Princess & Goblin

I have just finishing listening to a recording of George MacDonald's The Princess and the Goblin, a book which was apparently very influential on folks like Chesterton and C.S. Lewis. I was struck by a comment the great grandmother makes in chapter 22 (the text is available on Gutenberg).

'You are right. Curdie is much farther on than Lootie, and you will see what will come of it. But in the meantime you must be content, I say, to be misunderstood for a while. We are all very anxious to be understood, and it is very hard not to be. But there is one thing much more necessary.' 'What is that, grandmother?' 'To understand other people.'

My, this sounds a lot like the prayer attributed to St. Francis. Macdonald's book was written in 1872, so no, he couldn't have simply known the prayer, because it isn't really by St. Francis and doesn't appear until the second world war. It is actually possible that this is one of the sources for that mysterious prayer of unknown authorship!

bird update

The nest over the back door now emits a peeping sound. The mother bird still flies off when the door opens. The father bird gathers food. Cool!

spring notes

Sycamores are the last to admit to spring
trunken nakedness makes them hesitate
still just dressing
while maples send off spinning emissaries

Reading Addict

I would rather be reading. I just finished the last of Susan Howatch's Christian novels and when I read them even though I can see their literary flaws I am in totally addictive mode. Unlike the sugar coated Mitford books, these depict some pretty dark struggles that people go through. And unlike literary fiction their problems get solved. They have deliverances and come to terms with the demons from their past. Unlike real life?

Those clergy designated as wise come out with lengthy explanations, such as the following:

"But let me merely say that St. Paul didn't think resurrection involved the flesh. It all depends how you define 'body' and in this case the word 'body' is probably a codeword for the whole person, a pattern produced by a certain mind, spirit and body all working together. This pattern--a pattern of information you could call it--would be capable of being lifted from its original context and replayed in another environment. Like written music which gets to be played in the concert hall" (Heartbreaker 424).

It's an interesting way to come to a workable understanding of resurrection, though I'm not sure its quite orthodox.

Then there's also the insight from Gavin, the former prostitute's, point of view:

"I'm seeing us all as victims who got mown down in one of God's messier creative splurges and mangled by the splurge's dark vile bits, the bits which haven't yet come right. But I know now that God's not just out there lolling idly in front of his canvas. He's in a muck sweat, painting away to save the picture, and although my family was blasted apart by the thwack of the creative process, the creator himself can't rest until he's brought us into the right pattern" (447) .

This image does reflect the character, who is just coming to terms with the idea that there is a caring God, but I do feel somewhat uncomfortable with the idea of God's creativity being out of control… though the world does seem to testify to that…

Splanations requested

I'm sure most of you have seen them, the mossy phoebe's nests that are built in the eaves of houses. I have googled and googled and cannot find an explanation for why they always build them right over the door. At my house, for instance, there is an extended expanse of eave with all the same features as the spot above the door, with the advantage of there not being a door there. And yet, they always seem to choose the spot through which humans and cats come and go. Why?

Derby Day

Why do I always try to watch the Kentucky Derby, donning a silly hat and drinking something that resembles a mint julep? I don't have much to do with horses the rest of the year. I'm carrying on a tradition that for me dates back to the 80s. Back in my NYC days, a guy I was enamored of made a big to do about the Derby, having people over for real juleps and walking them over to the nearby OTB to place bets. It was fun, and perhaps its just my way of holding on to some good times from my twenties that I watch the race. My husband and I turn on the tv and place pretend bets: he went for the favorite (boring!, says I) and I went for the filly (break that glass ceiling baby!). We're good! If I'd bet her to win place or show I would have won something, and so would he. But then there came the equine ambulance and they said that Eight Belles broke both her ankles and was euthanized in less time than it took to run the race. Unlike other sporting events involving injured humans, they had the decency not to show the fallen animal, but it was hard to watch the exultation of the winners, knowing that this beautiful creature was dead. Dead because she was overbred to the point of such fragility she couldn't manage to do the thing they had bred her to do, and yet they asked her to anyway. I felt dirty for watching. "If I had won real money," I said, "I'd give it all to the Humane Society." Sad.