurried across the crosswalk. A young man and woman strolled down the sidewalk, the woman's shadow under the streetlights sliding behind her like the train of a wedding dress. The street lights glided along the expanse of road, strung on the gleaming-gossamer wires of the telephone lines. When I turned into my own neighborhood, I glanced up to the sky. Spotlights from Tumbleweeds, a bar and dance hall on the edge of town, freckled the folded face of the clouds above.

I was thankful to be able at last to strip off my concert gear, swab out my flute, and go to bed.

rain and wildflowers

That was the main reason why I posted that last bit.

My father's keyboard is weird.

He's gone out to an awards ceremony. It's "dead week" here on campus, right before finals week, and since he's a math professor, he gets to attend all the functions, etc. Sometimes he has to go to graduations, and then we get to see him all dressed up in his gown with the silk sleeves. But he doesn't have to do that very often anymore.

It's really windy here, out of the east. There are big thunderheads massing in the north, but I have a feeling that they'll be "all muster and no march"- that is, impressive to look at, but empty of rain. Rain is what we need right now. There always seems to be too little of it here. My flute teacher complains about how harsh the climate is since she came from a state where it rains practically all the time. I don't mind the harshness so much: nowhere else that I know can you have the delightful combination of wide open hills and deep valleys full of trees. Our town is in a valley full of trees and streams, where there's always water lying in the creekbeds, even in the summer, when the water is stagnant and covered with fluff from the cottonwood trees. I love the wildflowers here. When the coreopsis blooms in June, the green fields are covered with a golden blanket that seems to absorb the sun and spread it like thick butter across the green grass. Then there are always the Indian paintbrush, the black-eyed Susan, the bachelor's buttons, the snow-on-the-mountain, and the Indian blankets that bloom along the roadsides.

But I do mind the harsh climate when it's the middle of August, and there's no rain, and the temperature is in the hundreds for days on end, and the sky is rimmed with a bronze crown of dust blown from the fields.

It's at times like that that my heart aches to live in a place where I don't have to see the land suffer through summer.

i'm at my father's office

Still fiddling around with this...

another word of recognition (did this get published the first time, or not?)

Since I'm still wandering around in here, trying to figure all this out, here's my word of recognition yet again: to J.D., for doing so well in the art contests. Between winning first and third place, he'll get fifty dollars- enough to buy one of those LOTR miniature sets. Which means that when he has it, I'll get to go down in his basement and ooh and aah over how carefully he's painted it- as long as it's a good guy miniature (Elves, Rohirrim, Gondorians, hobbits). No orcs or black riders for me. He has this really incredible Elf miniature that carries a beautiful flag, with all the intricate stars and patterns meticulously done in gold and green and blue.

another word of recognition

J.D. not only took third place this month in a local art contest, but also won first place in another contest. He's known in our church for his incredible skill at drawing, so congratulations to him!

still working on this....

Please bear with me while I try to figure out the in's-and-out's of posting on here! It'll probably take me a while to get established.

In the meantime, here is an introduction to the members of my immediate family. I have several close friends who might as well be my sisters, but they'll appear on here sooner or later anyway.
My parents, father and mother, of course, come first. My father is a math teacher, and my mother has taught myself and my siblings at home for our entire lives so far. She majored in chemistry in college, but she's done a grand job of teaching us and has been quite willing to cater to our own personal interests, so I can't complain.
Brother1 and brother2 are both younger than me, and they love basketball and computer games.
Daisy, my sister, has lovely long hair that falls in a thick, heavy veil past her waist. She won't let anyone cut it, and she goes around with it down whenever she can, showing it off. She loves to work in the garden, bake cookies, and do home-maker sorts of things- all those activities except cleaning house.

Last of all, a word of congratulation to Pippin and Pervinca, two of my friends, who both did very, very well in the National Latin Exam this year. But just wait till you meet the subjunctive! :)

First Post

This is my place to talk about whatever I've been thinking about or whatever's been going on in my life.

The name came from a quote by Abraham Kuyper in his book, Lectures on Calvinism, "Calvinism and the Future":
Unless God send forth His Spirit, there will be no turn, and fearfully rapid will be the descent of the waters. But you remember the Aeolian Harp, which men were wont to place outside their casement, that the breeze might wake its music into life. Until the wind blew, the harp remained silent, while, again, even though the wind arose, if the harp did not lie in readiness, a rustling of the breeze might be heard, but not a single not of ethereal music delighted the ear. Now, let Calvinism be nothing but such an Aeolian Harp,- absolutely powerless, as it is, without the quickening Spirit of God- still we feel it our God-given duty to keep our harp, its strings tuned aright, ready in the window of God’s Holy Zion, awaiting the breath of the Spirit.

My purpose on here is to seek to glorify God through what I write, to make myself His aeolian harp so that when He chooses to work through me I shall be ready, by His grace.