The metaphysics of light-catching

Lent has been called the Season of Bright Sadness. The name reflects the peculiar aura of expectation that swathes the weeks before Easter. We spend February and March waiting for mercy, and while we wait, we hope and repent. We hope for the grace that has been promised us and regret of the ugliness that required such exorbitant redemption.

I know that traditionally, worshipers give up something for Lent, but I wonder sometimes if the Lenten discipline would be just as effective if we added something that we find difficult to cultivate in ordinary times. Right now, I'm having no difficulty appreciating the sadness of Lent, but catching hold of the brightness is going to require more effort.

How do we go about observing light, or grasping brilliance? Is it possible to clasp incandescence between the palms of our hands?

I'm not sure of the metaphysics of light-catching, but I do know that for me, the process begins with a list (as do so many other things in my life)--a list of the many small and bright things that I know fill my life each day. Sometimes they seem hard to find, but I also haven't put much effort into looking for them lately. My eyes have been clouded, and my head has been cluttered with other things that I thought (perhaps wrongly) were more pressing.

It's only Saturday, but I already have a modest collection of things bright: a peaceful evening at work on Wednesday, an unprecedented amount of sleep on Thursday, a few moments of togetherness with Mama over cake and coffee on Friday afternoon, a quiet morning of cathartic writing today.

The first few things on my list were hard to find, not because I had to make them up, but because I had to be willing to recognize them as something worth appreciating. It turns out that it's less difficult to be miserable than to embrace joy (and let grievances go). I think, though, that the collecting will only get easier. Once you've opened your eyes to brightness, it's hard to close them again.

Metamorphosis

I've been told that it only takes a few good students to make teaching worthwhile. Although I'm not a teacher, I do spend a portion of my week working with students on their papers--which is sometimes almost like teaching. And I've found that tutoring, like teaching, has its moments.

Last Monday, I spent an hour going over an English paper with a student. We discussed organization: thesis statements, paragraphing, topic sentences. "What about trying this here?" I would ask. "Or this instead of this? And what happens if you move this section further up and delete this other one?" Then at the end of the session I asked, like I always do, "How do you feel about it?" And she looked concerned.

"It's a lot," she said.

"But you can do it," I said. "You really can."

So she sighed and shuffled her papers together and nodded. "I think so."

She came back this Monday. "Same paper," she told me. I told her I was delighted.

We read it aloud together: paragraph by paragraph, quote by quote, sentence by sentence by sentence. And I was amazed. Out of the previous week's clutter of ideas and swirl of irrelevant claims had emerged a coherent essay. There were a thesis statement and several pertinent paragraphs and quotes that proved their point (and nothing more than their point). It wasn't perfect. We still broke up paragraphs and clarified thoughts. But it was something--something beautiful and organized and almost there.

"How do you feel about it," I wanted to know at the end of our session.

She looked at me and smiled. "Much better," she said.

Much better.

Week Seven

The weeks are relentless in their march forward. I woke this morning to week seven of my eighth term at Western (well, ninth term if you count summer classes). Midterms have come and gone, and I'm now entering the seemingly unending doldrums of paper-writing. My family has left to enjoy their long weekend; I've sequestered myself upstairs with my books and notes and outlines.

Now if only I could convince myself that being industrious really is a virtue.

"Happiness is...loving you"

I found a nest of valentines at the foot of my bed this morning: frilly confections of pink and lace and tender words. "Happiness is...loving you" and "I love you" and "Happy Valentine's Day."

I haven't been home much this week. I've been leaving early and coming back late, writing papers and dealing with unexpected (though certainly not unwelcome) opportunities. But it's good to know that, despite my coming and going and my frequent absences, I'm still cherished.

Thank you, dear ones. I love you too.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Grace

Today there was a smidge of snow frosting the roads to school, and while I sipped coffee at Rick's Place a slushy whiteness swirled outside, twisting through tree branches and curling around lamp posts.

It's February. Mid-winter. And this week began with the observance of the first of a series of anniversaries that I've been dreading. It seems hard that a month whose high point is ostensibly a celebration of love should also be tinged with emotions of sorrow, regret, and loss. But despite the heaviness of my rememberings, a sudden still peace has managed to creep into my week.

I'm watching the snow fall: white and soft and gracious. And with it is descending a quietness that blesses my memories of death with a deep and marvelous gratefulness for the abundance of life and lives well-lived, no matter their length.

Reading, Listening

My brother and I listened to this on our way home from Salem yesterday evening. The first nine songs sounded Frayish and were therefore satisfactory; the tenth song was about happiness and (not surprisingly) caught my interest. We listened to the song three more times when we got home, turning the volume up and letting the bass throb through the floor. I still like it.

















I've been waiting to read this novel, the sequel to Marilynne Robinson's Gilead, since last fall. Mama asked me today how I was liking it: "Just as much as the last one," I said. "Every bit as much." Robinson writes about existence with an exquisite gravity that sometimes sways ever so slightly into whimsy. Her thoughts and ideas are poignant, penetrating, relevant. Highly, highly recommended.

Resting

I haven't set foot on campus for 51 hours. I haven't been in the library or the Writing Center or any of my five classrooms. I haven't tripped up the stairs on my way to German (I'm still trying to figure out how it's possible to trip up stairs), waved to my coworkers on my way home to dinner, or camped out on the third floor of the library until the sky darkened and the aisles of books stretched in fingers of light through glass windows.

And, beautiful as some of these things are, I really haven't missed it. I've been home--working desultorily on Saturday, stretching my legs and lungs with a long run under blue skies, lounging on my bed with homework through Sunday morning and afternoon.

I've been home--getting things done and letting my mind and spirit knit themselves together before heading out into another week.

The Centre of the Universe

Last month we were on a four-day trip to Canada. I was presenting at a conference; my friend was looking up places we ought to visit during our stay. "Let's try for the Centre of the Universe," he told me when I came back from the conference one afternoon. "I don't think it's very far from here."

Of course I said yes, we ought to try. And so we did.

We stopped at a gas station before leaving town. The attendant took our credit card, gave us our receipt, and--"Maybe you'll be able to help us," we said as he turned away. "We're looking for the Centre of the Universe."

The attendant looked puzzled (and perhaps a little disturbed), so we repeated ourselves. "You don't happen to know where it is, do you? The Centre of the Universe? We've heard it's not far away. And maybe. . ."

"The Centre of the Universe?" He still looked worried.

"Well, yes. But there's a lake and something to do with Tibetan monks. And, well--"

He seized on the mention of a lake and began giving us directions quickly, his tones colored with embarassment and awkwardness. He wanted, I think, to get us off his hands as soon as possible--before we caused a disturbance or implicated him in a terror plot.

We didn't find the Centre of the Universe that evening. We drove down the highway, through a maze of backroads, past wind-swept hills, and around stray and staring cattle. We listened to music and watched the gloaming settle in shades of blue across the landscape. I slept. But the Centre of the Universe was not to be found; and maybe, after all, that wasn't the important thing. Maybe, in this case, it was more about the asking and the seeking than it was ever about the finding.