I listen to Babylon; it seems to yell louder than ever. Is it possible to live within its beautiful walls, without looking too closely, without wanting what they want? There are so many things I want to be; there are so many things I need to do. And I look to Babylon and wonder if it can offer me a solution. The people seem nice enough; they seem happy enough. Who's to say that they don't know happiness? Who's to say that anything--any way of life--actually brings happiness? It seems to me, it doesn't matter what type of life you lead, you'll still have your good days and your bad days. They don't seem any sadder than I am, day in and day out.
I still don't know the purpose of everything. The way I've decided to live my life doesn't seem to have changed that. I suppose no one could know the purpose of EVERYTHING, anyway. Don't get me wrong, the way I live is a decision already made. I'm not re-thinking it, I'm not regretting it, I'm not giving it up for anything. I'm at peace with it. The decision by no means has given me much comfort, I still feel as lost as the next person. But there's something to having made the decision at all.
Some days I have my doubts; but the moment someone tries to question me on them, I stand firm. It’s like when a friend says something awful about your sister. They’re not allowed to do that—only you are. It’s the same about my life. I can say as many rotten things about my life as I damn well please, but the moment you start, I’ll be defensive. Just because I don’t always act on what I know I want doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean you can question me. It certainly doesn’t mean you can look at me like I’m a child. I’m not a child. Childish, maybe—you can argue that on your own time, if you like. But no one could accuse me of not giving everything a considerable amount of thought. There’s nothing I haven’t considered. This doesn’t make me a better person; most of the time it just makes me an uncertain one.
Babylon smells sweet; you roam down the narrow streets to find where it comes from. You’re not being lured, it’s just one of those perfect days where you have the morning to do whatever you wish and no one is around to tell you otherwise. Babylon has plenty of things worth following, and I realize that living life is like trying to sing a hymn; you can never hit any of the right notes. Most of them are too high, some of them are too low and the ones that are in between take you by surprise, and you miss them all together. Just when you get to the verse where you think you’ll be able to hit half the notes, the song is over and it turns out you’d been looking at the wrong hymn all the time, anyway. Whatever, the words didn’t really mean much to you. I’d rather be listening to the Beatles, or Patty Griffin. I’d rather have a free morning to myself where I might roam the streets of Babylon, simply searching for something I might never find.
Even if you find what you’re looking for, how do you decide what’s most important? It seems to me, that the moment you decide, you realize that it’s not enough. There’s always something you aren’t doing, or aren’t doing right, or aren’t doing enough of. There’s always something you are doing that you shouldn’t be, something you should be better at, something you should give up all together. I know the answer you’d give me. But it’s when you know what you should do that life is the hardest, because knowing the answer to the question is so disheartening when the answer seems to do you no good. It pacifies me, but it never really settles the question, and I’m tired of merely being put at bay. It seems to me, that there are rarely any answers anyway. Nothing ever makes much sense, and is it so wrong of Babylon to try to put the pieces together?
They’re making a lot of loud noises outside my door, while I try to sleep and I think of the old world and their culture and that’s where they came from and they don’t know any better. I don’t know better, either. The deadbolt on the door rattles slightly, and a draft comes up from underneath the door. This is the place where we live; this is our home. How can we leave it, just because they’re putting the puzzle together wrong? Sometimes I feel like leaving this place would be like betraying it. Other times I think, is it so bad to live the life you want? No, this is home. They look up at me and I wonder what they’re thinking. I wish I had the answers, but I simply don’t. I, myself, am desperately trying to figure out what’s important in this life. There are some rare moments when it all seems so simple, but I always manage to muddle it up within a few hours.
I think, if I could just make a difference, none of this would be so bad. Do I give up on Babylon before I’ve begun, although I know I’ll lose? I keep waiting for the most important moment of my life. Not the climax—I don’t believe in climaxes—not the climax, just the turning point. The point where I’ll look back and think, ‘That was it.’ I think I’ll get to a point somewhere down the line when I’ll realize that it never happened. Then what? Will Babylon crumble? Do I give up then? Or should I never begin? Babylon might be lying; Babylon might be tricking me; Babylon might have within it all the evils of the world. But nothing was ever found in Babylon that wasn’t first found within the deepest part of the human soul; and beside that deepness is the light that accompanies it. It always comes back to the center; and Babylon is a bad metaphor for evil; it’s only a metaphor for human existence. When you give up on your search for the center of Babylon, it’s the same as giving up before you’ve started. So, if it’s all the same to you, I’ve decided.
I won’t give up on Babylon. I just can’t. I don’t own a summer cottage there, I don’t OWN anything. But I look to Babylon and I wonder if the people living within its walls are willing to change—they don’t need to move to change. Are they willing to work for themselves? Are they willing to think for themselves? Are they willing to look to a person like me and see that I haven’t got anything figured out, nor will I ever, but does that mean there isn’t more to be had in this world? Isn’t there more to search for? And all of you in Zion, why have you banished yourself from the world you live in? Why have you stopped your search for the center of Babylon? You won’t do any good out there. You fester like a sore; you corrupt yourselves simply by trying to live outside the fight. It’s not so bad within the city walls; all you need to do is keep your eyes to the clouds; even Babylon’s walls could not hide heaven. Are you afraid of those who aren’t just like you? Are you afraid they’ll make life difficult? New blood is hard to live with, sure, but it’s not wrong, and it’s not bad. Even the vineyard keeper knew that.
And since when was life supposed to be easy? Who would want it to be, when we’ve only got this one? I don’t want to be unhappy or miserable, but work me hard—get everything you can out of me, because you only get me once, and you only get me for a day, or a week, or a few years at best. It’s not that I’m going anywhere, I’m not moving. I’m just . . . changing. No, I’ve decided. I may not have many mornings left to roam the streets of Babylon, searching for the sweet smell of its center, but I listen, I listen intently. I listen to Babylon; it seems to yell louder than ever. Sometimes, I think I hear an answer.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Food and Fire
--
“You look like death.”
“Oh, go away.”
He sat down at the kitchen table. (Well, actually, the only table we’ve got.) “Have you been writing?”
“No. Why should I?”
He shrugged, then, but I could tell that he wanted to answer the question. But it would only make her angrier.
“Have you got food for me?”
She growled, but I knew she couldn’t resist anything he asked for, and she went to the cabinet and put a plate of food in front of him. She’d saved it. She’d even put it in the cabinet over the stove so it would stay warm.
He had spent too long not caring enough about her for him to change his mind. But she let him. She always let him change his mind.
“I went to town today, and I sat on a park bench and just watched the people passing. Maybe for an hour or two.”
She pretended she didn’t care, but I knew she was thinking. She was trying to think of something to say. Something smart enough for him. She was smarter than he was, but she hadn’t realized it yet, maybe she never would.
“The blue looks good on you.”
“Just, shut up,” she said. She left the room out the back door.
He peered up at me while he finished the dinner she’d put before him. I sat on the stairs, peering through the railing bars. “Is she always like that?” he asked.
“Only when you’re around.” I wasn’t sure why he hadn’t left yet. I wasn’t sure why he still came by to see her, when everyone knew he didn’t love her. Everyone knew.
“Well . . . you understand, don’t you?” he asked me.
“I understand that if you don’t eat that whole plate of food she’ll be angry at me,” I said.
He looked back down at the food and began eating again. “She’s my best friend.”
That made me angry. Angrier than I’d been in a long time, and I stood up on the stairs and said, “And what good has that ever done her?” I marched back up them, wishing the food was hot enough to burn him, but I knew it wasn’t.
