No matter what happened, do not think that I did not love my husband.
Why did he tarry in Wrehfnyrz?* Why did he walk on the roof? And why did my cycle end that day, so I would be taking my ritual bath and seen? Could it not have lasted past one more sunset?
When a king sees something he wants, he takes it, and no one can stop him. And he is God's annointed, and I was only a soldier's wife, and a woman. What could I do?
*The name of the city is a clue, if you need it.
My postcards of the Winchester Bible, because it was once of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.
A very small (hand-sized) and not particularly stuffed lamb from my childhood, tied to memories of my paternal grandmother.
A stuffed tiger (Shere Kahn Jr.) my dad bought me when I was in my tweens.
A silver unicorn pendant from my mom, to remind me not to forget--oh, so many things.
A photograph of autumn leaves by a dear friend--especially precious because I live in California now and I'm aching for proper seasons.
My Complete Works of Shakespeare (which is languishing in a box, back in Delaware, but I will soon have sent to me), because it was, once upon a time, everything I wanted in the world.
On singing, and holy places
While I was studying at Messiah College in Pennsylvania, I discovered that the Jordan Science Building has this gorgeous three-storied, glass-walled vestibule with the most fantastic acoustics. During the day, the multitudes of students tromping through sound like an army.
I used to sneak in with a small group of freinds at night, after the janitors had left (if you were a student, your id card could swipe you into the building after hours--presumably to check on an experiment). We'd lay down in the middle of the floor (there was a trinity symbol patterned into the tiles) and sing, making the science hall ring with hymns, or Leonard Cohen's 'Hallelujah,' or whatever tune we fancied that night--making a harmony, the three or four of us, like an entire choir.
Another night, a whole group of us (including my visiting younger brother), slipped off campus and wandered into Harrisburg. After visiting the pub, we took a walk and wandered by St. Patrick's Cathedral. It was well after 11PM, but we found the side-door still open and slipped inside.
It was dark in the santuary, a pale bluish lights from the streetlamps outside filtering through the stained glass windows, so we all huddled at the rail before the chancel and began to sing all the hymns we could think of, singing in four- to six-part harmony. While we sat there on the carpet, none of us Catholic but all of us quietly worshipping (except, perhaps, the rabidly atheistic Allen--though he did sit quietly for once), I wondered if we would get kicked out. Suddenly, the lights in the great dome of the cathedral came on. I heard a door shut quietly somewhere in the building. We went on singing, sometimes singly, mostly all together, but no one threw us out.
Rymenhild (137)--perhaps you were hearing the choir rehearse at the University Church, across Radcliffe Square? When I was in Oxford, they often sang there evenings.
Arachne: I'll celebrate with you, with medication and good whiskey. I didn't experience much in the way of physical abuse, but I would rather die than stay in my mother's house again.
There should be a holiday for people who'd rather forget Christmas.
After having a nervous breakdown stemming from the realization that I am most definitely not straight, I moved from Delaware to California to get away from my conservative Charismatic Christian family, and it was the best thing I ever did.
My mom is a narcissistic hypochondriac who was raped by her father, brother and babysitter.
My paternal grandmother accused me of not being a proper Christian because I still struggle with being sexually abused by an adopted grandfather; she got over being abused by her cousin, so why can't I?
My father is a self-hating bisexual alcoholic with crippling emotional immaturity who has lived with his mother ever since my mom demanded a divorce because he had sex with a man at a peep show (and didn't tell her until after putting her at risk for STD's).
My brother is the only person in the family worth giving a damn about. He didn't reject me when I came out to him. But now he's told me he's struggling to decide whether or not he can ever see or talk to me again, because he doesn't approve of the person I'm dating.
My family is deeply and painfully dysfunctional. But in spite of the fact that I'm still coping with the damage, I got out: I'm living on my own. Functioning. Making my own family.
To everyone who's had to do the same, I raise a toast to you, to your health, your growing strength.
To everyone who's helped a friend get free of their families, or any kind of abusive situation, I salute you and bless you. I never would have got free if it hadn't been for people like you.
Wesley (#61)--Your comment made me think of this poem by Coleridge:
"Dejection: An Ode"
'Late, late yestreen I saw the new moon,
With the old moon in her arms;
And I fear, I fear, my master dear!
We shall have a deadly storm.'
Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence.
