Month: September 2010

I love the smell of old books

One of the things that my closest friend and I share is a love of reading.  What we don’t necessarily share is a love of the same books. This resulted in a rather funny public mockery a few months ago when I took a picture of one of her bookcases with all the Twilight series books lined up neatly in the middle of shelf upon shelf of deep and esoteric theology books. (Really? You probably listen to Justin Bieber, too, don’t you?).

So last night I found myself caught up in one of her little schemes that has to do with her work and catechists and such. I am no Martha Stewart, but whatever, we had fun chatting and catching up while doing some simple repetitive work. It gave us a chance to unwind over a cup of coffee (decaf — seriously?) and eventually the talk turned to a book about the Church doctors that she just picked up. It looked amazingly readable to me, especially since I think holy cards are often over my head.

I liked the way the book is set up so that it’s not the same writer but a nice collection of shorter works. Kind of like a survey of the writers for a beginner.  Who knows, I may someday have the attention span to tackle St. Teresa of Avila.We’ve shared books before, introducing each other to texts we wouldn’t ordinarily pick up on our own. Still, I have standards. She can keep Twilight.

This morning when I went through my reading list, I found this article, “In Defense of Old Books, “ and knew I had to read it right away.  The title captured my attention immediately. All of the excitement over the ebook readers may make reading easier and more accessible, but as far as I am concerned, the tactile enjoyment is gone. While most of my books tend to be paperbacks, to hold an old book with its thick hardback cover, yellowing pages, and musty smell is to be in a sort of timeless communion with the work. My favorite bookstore, Tattersall’s, closed because it couldn’t compete with the sterile new superstores, and I miss the creaky floorboards, the overstuffed bookshelves, the secret little finds that had been long forgotten — ready for me to explore.

Naturally, I thought this blog post was going to celebrate that. Instead, it talks of the wisdom of old books and especially, that if we are going to engage in some important conversations today, that it’s best to go to the beginning of those conversations so that we can have the context. If you love books, love C.S. Lewis, even love St. Athanasius, you might want to read what Michael Hyatt has to say about old books.

O Rly?

Honestly, you’d think by now I’d know that the spider is being OVERLY TENACIOUS and insistent on building his web there.

I suppose, as I remove spiderweb from my face and hair, that I could see this as, perhaps, a message that I could be as committed to success in my own projects. I get it. I do. I’ll go build some spiderwebs of my own.

Then, I will sit quietly with my coffee and watch the rest of the world do the “freaked out oh my god I just walked into a spiderweb dance.” And laugh.

MUAHAHA!

chateaubriand…not

Every night it’s the same conversation:

himself: what’s for dinner?

moi: what would you like?

himself: chateaubriand

moi: try again

himself: beef wellington

moi: um…mac and cheese?

himself: gross!

moi: spaghetti?

himself: nah.

Every night. I got nuthin. Anybody got a recipe for beef wellington?

pray for peace

One of my favorite painters, Picasso, has a series of lovely and simple line drawings that make me smile. Their beautiful simplicity speaks volumes — one stroke, one line can convey as much or more than the detailed paintings of other masters. I appreciate the others, as I appreciate some of Picasso’s more complex works as well.

But sometimes, less is more.

On this, the eve of another year gone by when we remember the events of September 11, 2001, I pray for peace.  We live in a complex world with complex relationships and far too much chaos. We grieve over the inhumanity of man against man, not just over the events that horrified us nine years ago, but over horrors committed daily.

We grieve at our capacity for evil. We grieve over injustice. We grieve because we feel.  And if we feel we can hope.

But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope. The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, his mercies never come to an end.    — Lamentations 3:21-22

Dear Son,

I paid your ticket today.

You’re welcome.

And I’m keeping your change.

I always enjoy a trip to the local constabulary, particularly when it is DeKalb County. The Flora and Fauna always entertain. Especially the Fauna.

I wonder when I ceased to be shocked by anything.  Still, it’s probably a good thing that I maintained an air of aloof disinterest when the enormous woman beside me pulled $600 in small bills out of her bra. I have to give credit to the male clerk who accepted the damp wad and calmly counted and made change.

I suppose we all have gifts.

Sincerely,

Your Loving Mother

P.S. Keep your nose clean. And go to church.

5 things I like

1. Stone Mountain yellow daisies on the side of the road (the festival is coming up!)

2. hot chocolate

3. sunshine!

4. rain!!

5. hugs

before and after

Usually the before pictures are scary, and the after pictures show marked improvement.

That’s the case, here, too. I wouldn’t trade the last 25 years for a firm butt and the opportunity to wear (unselfconsciously) a sleeveless blouse. I used to drink cheap wine, too.

There’s something to be said for a mature palate.

Happy Anniversary, mi amor.