It was a week before he came back. She was in a better mood this time, and when he came in the kitchen through the side door she smiled, like she was willing to hear everything he had to say. Maybe she wasn’t tired like every other day. I knew she loved him. I knew that she wasn’t sure why, or even what type of love it was. I just sat by the fire. She never kept anything a secret from me anymore.
“You look nice today.”
“Don’t start that,” she said softly.
“Why don’t you appreciate the nice things I say?”
“I’d rather you were honest.”
He sighed and sat down. She put food down in front of him and I looked back. He was looking up at her. He shoved the food away, “What I want to know is why the hell you feed me when I’ve got more money than you’ve ever had. Eat it yourself!”
She turned back and looked at the food. She picked up the plate and dumped the food in the trash, then threw the plate in the sink. I’d have eaten that food, if she’d have let me. But I knew she was trying to make a point. I looked at him, and wondered if she’d made it. “You said yourself, didn’t you? It’s what I’m meant to do.”
He shook his head, “I never meant it like that.”
“You never mean anything!” she yelled. “You never mean anything until three years later when it’s convenient to mean it!”
He deserved that. I turned toward the fire again.
He stood up and before he left the room he said, “I wish you would start writing again.”
I wondered why he cared. He knew it made her happy to write, but since when did he care that she was happy? He’d never cared before.
He came back the next day, but she wasn’t around. I told him she’d gone to town. He left a bar of chocolate on the kitchen table. He told me I could eat some of it as long as I saved half for her. But I didn’t want anything from him.
I sat on the roof and watched them sitting in the grass below. She was dressed in her Sunday best and she looked pretty. He’d never seen her in her Sunday clothes, and so he didn’t really know until this morning how pretty she could look. I think it took him by surprise. I hadn’t been paying attention, but then he said something that caught my attention—something with the word ‘love’ in it. Anyway, her response was, “Nothing ever happens that way.”
“Why couldn’t it?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I’m not a story. No one ever gets what they want unless they’re willing to step on other people to get it. I won’t step on anyone.” I knew that was true. She’d die before she hurt someone. And he came around, hurting people all the time. I didn’t understand how my sister could be friends with someone like him. I suppose people make the oddest friendships, all out of necessity, or . . . well, I could tell why she loved him. She loved everyone, and she never gave in. But why did he still come around for her? Probably using her, like he used everyone. I really hated him, but if I said anything to her she’d probably smack me—well, she’d give me a mean look, anyway.
“All I ever want to do is talk to you.”
“I wish you would stop coming around.”
“Why can’t you—” he was frustrated. Good. He always got interesting when he was frustrated. “I don’t love you like I loved her. Is that what you want to hear?”
“I don’t want to hear anything.”
“Then tell me what you want so I can give it to you and we can get on with things.”
“I don’t know what I want. That’s just the truth. I want you to stop treating me like you don’t know what to do with me.”
“I don’t know what to do with you.”
“Just leave me. You’ll do it eventually. I know you’ll leave eventually, so just get it over with.”
“Why would I?” He shook his head, “Why would I leave?”
“Stop being stupid. You just love that I sit here and wait for you to come by, even if it’s just so I can throw a plate of food in front of you. I’m tired of waiting!” She stood up and walked inside, then slammed the door behind her.
That night I did the unthinkable. I asked her why she loved him. She didn’t contest it, instead she said, “Because sometimes I feel like God gave him to me for a reason.” And she continued drying the dishes with a dishtowel.
“Did you really need him?” I asked her.
She nodded and set a dry plate down, “There was a time when he helped me get through everything. And then . . . I just held on too long, I held on too hard. And now, I can’t let him go.”
“Because you think—”
“Yes, because I think—what if the reason isn’t over yet? Obviously I don’t need him anymore, but what if he needs me? What if I’m supposed to do something to repay him for what he did all those years ago?”
“You think God wants you to be unhappy?”
“What does it have to do with God?” she snapped, and she threw the dishtowel down and turned away from me.
“You’re the one who said—”
“Stop it!” she yelled. “Just . . . I don’t know. Sometimes I wish I could get out of here. But why am I kidding myself? Even if I got out, no one would love me.”
“Everyone loves you.”
“No,” she said, like it was fact. And she went up the stairs.
He came around the next morning, almost like I knew he would. He rinsed the dishes that still had water spots on them and re-dried them and put them away. I was surprised he knew where they went. He said things to me, but I wasn’t listening. He was just rambling about something or other. I knew she listened when he did that, she always paid too much attention to everything he said, well I wasn’t going to give him the same satisfaction. I wished he knew he meant nothing to me. But then he asked me a question and I looked up. He asked me again, but still I was not listening. At some point I realized it would always be like this. He wouldn’t give up. He’d never given up before, why would he now? He finished drying the dishes, apparently past the fact that I’d never answered his question. He sat down next to me and noticed the chocolate on the table that he’d left a week before. He picked it up and snapped it in two. Then he offered me a small piece and I took it.
“Why don’t you let her be?” I asked him.
He looked at me and shrugged, “She would be lonely.”
“She’s got me,” I said.
“Sometimes she needs someone else.”
“What makes you think so?” I asked.
He shrugged, “I just know.”
“Did you ever love her?”
“I do love her.”
“No you don’t.”
“It’s just different,” he said.
“There’s no such thing,” I answered and he offered me another piece of chocolate.
“She’s the only person I’ve never lied to.”
“Great,” I answered.
“She’s the only person I still enjoy looking at, even after all these years.”
I shook my head, “You’re stupid. You just make her sad.”
“But I make her happy too,” he smiled. “Just—watch a little more often, and you’ll see. I make her happy, too.”
So I did. I resorted myself to watching a little more carefully. The next time he came, they went out to the grass and they talked for hours. She laughed more than I’d ever seen her laugh, and then I realized, that the only time they ever fought was when they were in that kitchen, and the only conversations I ever heard were of them in the kitchen.
So I went out to the grass where he’d started a fire so she would stay warm—he always made sure she was warm enough—and I sat down with them. Neither of them paid me any attention.
“Do you think it matters?” he asked.
“It matters,” she answered. “Everything matters.”
“Not everything,” he said.
She shrugged, smiling, “Yes, everything.”
“Sometimes I’m afraid my mother will walk into my room and find everything,” he said.
She smiled, “She should. Maybe if she did, you’d be a different person.”
He laughed, “Only for you.”
She shrugged. “Don’t you think everything matters in its own way?”
“Some people just get in the way.”
“People—they’re the ones who matter the most,” she said.
He shook his head, “No—they matter the least. You let them change you. You shouldn’t do that.”
It surprised me he said that, because he changed her the most.
“If it makes you better,” she said.
“You’re too good, that’s all,” he said.
She shrugged.
“Remember how it used to be?” he asked softly.
She nodded, “Every time we talk you ask me if I remember. I remember, I always remember. I remember everything.”
I knew that was true. She remembered everything. That was why he still came around; that was why she still let him, because she remembered everything, just like she said.
They were quiet for hours, and I didn’t say anything either. She was happy, just like he said.
When he was about to leave she hugged him and she told him she loved him. He told her he loved her too, and I believed him. I’d never believed him before.
She was whistling something while she ironed my Sunday skirt and he walked in. He stood in the doorway for a while and watched her and she looked up. He smiled and she smiled back. She told him there was food in the cupboard, and he went for it. He handed her some before he took it himself.
“You got my letter?” he asked.
“I’m happy for you,” she said.