I
Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,
This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence
Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade
Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,
Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes
Upon the strings of this Aeolian lute,
Which better far were mute.
For lo! the New-moon winter-bright!
And overspread with phantom light,
(With swimming phantom light o'erspread
But rimmed and circled by a silver thread)
I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling
The coming-on of rain and squally blast.
And oh! that even now the gust were swelling,
And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast!
Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed,
And sent my soul abroad,
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,
Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live!
II
A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,
In word, or sigh, or tear -
O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,
To other thoughts by yonder throstle wooed,
All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
Have I been gazing on the western sky,
And its peculiar tint of yellow green:
And still I gaze -and with how blank an eye!
And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,
That give away their motion to the stars;
Those stars, that glide behind them or between,
Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen:
Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;
I see them all so excellently fair,
I see, not feel, how beautiful they are!
III
My genial spirits fail;
And what can these avail
To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?
It were a vain endeavour,
Though I should gaze forever
On that green light that lingers in the west:
I may not hope from outward forms to win
The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.
IV
O Lady! we receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does Nature live:
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud!
And would we aught behold, of higher worth,
Than that inanimate cold world allowed
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
Enveloping the Earth -
And from the soul itself must there be sent
A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element!
V
O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me
What this strong music in the soul may be!
What, and wherein it doth exist,
This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
This beautiful and beauty-making power.
Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given,
Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,
Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower,
Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power,
Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower,
A new Earth and new Heaven,
Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud -
Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud -
We in ourselves rejoice!
And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,
All melodies the echoes of that voice,
All colours a suffusion from that light.
VI
There was a time when, though my path was rough,
This joy within me dallied with distress,
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff
Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness:
For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,
And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.
But now afflictions bow me down to earth:
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;
But oh! each visitation
Suspends what Nature gave me at my birth,
My shaping spirit of Imagination.
For not to think of what I needs must feel,
But to be still and patient, all I can;
And haply by abstruse research to steal
From my own nature all the natural man -
This was my sole resource, my only plan:
Till that which suits a part infects the whole,
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.
VII
Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,
Reality's dark dream!
I turn from you, and listen to the wind,
Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream
Of agony by torture lengthened out
That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav'st without,
Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree,
Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,
Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,
Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,
Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers,
Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,
Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song,
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.
Thou actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!
Thou mighty poet, e'en to frenzy bold!
What tell'st thou now about?
'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout,
With groans, of trampled men, with smarting wounds -
At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold!
But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!
And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,
With groans, and tremulous shudderings -all is over -
It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud!
A tale of less affright,
And tempered with delight,
As Otway's self had framed the tender lay -
'Tis of a little child
Upon a lonesome wild,
Not far from home, but she hath lost her way:
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.
VIII
'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!
Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing,
And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,
Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth!
With light heart may she rise,
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,
Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice;
To her may all things live, from pole to pole,
Their life the eddying of her living soul!
O simple spirit, guided from above,
Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice,
Thus mayst thou ever, evermore rejoice.
Coleridge struggled often with his own inability to complete his writing projects to his own satisfaction--or even at all! Yet in the midst of that struggle he was able to produce some beautiful poetry (even if he eventually give over petry for prose as he felt his abilities fail). It's encouraging to know that even the greatest writer/creators have disheartened moments when inspiration fails and everything they make sounds like the discordant wind.
John (39): Thank you. *Curtseys*
Will (33): (Of course. You're an intimidating lot.)
I have to make things (hand-bound books, beaded jewelry, calligraphic pieces, stories) or my fingers start to itch and my mind goes fuzzy.
I've always loved Tolkien's view of writing/creating/making things being a sign of the image of the diving in humanity:
Though now long estranged,
man is not wholly lost nor wholly changed.
Dis-graced he may be, yet is not dethroned,
and keeps the rags of lordship once he owned,
his world-dominion by creative act:
not his to worship the great Artefact,
man, sub-creator, the refracted light
through whom is splintered from a single White
to many hues, and endlessly combined
in living shapes that move from mind to mind.
Though all the crannies of the world we filled
with elves and goblins, though we dared to build
gods and their houses out of dark and light,
and sow the seed of dragons, 'twas our right
(used or misused). The right has not decayed.
We make still by the law in which we're made.
-from Mythpoeia by J.R.R. Tolkien
(This is my first post here. I hope you don't mind.)
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