Happy … meeting you?

Thirty-two years ago today I met my honey while answering the Spanish lines at the Jerry Lewis Labor Day Telethon at the Omni Hotel in Miami. I went with my cousins and the rest of the teenagers in our youth group, ComuniTeen, and he was there with his college Circle K group. I think he was the sponsor or chaperone or something.

Let that sink in a little. He was teaching computer science at the local community college. I was there with a youth group.

This is me, a little older — I might have been 18 in this picture…which, of course, meant we could actually go out together without a host of people giving him the stinkeye…

DING DING DING! Jailbait much? I didn’t exactly lie to him about my age, it just…never came up.

To be fair, he didn’t exactly look like he was old enough to drive, let alone look 21. (He had just turned 21 — he’s older in this picture. He was a hottie, no?)

So our ages never came up. We were busy answering phones and bonding over our tube socks. Yes, it was 1978. We were both wearing tube socks. With the same colored red and gold stripes. It was kismet — a sign! I’ve never been able to find that color combination. If I did, I would so totally buy it. Anyway, here’s what brought us together as soul mates, although the stripes aren’t quite right:

I never would have imagined that socks could be a sign of our destiny, but there you have it. God, on the other hand, does seem to have some ideas for us, and I must share with you that there’s a world of meaning in not just how we met, but the circumstances that revolve around it.

I’ve always been a fan of Jerry Lewis. I loved his physical comedy when I was a child, but as soon as I was old enough to understand what was the underlying theme in his movies, I loved him even more.  I don’t agree with the French on many issues, but I do agree with their assessment of his talent as a storyteller and filmmaker.  But I’m not going to talk about Jerry Lewis, explorer of the human condition. I’m going to talk about his charity, the Muscular Dystrophy Association.

That’s what John and I were doing when we met. We became friends because we had the same interests, which we discovered over the course of 24 hours spent sitting beside each other answering phones and chatting during the lulls in the wee hours. We were there because we liked Jerry Lewis, and were then driven to support his charity of choice. Needless to say, MDA became our pet charity. I don’t know how much money we’ve given to that organization over the years, and I suppose that is how it should be, but even in the lean years, we managed to cough up a little something to send. In thanksgiving, perhaps, for the organization bringing us together.

Or maybe, it was something else. If you’ve read this blog for a while, you’ll know that last year John was diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS –Lou Gehrig’s disease). Few people know the story of our meeting, and fewer still know of the direct connection between ALS and MDA. I’ve often thought that I would love to have a cup of coffee with God and just chat about all the things in my life that I have questions about. You know, all the “why’s” we subject ourselves to …. It’s a crazy idea, this coffee date, and probably useless. I don’t think I’d squander such an opportunity to question God’s motives any more. I’d just say thank you. If a disease was going to take us away from each other, there’s a bit of comfort in having  it be something that we’ve spent the last 32 years fighting to eradicate. I suppose I appreciate the subtle irony of it. God certainly does have finesse.

This weekend we’ll also celebrate 25 years of marriage. It was accidental that we got married at around the anniversary of our having met, but it does keep a sweet romantic connection, doesn’t it? I’ll entertain you with our wedding pictures on that date 🙂

wanna be my student for a sec?

Look, I’m knee deep in the end of the quarter. That means annoying but necessary meetings and too much grading. It also means a little burnout. Couple that with some other things that I prefer to give my attention to, and the recipe is one highly distracted professor. I don’t want to profess anything. I just want to be left alone to play.

I intentionally time my end of term ennui with the poetry unit for several reasons. One, I don’t want to work too hard. Two, I want to play with what I love: poetry. Three, my students have decided to trust me and stay (or they don’t trust me, and have bailed). When those three things happen at the same time, we do poetry. My way. No recitations. No rhyme schemes and counting syllables (well, there’s always a joker that writes off-color limericks). Instead, I have students select any 5 poems from the hundreds in the book, and share them with the class. All they have to do is find something to accompany the presentation of the poems. I encourage them to be creative and think outside the box. I’ve gotten amazing things…musicians who write music for the words — artists who paint pictures — rappers who perform the poems. It is a very interesting leap of faith that can only happen at the end of the course.

I am ALWAYS pleasantly surprised. Yesterday, a delightful woman, maybe a few years older than me, presented a beautiful tribute to her children. She found poems that captured their personalities and she wove a story about them throughout the presentation of her selections. Finally, she ended with this video, which is a mother reading the things her son said as a child. It is called a “found poem.” They are fun to construct. The idea is that you look for words and phrases as they exist when you find them, and you put them together in a meaningful way. I am startled at the depth of the conclusion in this found poem constructed by Naomi Shihab Nye from her son’s statements. Enjoy it.

It reminds me of Sarah Reinhard’s tweets.