He nodded, “I’ll be back in a month.”
She shrugged, “I’ll miss you. I always miss you.”
He nodded, “I miss you too.”
She smiled and then he came over for a hug from her, and he left. I watched her iron the rest of our Sunday clothes before she put the iron away and sat down to write.
She didn’t talk of him while he was away, but I knew she thought about him a lot. I asked her, “Was there a time when you never told him to leave?”
She smiled and nodded, “There was a time when I was terrified that if I told him to leave, he would.”
“And the first time you told him? Did you mean it?”
She shrugged, “I meant it. But I hoped he would stay.”
“Why?”
“He makes me happy. He keeps me tied down.”
“He makes you sad,” I said.
She nodded, “Yes, he does that too.”
A month passed, and the first day he was back she expected him to come around, but he didn’t. He never came and I could tell it tore at her inside. She made me go to town for some ink and paper and she spent all night writing. She spent the next week writing, and still he never came around. I hated him, although he was right. He was right not to have come.
Finally, two months after the day he saw her last, he knocked on the door. He walked in, but only I was in the kitchen. He moved toward the kitchen table and looked at the papers spread across it. He put his hand on top of the papers and rifled through a couple.
“Don’t touch that!” she said, appearing out of nowhere, and she pushed him away playfully.
He smiled, “I’m glad you’re writing again.”
She nodded, “Thank you for the letters you sent.”
I looked up. Letters? I hadn’t seen any letters at all.
He nodded. “Any food?” he asked.
She shook her head, “No.”
He looked unhappy for a moment, and then he sat down next to me by the fire and said nothing. But he was smiling, and it occurred to me that maybe she did still need him—for something.
“You look like death.”
“Oh, go away.”
He sat down at the kitchen table. (Well, actually, the only table we’ve got.) “Have you been writing?”
“No. Why should I?”
He shrugged, then, but I could tell that he wanted to answer the question. But it would only make her angrier.
“Have you got food for me?”
She growled, but I knew she couldn’t resist anything he asked for, and she went to the cabinet and put a plate of food in front of him. She’d saved it. She’d even put it in the cabinet over the stove so it would stay warm.
He had spent too long not caring enough about her for him to change his mind. But she let him. She always let him change his mind.
“I went to town today, and I sat on a park bench and just watched the people passing. Maybe for an hour or two.”
She pretended she didn’t care, but I knew she was thinking. She was trying to think of something to say. Something smart enough for him. She was smarter than he was, but she hadn’t realized it yet, maybe she never would.
“The blue looks good on you.”
“Just, shut up,” she said. She left the room out the back door.
He peered up at me while he finished the dinner she’d put before him. I sat on the stairs, peering through the railing bars. “Is she always like that?” he asked.
“Only when you’re around.” I wasn’t sure why he hadn’t left yet. I wasn’t sure why he still came by to see her, when everyone knew he didn’t love her. Everyone knew.
“Well . . . you understand, don’t you?” he asked me.
“I understand that if you don’t eat that whole plate of food she’ll be angry at me,” I said.
He looked back down at the food and began eating again. “She’s my best friend.”
That made me angry. Angrier than I’d been in a long time, and I stood up on the stairs and said, “And what good has that ever done her?” I marched back up them, wishing the food was hot enough to burn him, but I knew it wasn’t.
It was a week before he came back. She was in a better mood this time, and when he came in the kitchen through the side door she smiled, like she was willing to hear everything he had to say. Maybe she wasn’t tired like every other day. I knew she loved him. I knew that she wasn’t sure why, or even what type of love it was. I just sat by the fire. She never kept anything a secret from me anymore.
“You look nice today.”
“Don’t start that,” she said softly.
“Why don’t you appreciate the nice things I say?”
“I’d rather you were honest.”
He sighed and sat down. She put food down in front of him and I looked back. He was looking up at her. He shoved the food away, “What I want to know is why the hell you feed me when I’ve got more money than you’ve ever had. Eat it yourself!”
She turned back and looked at the food. She picked up the plate and dumped the food in the trash, then threw the plate in the sink. I’d have eaten that food, if she’d have let me. But I knew she was trying to make a point. I looked at him, and wondered if she’d made it. “You said yourself, didn’t you? It’s what I’m meant to do.”
He shook his head, “I never meant it like that.”
“You never mean anything!” she yelled. “You never mean anything until three years later when it’s convenient to mean it!”
He deserved that. I turned toward the fire again.
He stood up and before he left the room he said, “I wish you would start writing again.”
I wondered why he cared. He knew it made her happy to write, but since when did he care that she was happy? He’d never cared before.
He came back the next day, but she wasn’t around. I told him she’d gone to town. He left a bar of chocolate on the kitchen table. He told me I could eat some of it as long as I saved half for her. But I didn’t want anything from him.
I sat on the roof and watched them sitting in the grass below. She was dressed in her Sunday best and she looked pretty. He’d never seen her in her Sunday clothes, and so he didn’t really know until this morning how pretty she could look. I think it took him by surprise. I hadn’t been paying attention, but then he said something that caught my attention—something with the word ‘love’ in it. Anyway, her response was, “Nothing ever happens that way.”
“Why couldn’t it?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I’m not a story. No one ever gets what they want unless they’re willing to step on other people to get it. I won’t step on anyone.” I knew that was true. She’d die before she hurt someone. And he came around, hurting people all the time. I didn’t understand how my sister could be friends with someone like him. I suppose people make the oddest friendships, all out of necessity, or . . . well, I could tell why she loved him. She loved everyone, and she never gave in. But why did he still come around for her? Probably using her, like he used everyone. I really hated him, but if I said anything to her she’d probably smack me—well, she’d give me a mean look, anyway.
“All I ever want to do is talk to you.”
“I wish you would stop coming around.”
“Why can’t you—” he was frustrated. Good. He always got interesting when he was frustrated. “I don’t love you like I loved her. Is that what you want to hear?”
“I don’t want to hear anything.”
“Then tell me what you want so I can give it to you and we can get on with things.”
“I don’t know what I want. That’s just the truth. I want you to stop treating me like you don’t know what to do with me.”
“I don’t know what to do with you.”
“Just leave me. You’ll do it eventually. I know you’ll leave eventually, so just get it over with.”
“Why would I?” He shook his head, “Why would I leave?”
“Stop being stupid. You just love that I sit here and wait for you to come by, even if it’s just so I can throw a plate of food in front of you. I’m tired of waiting!” She stood up and walked inside, then slammed the door behind her.
That night I did the unthinkable. I asked her why she loved him. She didn’t contest it, instead she said, “Because sometimes I feel like God gave him to me for a reason.” And she continued drying the dishes with a dishtowel.
“Did you really need him?” I asked her.
She nodded and set a dry plate down, “There was a time when he helped me get through everything. And then . . . I just held on too long, I held on too hard. And now, I can’t let him go.”
“Because you think—”
“Yes, because I think—what if the reason isn’t over yet? Obviously I don’t need him anymore, but what if he needs me? What if I’m supposed to do something to repay him for what he did all those years ago?”
“You think God wants you to be unhappy?”
“What does it have to do with God?” she snapped, and she threw the dishtowel down and turned away from me.
“You’re the one who said—”
“Stop it!” she yelled. “Just . . . I don’t know. Sometimes I wish I could get out of here. But why am I kidding myself? Even if I got out, no one would love me.”
“Everyone loves you.”
“No,” she said, like it was fact. And she went up the stairs.
He came around the next morning, almost like I knew he would. He rinsed the dishes that still had water spots on them and re-dried them and put them away. I was surprised he knew where they went. He said things to me, but I wasn’t listening. He was just rambling about something or other. I knew she listened when he did that, she always paid too much attention to everything he said, well I wasn’t going to give him the same satisfaction. I wished he knew he meant nothing to me. But then he asked me a question and I looked up. He asked me again, but still I was not listening. At some point I realized it would always be like this. He wouldn’t give up. He’d never given up before, why would he now? He finished drying the dishes, apparently past the fact that I’d never answered his question. He sat down next to me and noticed the chocolate on the table that he’d left a week before. He picked it up and snapped it in two. Then he offered me a small piece and I took it.
“Why don’t you let her be?” I asked him.
He looked at me and shrugged, “She would be lonely.”
“She’s got me,” I said.
“Sometimes she needs someone else.”
“What makes you think so?” I asked.
He shrugged, “I just know.”
“Did you ever love her?”
“I do love her.”
“No you don’t.”
“It’s just different,” he said.
“There’s no such thing,” I answered and he offered me another piece of chocolate.
“She’s the only person I’ve never lied to.”
“Great,” I answered.
“She’s the only person I still enjoy looking at, even after all these years.”
I shook my head, “You’re stupid. You just make her sad.”
“But I make her happy too,” he smiled. “Just—watch a little more often, and you’ll see. I make her happy, too.”
So I did. I resorted myself to watching a little more carefully. The next time he came, they went out to the grass and they talked for hours. She laughed more than I’d ever seen her laugh, and then I realized, that the only time they ever fought was when they were in that kitchen, and the only conversations I ever heard were of them in the kitchen.
So I went out to the grass where he’d started a fire so she would stay warm—he always made sure she was warm enough—and I sat down with them. Neither of them paid me any attention.
“Do you think it matters?” he asked.
“It matters,” she answered. “Everything matters.”
“Not everything,” he said.
She shrugged, smiling, “Yes, everything.”
“Sometimes I’m afraid my mother will walk into my room and find everything,” he said.
She smiled, “She should. Maybe if she did, you’d be a different person.”
He laughed, “Only for you.”
She shrugged. “Don’t you think everything matters in its own way?”
“Some people just get in the way.”
“People—they’re the ones who matter the most,” she said.
He shook his head, “No—they matter the least. You let them change you. You shouldn’t do that.”
It surprised me he said that, because he changed her the most.
“If it makes you better,” she said.
“You’re too good, that’s all,” he said.
She shrugged.
“Remember how it used to be?” he asked softly.
She nodded, “Every time we talk you ask me if I remember. I remember, I always remember. I remember everything.”
I knew that was true. She remembered everything. That was why he still came around; that was why she still let him, because she remembered everything, just like she said.
They were quiet for hours, and I didn’t say anything either. She was happy, just like he said.
When he was about to leave she hugged him and she told him she loved him. He told her he loved her too, and I believed him. I’d never believed him before.
She was whistling something while she ironed my Sunday skirt and he walked in. He stood in the doorway for a while and watched her and she looked up. He smiled and she smiled back. She told him there was food in the cupboard, and he went for it. He handed her some before he took it himself.
“You got my letter?” he asked.
“I’m happy for you,” she said.
He nodded, “I’ll be back in a month.”
She shrugged, “I’ll miss you. I always miss you.”
He nodded, “I miss you too.”
She smiled and then he came over for a hug from her, and he left. I watched her iron the rest of our Sunday clothes before she put the iron away and sat down to write.
She didn’t talk of him while he was away, but I knew she thought about him a lot. I asked her, “Was there a time when you never told him to leave?”
She smiled and nodded, “There was a time when I was terrified that if I told him to leave, he would.”
“And the first time you told him? Did you mean it?”
She shrugged, “I meant it. But I hoped he would stay.”
“Why?”
“He makes me happy. He keeps me tied down.”
“He makes you sad,” I said.
She nodded, “Yes, he does that too.”
A month passed, and the first day he was back she expected him to come around, but he didn’t. He never came and I could tell it tore at her inside. She made me go to town for some ink and paper and she spent all night writing. She spent the next week writing, and still he never came around. I hated him, although he was right. He was right not to have come.
Finally, two months after the day he saw her last, he knocked on the door. He walked in, but only I was in the kitchen. He moved toward the kitchen table and looked at the papers spread across it. He put his hand on top of the papers and rifled through a couple.
“Don’t touch that!” she said, appearing out of nowhere, and she pushed him away playfully.
He smiled, “I’m glad you’re writing again.”
She nodded, “Thank you for the letters you sent.”
I looked up. Letters? I hadn’t seen any letters at all.
He nodded. “Any food?” he asked.
She shook her head, “No.”
He looked unhappy for a moment, and then he sat down next to me by the fire and said nothing. But he was smiling, and it occurred to me that maybe she did still need him—for something.
Friday, February 19, 2010
I think of Heaven and Billie Holiday.
Okay, so I'm blowing the whole plan by posting twice in one month. I don't really know what I'm thinking.
I almost went all of February without buying any music. Then last night, Jake asked for 40s music and I thought of all the music that I wanted, but didn't have. Billie Holiday, for example, who I love listening to and own only like . . . 3 songs? That's despicable. So I bought a 35-song $10.00 album, and I'm calling it a month. I've just improved my quality of life by 3.9% for $10.00. This is not an easy feat, my friends.
Have I mentioned lately that I hate money? I just hate it. Why can't everything be free?
I made my dad buy The Greatest Game Ever Played today because I wanted a new movie with Shia LaBeouf in it. I butchered the spelling of his last name but couldn't stand it, so I got up to get a movie with his name on the front so I could correct it. I find myself doing this a lot, knowing that I can't settle for 'Well, you know what I mean.' Instead I really have to explain what I mean. Also, the other day I was making waffles (shocker, I know) and a piece of waffle fell into the utensil drawer. It would have been so easy to leave it there--it just would have looked like it'd fallen in there accidentally--and it was just a piece of waffle. But I couldn't leave it there. Sometimes, I test myself to see how long I can go with things like that, but I always end up doing the right thing--even when its something as little as cleaning up a small mess or correcting Shia LaBeouf's last name--because NOT doing the right thing is just too hard. I'm a mess. It's so innate in me, that it's strange to me other people don't always feel the same way.
Do you ever have to remind yourself that you're going to be okay? I do, all the time. In school, in friendships, with money, with everything. In school, when I get really stressed out about a paper or a test, I have to remind myself that it doesn't really matter--that it's just one paper, or one test. But then I'm so terrified that if I don't give a test or a paper my best ONCE that I'll fall into the habit and that I'll stop striving to do the best I can. Then, again, I have to remind myself 'You're going to be okay.' We were talking about this at the dinner table the other day, and Caitlin was saying she did the same thing. Rachel and my Mom said they never really had that problem. My Dad was silent. I wonder what he was like.
Someone once told me that if you so much as desire heaven, it will be yours. I strive to be good, not to get to heaven, but to desire heaven. It made sense to me because as long as you desire heaven you're striving to live a life worthy of heaven. Just like school.
We compare ourselves to other people. We measure ourselves by what other people think of us. It occurred to me a few weeks ago, when I was having a really hard time adjusting to being back at home, that even my family isn't fully aware of how I've changed, or the person I am. They're still getting used to the person I've become since High School. Sometimes, when I look through their eyes and see myself the way they see me, I judge myself too harshly because I never liked the person I was in High School. I'm a better person now, and I have to remind myself that I'm going to be okay. I have to remind myself that I need to be better, but I AM better than how they see me, and if they see me wrong, I can't judge myself by their approximation of the person I am. I don't know if that makes sense. What I'm trying to say is that you have to measure yourself by what you know of yourself--not what other people think they know of you.
I'm not who I was in High School, thank goodness. My heart is just a little bit different. I'm not as easy to manipulate. I'm not as dramatic. I'm a little more patient; a little more kind. I have stronger opinions. I am more confident, even if just by a little. However, I can say that in High School I developed a love for people--a love so deep sometimes I get myself into the most awful ruts not knowing what to do. That's not something I'm ever willing to give up. I'll love people, I'll have faith in people no matter what. Sometimes my faith is shaken. I'm still a little skeptical of teachers sometimes, and I don't trust doctors or politicians. I don't trust door-to-door salesmen, and I don't like telemarketers who hang up on you as soon as you say 'No, thanks' without so much as a goodbye. Sometimes I'm not sure my elders understand me, and I don't always think they care about me. But that's normal. I can't say I hate a single person on this earth, and I don't think I ever have. I think most people on this earth try to be good, even if they don't always succeed. Sometimes people just get lost.
There wasn't so much different between you and me just a little while ago. Why can't things be like that again?
Billie Holiday still plays in the background here, and I realize I still have to make Jake's playlist. This should be fun.
I almost went all of February without buying any music. Then last night, Jake asked for 40s music and I thought of all the music that I wanted, but didn't have. Billie Holiday, for example, who I love listening to and own only like . . . 3 songs? That's despicable. So I bought a 35-song $10.00 album, and I'm calling it a month. I've just improved my quality of life by 3.9% for $10.00. This is not an easy feat, my friends.
Have I mentioned lately that I hate money? I just hate it. Why can't everything be free?
I made my dad buy The Greatest Game Ever Played today because I wanted a new movie with Shia LaBeouf in it. I butchered the spelling of his last name but couldn't stand it, so I got up to get a movie with his name on the front so I could correct it. I find myself doing this a lot, knowing that I can't settle for 'Well, you know what I mean.' Instead I really have to explain what I mean. Also, the other day I was making waffles (shocker, I know) and a piece of waffle fell into the utensil drawer. It would have been so easy to leave it there--it just would have looked like it'd fallen in there accidentally--and it was just a piece of waffle. But I couldn't leave it there. Sometimes, I test myself to see how long I can go with things like that, but I always end up doing the right thing--even when its something as little as cleaning up a small mess or correcting Shia LaBeouf's last name--because NOT doing the right thing is just too hard. I'm a mess. It's so innate in me, that it's strange to me other people don't always feel the same way.
Do you ever have to remind yourself that you're going to be okay? I do, all the time. In school, in friendships, with money, with everything. In school, when I get really stressed out about a paper or a test, I have to remind myself that it doesn't really matter--that it's just one paper, or one test. But then I'm so terrified that if I don't give a test or a paper my best ONCE that I'll fall into the habit and that I'll stop striving to do the best I can. Then, again, I have to remind myself 'You're going to be okay.' We were talking about this at the dinner table the other day, and Caitlin was saying she did the same thing. Rachel and my Mom said they never really had that problem. My Dad was silent. I wonder what he was like.
Someone once told me that if you so much as desire heaven, it will be yours. I strive to be good, not to get to heaven, but to desire heaven. It made sense to me because as long as you desire heaven you're striving to live a life worthy of heaven. Just like school.
We compare ourselves to other people. We measure ourselves by what other people think of us. It occurred to me a few weeks ago, when I was having a really hard time adjusting to being back at home, that even my family isn't fully aware of how I've changed, or the person I am. They're still getting used to the person I've become since High School. Sometimes, when I look through their eyes and see myself the way they see me, I judge myself too harshly because I never liked the person I was in High School. I'm a better person now, and I have to remind myself that I'm going to be okay. I have to remind myself that I need to be better, but I AM better than how they see me, and if they see me wrong, I can't judge myself by their approximation of the person I am. I don't know if that makes sense. What I'm trying to say is that you have to measure yourself by what you know of yourself--not what other people think they know of you.
I'm not who I was in High School, thank goodness. My heart is just a little bit different. I'm not as easy to manipulate. I'm not as dramatic. I'm a little more patient; a little more kind. I have stronger opinions. I am more confident, even if just by a little. However, I can say that in High School I developed a love for people--a love so deep sometimes I get myself into the most awful ruts not knowing what to do. That's not something I'm ever willing to give up. I'll love people, I'll have faith in people no matter what. Sometimes my faith is shaken. I'm still a little skeptical of teachers sometimes, and I don't trust doctors or politicians. I don't trust door-to-door salesmen, and I don't like telemarketers who hang up on you as soon as you say 'No, thanks' without so much as a goodbye. Sometimes I'm not sure my elders understand me, and I don't always think they care about me. But that's normal. I can't say I hate a single person on this earth, and I don't think I ever have. I think most people on this earth try to be good, even if they don't always succeed. Sometimes people just get lost.
There wasn't so much different between you and me just a little while ago. Why can't things be like that again?
Billie Holiday still plays in the background here, and I realize I still have to make Jake's playlist. This should be fun.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Regarding pretty much everything, including breakfast foods.
Well, I'm back.
Maybe I'll be able to work this thing out once a month. By that approximation, this is your February update and I hope it's satisfying.
Dave Ray found me a job. I didn't do any looking at all. I just went to church and he said, 'There's this guy I know--he's an attorney and he's looking for an assistant.' Guess what I do 20 hours a week? I'm an assistant for an attorney. I love it. I was terrified at first, and at times I still find myself a little scared that I'll do something wrong, but at the end of the day, there are so many things I want to do in that small office to make his life easier. It outweighs the fear. Also, I'm officially over my fear of calling people on the phone. I started the last week of January and I've gotten over a life-long fear in less than fifteen days. It's incredible.
Also, I've started exercising. I know that this is a big shocker, so let me say that again for all of those who think they've read wrong. I've begun e-x-e-r-c-i-s-i-n-g. I run around the block everyday after work. That's mostly for my lungs--because, lets face it, if someone WAS chasing me, I'd last about a quarter of a mile. (Explanation of that last sentence: I found myself wondering, if I had to run away from someone, or from something, how far could I get before I couldn't run anymore simply because I ran out of breath? I realized--not far, I should work on that.) Mom and I exercise 3 days a week after she gets home from work (unless there are crazy schedule changes). It is also my goal to be able to touch my feet by the end of March. (I'm not particularly flexible.) I haven't been able to do this in YEARS and I'm working on it.
Why am I telling you this? Well, I decided that every year from here on out I needed to do something amazing. I decided this for a couple of reasons: first, there are so many things I want to do--if I don't start now, they'll never get done. Second, my sisters are better than I was at their age, if I don't keep raising the bar they'll pass me up and I really really really don't like the idea of that. I will remain victorious. (Love you, guys.)
Now you're wondering--how are any of these things amazing?
Well.
Let me tell you.
It's not about being amazing to everyone else--its about doing things I've never done before. I turned 20 in 2009, (which sucked. 20 is old.) and so I decided I needed to do something--I went to Europe without my family. Its not that other people don't go to Europe, it's not even that other people don't go to Europe alone, or that other people haven't been to Europe alone without their families by 20 (sorry that's confusing, just read it again). It's that I never really thought it was possible for ME to go to Europe alone EVER. But I did. I never had a bucket list. I never had dreams. That sounds awful because I was raised in a good house, with plenty of everything. But sometimes dreams are just easier not to have because that way if you don't get them, you're not let down. Europe just didn't ever seem like a possibility. London? Paris? Rome? Please. LIVE in Europe? Please. So, I did it.
Now it's 2010, and in the spirit of every female's new years resolutions, I'd like to say: I've never lost weight.
Okay, my freshman year of high school I started swimming for class, and in an afterschool program and I toned up pretty nicely. But that was 9th grade. Then last year, Sophomore year of college, I started eating smaller portions and I lost weight then too, but that wasn't really on purpose. I've never thought to myself--you should be disciplined, eat better, exercise more, look the way you want to look. I've just never REALLY tried. I've sort of tried, and very much failed, but never REALLY tried. So I'm really trying now. It's something I've never done before. And its working. Who knew?
I've never worked for an attorney before. It's actually useful for my major--good experience--and I love that too. It's what I wanted, the reason why I decided not to go back to Nestle was because I wanted to do something toward my major and although I had NO idea what that would be at the time, it's what I'm doing. How does that happen?
I still want to write. I still want to watch movies, and maybe study film. I still love to take and edit pictures, and I love staying up late with my sisters (when the buggers don't have to go to sleep at 8:30 or whatever un-godly hour they disappear), and I love having great conversations, I still make breakfast foods consistently, and I might always sleep on the couch. I might not be in London, or publishing a book, or even going to school. But right now, I'm doing some things I never thought possible. Maybe its okay to be satisfied with JUST that.
Maybe I'll be able to work this thing out once a month. By that approximation, this is your February update and I hope it's satisfying.
Dave Ray found me a job. I didn't do any looking at all. I just went to church and he said, 'There's this guy I know--he's an attorney and he's looking for an assistant.' Guess what I do 20 hours a week? I'm an assistant for an attorney. I love it. I was terrified at first, and at times I still find myself a little scared that I'll do something wrong, but at the end of the day, there are so many things I want to do in that small office to make his life easier. It outweighs the fear. Also, I'm officially over my fear of calling people on the phone. I started the last week of January and I've gotten over a life-long fear in less than fifteen days. It's incredible.
Also, I've started exercising. I know that this is a big shocker, so let me say that again for all of those who think they've read wrong. I've begun e-x-e-r-c-i-s-i-n-g. I run around the block everyday after work. That's mostly for my lungs--because, lets face it, if someone WAS chasing me, I'd last about a quarter of a mile. (Explanation of that last sentence: I found myself wondering, if I had to run away from someone, or from something, how far could I get before I couldn't run anymore simply because I ran out of breath? I realized--not far, I should work on that.) Mom and I exercise 3 days a week after she gets home from work (unless there are crazy schedule changes). It is also my goal to be able to touch my feet by the end of March. (I'm not particularly flexible.) I haven't been able to do this in YEARS and I'm working on it.
Why am I telling you this? Well, I decided that every year from here on out I needed to do something amazing. I decided this for a couple of reasons: first, there are so many things I want to do--if I don't start now, they'll never get done. Second, my sisters are better than I was at their age, if I don't keep raising the bar they'll pass me up and I really really really don't like the idea of that. I will remain victorious. (Love you, guys.)
Now you're wondering--how are any of these things amazing?
Well.
Let me tell you.
It's not about being amazing to everyone else--its about doing things I've never done before. I turned 20 in 2009, (which sucked. 20 is old.) and so I decided I needed to do something--I went to Europe without my family. Its not that other people don't go to Europe, it's not even that other people don't go to Europe alone, or that other people haven't been to Europe alone without their families by 20 (sorry that's confusing, just read it again). It's that I never really thought it was possible for ME to go to Europe alone EVER. But I did. I never had a bucket list. I never had dreams. That sounds awful because I was raised in a good house, with plenty of everything. But sometimes dreams are just easier not to have because that way if you don't get them, you're not let down. Europe just didn't ever seem like a possibility. London? Paris? Rome? Please. LIVE in Europe? Please. So, I did it.
Now it's 2010, and in the spirit of every female's new years resolutions, I'd like to say: I've never lost weight.
Okay, my freshman year of high school I started swimming for class, and in an afterschool program and I toned up pretty nicely. But that was 9th grade. Then last year, Sophomore year of college, I started eating smaller portions and I lost weight then too, but that wasn't really on purpose. I've never thought to myself--you should be disciplined, eat better, exercise more, look the way you want to look. I've just never REALLY tried. I've sort of tried, and very much failed, but never REALLY tried. So I'm really trying now. It's something I've never done before. And its working. Who knew?
I've never worked for an attorney before. It's actually useful for my major--good experience--and I love that too. It's what I wanted, the reason why I decided not to go back to Nestle was because I wanted to do something toward my major and although I had NO idea what that would be at the time, it's what I'm doing. How does that happen?
I still want to write. I still want to watch movies, and maybe study film. I still love to take and edit pictures, and I love staying up late with my sisters (when the buggers don't have to go to sleep at 8:30 or whatever un-godly hour they disappear), and I love having great conversations, I still make breakfast foods consistently, and I might always sleep on the couch. I might not be in London, or publishing a book, or even going to school. But right now, I'm doing some things I never thought possible. Maybe its okay to be satisfied with JUST that.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
A rant for you, but mostly for me.
I'm an utter failure.
Don't get me wrong, this is not an exciting revelation I've suddenly stumbled upon. I've known for a while, only I try to keep it relatively quiet. Relatively.
It's been a few weeks back and I'm still not certain about what to do with myself. I'm excited and terrified for what's ahead. I'm excited to start contributing to my Sunday school class, stories about my life. I'm excited to get through all my Europe pictures and start (and finish) a scrapbook with all of my momentos from by 4 months abroad. I'm excited to (finally) get my license. (I know its hard to believe. Yes, I am 20. No, I'm not proud that it's an important part of my life I seem to have let slip by, and yes, I'm aware that most people get their license to travel to foreign streets alone before they start traveling to foreign countries alone. I understand. Working on it.) I'm excited to see whats in store. I'm NOT excited about working although it just occurred to me that maybe I should work somewhere fun for a few months before I settle down for a high-paying job. (Haha. That is, high-paying for a high-school graduate who's just deferred a semester in college.) Maybe something will open up and I can just earn chump change in the mean time. Just thinking out loud, here.
Sometimes when life terrifies me, I remind myself I've been through Heathrow airport, and honestly there's nothing more terrifying than an airport 10 miles in diameter.
The other day I had jury duty which I was annoyed about, until I realized that it was a new experience that I can add to my life. I was sitting next to this guy about my age (if not exactly my age) the entire time, and the second half of our 'waiting' we started talking. He's going to NYU for Film. Needless to say, (as I've told everyone) we had plenty to talk about, both of us being interested in movies. It reminded me that going into film is still a possible dream, at least studying it. Becasue although its not an easy thing to get into, it doesn't mean I can't be interested in it. I tend to deny myself the things I think impossible. But what's the point of that? Compared to so many, there are so few things I want. I always do that to myself: make myself do prestigious things that I have no interest in: Like science classes.
My dad sent me an email a while back that said something to the effect of , "I like art." It might sound like an unimpressive declaration, but for me it made complete sense. Not all of us have amazing lives where we do amazing things and we make amazing impacts. The only working experience I have, I sat in an office 40 hours a week and did things I wasn't REALLY interested in. I had the most fun when I was sitting down and creating; thinking of ways to improve, finding ways to connect everything together. The things that make a difference for me, the mediums I want to use to make a difference for other people is art. Art is what makes sense to me.
I'm still trying to figure it all out, I guess. And where I used to want to know what other people thought, I realized that as interested as I am in other people and their life experiences, it doesn't mean that it'll work for me. And even if I want to try something new and I fail at it, who's to say it wouldn't have worked for me? More than that--what if I try something new and it does work for me when no one else said it would?
The cynic in me lives for those little moments when I prove someone who thinks they know life better than I do wrong. They might know their life better than me, but they don't know mine. If I ever presume to know anyone's life better than they do, please remind me what William Earnest Henley wrote so nicely, (and what Invictus recently brought to my attention), "I am the master of my fate; I am the Captain of my soul." It's not important to me that I should get the most on my 'To Do' list checked off than anyone else ever has. I won't succeed. I can't DO everything. I don't even WANT to do everything.
What I want to do is write stories, watch movies, read books, learn history, meet people and connect it all together to help me understand why God made the world the way he made it, why I am the way I am, and what it's supposed to teach me in the long run. After all, if what we're really trying to do is get back to Christ, what else matters but that we know the person we're trying to get back to, why we're trying to get back to him, and figure out why in the grand scheme of things God thought putting us here, in this place, at this time was his best chance of our ever getting back.
Don't get me wrong, this is not an exciting revelation I've suddenly stumbled upon. I've known for a while, only I try to keep it relatively quiet. Relatively.
It's been a few weeks back and I'm still not certain about what to do with myself. I'm excited and terrified for what's ahead. I'm excited to start contributing to my Sunday school class, stories about my life. I'm excited to get through all my Europe pictures and start (and finish) a scrapbook with all of my momentos from by 4 months abroad. I'm excited to (finally) get my license. (I know its hard to believe. Yes, I am 20. No, I'm not proud that it's an important part of my life I seem to have let slip by, and yes, I'm aware that most people get their license to travel to foreign streets alone before they start traveling to foreign countries alone. I understand. Working on it.) I'm excited to see whats in store. I'm NOT excited about working although it just occurred to me that maybe I should work somewhere fun for a few months before I settle down for a high-paying job. (Haha. That is, high-paying for a high-school graduate who's just deferred a semester in college.) Maybe something will open up and I can just earn chump change in the mean time. Just thinking out loud, here.
Sometimes when life terrifies me, I remind myself I've been through Heathrow airport, and honestly there's nothing more terrifying than an airport 10 miles in diameter.
The other day I had jury duty which I was annoyed about, until I realized that it was a new experience that I can add to my life. I was sitting next to this guy about my age (if not exactly my age) the entire time, and the second half of our 'waiting' we started talking. He's going to NYU for Film. Needless to say, (as I've told everyone) we had plenty to talk about, both of us being interested in movies. It reminded me that going into film is still a possible dream, at least studying it. Becasue although its not an easy thing to get into, it doesn't mean I can't be interested in it. I tend to deny myself the things I think impossible. But what's the point of that? Compared to so many, there are so few things I want. I always do that to myself: make myself do prestigious things that I have no interest in: Like science classes.
My dad sent me an email a while back that said something to the effect of , "I like art." It might sound like an unimpressive declaration, but for me it made complete sense. Not all of us have amazing lives where we do amazing things and we make amazing impacts. The only working experience I have, I sat in an office 40 hours a week and did things I wasn't REALLY interested in. I had the most fun when I was sitting down and creating; thinking of ways to improve, finding ways to connect everything together. The things that make a difference for me, the mediums I want to use to make a difference for other people is art. Art is what makes sense to me.
I'm still trying to figure it all out, I guess. And where I used to want to know what other people thought, I realized that as interested as I am in other people and their life experiences, it doesn't mean that it'll work for me. And even if I want to try something new and I fail at it, who's to say it wouldn't have worked for me? More than that--what if I try something new and it does work for me when no one else said it would?
The cynic in me lives for those little moments when I prove someone who thinks they know life better than I do wrong. They might know their life better than me, but they don't know mine. If I ever presume to know anyone's life better than they do, please remind me what William Earnest Henley wrote so nicely, (and what Invictus recently brought to my attention), "I am the master of my fate; I am the Captain of my soul." It's not important to me that I should get the most on my 'To Do' list checked off than anyone else ever has. I won't succeed. I can't DO everything. I don't even WANT to do everything.
What I want to do is write stories, watch movies, read books, learn history, meet people and connect it all together to help me understand why God made the world the way he made it, why I am the way I am, and what it's supposed to teach me in the long run. After all, if what we're really trying to do is get back to Christ, what else matters but that we know the person we're trying to get back to, why we're trying to get back to him, and figure out why in the grand scheme of things God thought putting us here, in this place, at this time was his best chance of our ever getting back.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
DAY FOUR: Calton Hill, Arthur's Seat, and St. Giles Cathedral
“You cannot antagonize and influence at the same time.” – John Knox
23 October 2009
We had to be out of our hotel at 11am that morning, so we left our luggage downstairs and said goodbye to our comfortable room.
During the first three days of our stay in Edinburgh, we saw several monuments atop various hills in the city; our only destination was getting to those monuments and seeing what they were. We simply walked in their general direction, keeping them in sight. On our way toward it, we stopped off at a large, enclosed grave yard and walked through it. I liked the grave plots, most of them were sectioned off with stone—like monuments in and of themselves. We were confused to find one monument in the graveyard with a statue of Abraham Lincoln on it: we came closer to find it was a memorial for the Scottish-Americans killed during the Civil war.
We found our way up to the monuments atop Calton Hill and walked around. I did some sketches of Edinburgh, looked at the various monuments which had less value to us that we expected (they were for people we’d never heard of).
We then found our way down the hill and back to the other side of Edinburgh to Arthur’s Seat, where Julene wanted to do some more walking. There’s a park at the base of the hill, so we strolled through the area—saw Hollyrood Abbey from behind a stone wall, looked at the Lake at the base of Arthur’s Seat, and in general just enjoyed the park.
We went back down the Royal Mile to go to St. Giles Cathedral (The Church of Scotland), to sit in there a while. I did another sketch there and took contraband photos. (You were supposed to pay for a permit to take photos, but since I’m not selling these, I just took a couple to remember the church by.)
It’s believed that there’s been a church built on or near the site of St. Giles Cathedral since 854, first as a parish church, and then as a Catholic Christian church (renamed St. Giles) in the 1100s. John Knox headed the Reformation in Scotland, with which St. Giles took part, little by little during Knox’s administration. In other words, St. Giles was not reformed overnight by riots, the smashing of windows, or the looting of precious altars and statues (like it was in England). The church became a Presbyterian Cathedral in the 1600s when William Forbes was made the first bishop of the Edinburgh diocese; it now retains the title of Cathedral.
Being in St. Giles Cathedral wasn’t too much unlike being in an Anglican Cathedral as far as its gothic architecture and stained glass windows go, but it was less ornate than any of the Anglican Cathedrals I’ve attended so far. The quire was simple and wooden, and in the crossing of the Nave and transepts, rather than given its own section, as in most Cathedrals. St. Giles was small, too, which gave it the older feeling of many of the smaller parish churches we’ve gone in on walks with Norman foundations.
It seems that every time I go into a new Cathedral, I like it better than the last because there’s always something new that’s so impressive. The Thistle Chapel, for example, was one of the most ornate Chapels I’ve seen anywhere in any Cathedral, and was well worth the look. It’s built to give honor to the Knights of the Thistle (reminiscent of the Order of the Thistle—a high honor for those who have given distinguished service).
It’s interesting to me how people who have such a long heritage hold on to that heritage for so long—and especially to see that heritage in their churches where the church and the state is not separate in the same respect as it is in America. It’s not to say that I think it wrong to hold on to heritage, it is perhaps the only thing that is right, because heritage includes God, includes faith, includes who you are, and I find myself wishing that we held the same pride for our country within our places of worship, though I understand the good reasons behind not doing so—one of them being that our church is an international one.
This brings me to one last thought I had while in St. Giles church: I miss patriotism. I miss the time when you could be proud of being an American without people thinking you the worse for it. You don’t find this within the church, but I do find it among my peers: the animosity toward our country by its own citizens is something that terrifies me—if we can’t even love our government, or our culture how will we ever be able to live up to being the promised land we were prophesied as being? In Scotland there is so much national pride, a pride I only wish we could humbly emulate.
After leaving the church it began pouring, so we took refuge in Chocolate Soup where we had another hot chocolate.
We decided to go to New Town that night because Jim (a tour guide at Edinburgh Castle who spoke to us and told us about a lot of Scottish men and their contributions to the world) told us there were 27 pubs on Rose Street. So, we went to Rose Street and counted, naturally.
It turns out there were only 17, but at least it kept us busy for an hour.
Most everything was closed around 5pm, so we went back to our hotel and asked to sit in the lobby, which we were allowed to do. We did homework until it was time to start off for the Coach Station.
We said our goodbye’s to Scotland, ready for clean clothes and breakfasts that didn’t consist of rice-cakes and digestives.
23 October 2009
We had to be out of our hotel at 11am that morning, so we left our luggage downstairs and said goodbye to our comfortable room.
During the first three days of our stay in Edinburgh, we saw several monuments atop various hills in the city; our only destination was getting to those monuments and seeing what they were. We simply walked in their general direction, keeping them in sight. On our way toward it, we stopped off at a large, enclosed grave yard and walked through it. I liked the grave plots, most of them were sectioned off with stone—like monuments in and of themselves. We were confused to find one monument in the graveyard with a statue of Abraham Lincoln on it: we came closer to find it was a memorial for the Scottish-Americans killed during the Civil war.
We found our way up to the monuments atop Calton Hill and walked around. I did some sketches of Edinburgh, looked at the various monuments which had less value to us that we expected (they were for people we’d never heard of).
We then found our way down the hill and back to the other side of Edinburgh to Arthur’s Seat, where Julene wanted to do some more walking. There’s a park at the base of the hill, so we strolled through the area—saw Hollyrood Abbey from behind a stone wall, looked at the Lake at the base of Arthur’s Seat, and in general just enjoyed the park.
We went back down the Royal Mile to go to St. Giles Cathedral (The Church of Scotland), to sit in there a while. I did another sketch there and took contraband photos. (You were supposed to pay for a permit to take photos, but since I’m not selling these, I just took a couple to remember the church by.)
It’s believed that there’s been a church built on or near the site of St. Giles Cathedral since 854, first as a parish church, and then as a Catholic Christian church (renamed St. Giles) in the 1100s. John Knox headed the Reformation in Scotland, with which St. Giles took part, little by little during Knox’s administration. In other words, St. Giles was not reformed overnight by riots, the smashing of windows, or the looting of precious altars and statues (like it was in England). The church became a Presbyterian Cathedral in the 1600s when William Forbes was made the first bishop of the Edinburgh diocese; it now retains the title of Cathedral.
Being in St. Giles Cathedral wasn’t too much unlike being in an Anglican Cathedral as far as its gothic architecture and stained glass windows go, but it was less ornate than any of the Anglican Cathedrals I’ve attended so far. The quire was simple and wooden, and in the crossing of the Nave and transepts, rather than given its own section, as in most Cathedrals. St. Giles was small, too, which gave it the older feeling of many of the smaller parish churches we’ve gone in on walks with Norman foundations.
It seems that every time I go into a new Cathedral, I like it better than the last because there’s always something new that’s so impressive. The Thistle Chapel, for example, was one of the most ornate Chapels I’ve seen anywhere in any Cathedral, and was well worth the look. It’s built to give honor to the Knights of the Thistle (reminiscent of the Order of the Thistle—a high honor for those who have given distinguished service).
It’s interesting to me how people who have such a long heritage hold on to that heritage for so long—and especially to see that heritage in their churches where the church and the state is not separate in the same respect as it is in America. It’s not to say that I think it wrong to hold on to heritage, it is perhaps the only thing that is right, because heritage includes God, includes faith, includes who you are, and I find myself wishing that we held the same pride for our country within our places of worship, though I understand the good reasons behind not doing so—one of them being that our church is an international one.
This brings me to one last thought I had while in St. Giles church: I miss patriotism. I miss the time when you could be proud of being an American without people thinking you the worse for it. You don’t find this within the church, but I do find it among my peers: the animosity toward our country by its own citizens is something that terrifies me—if we can’t even love our government, or our culture how will we ever be able to live up to being the promised land we were prophesied as being? In Scotland there is so much national pride, a pride I only wish we could humbly emulate.
After leaving the church it began pouring, so we took refuge in Chocolate Soup where we had another hot chocolate.
We decided to go to New Town that night because Jim (a tour guide at Edinburgh Castle who spoke to us and told us about a lot of Scottish men and their contributions to the world) told us there were 27 pubs on Rose Street. So, we went to Rose Street and counted, naturally.
It turns out there were only 17, but at least it kept us busy for an hour.
Most everything was closed around 5pm, so we went back to our hotel and asked to sit in the lobby, which we were allowed to do. We did homework until it was time to start off for the Coach Station.
We said our goodbye’s to Scotland, ready for clean clothes and breakfasts that didn’t consist of rice-cakes and digestives.
DAY THREE: Edinburgh Castle
Narrator: Emerson Cod, private investigator, made a business of murder. But before he could get down to business . . .
“I feel like ice cream.” – Emerson Cod (Pushing Daisies S1 E3)
22 October 2009
The third day of our trip in Scotland was probably the best. When we left our hotel room the sun was shining in Edinburgh. Yes—shining. I hadn’t been able to get money out of the bank because my bank freezes my account every 30 days, so I called to get it cleared up and they told me to wait two days and this was the day to attempt withdrawing money. Like I said, the sun was shining. I was able to withdraw money and pay off my debts to Julene and Jackie.
Afterwards we walked toward Edinburgh castle and stopped at the Scottish National Gallery where I saw one of John Singer Sergeant’s most famous pieces, pieces by Van Gogh, Money, Van Dyke, Gainsborough, Rubens, Lorraine, Vermeer, Rembrandt, and Boucher—I know most of those names may mean nothing to you, but I’d just studied them in my Humanities classes, and I loved learning about those artworks and then seeing their work in a gallery and thinking, ‘That looks like a Van Dyke,’ looking at the plaque and being RIGHT. Jackie and I toured the place as fast as we could, getting pretty excited about what we saw after every corner we turned.
We then left for the Castle but the admission was £12. No one wanted to go in but me, so I convinced Jackie we would regret it if we didn’t, and she convinced Julene—so we went in after much deliberation. Needless to say, it was VERY worth it, and we didn’t regret it.
We saw the 1 o’clock gun go off, we walked into St. Margaret’s Chapel, the oldest building in Edinburgh, we looked through the church-like war memorial building, saw the Scottish crown jewels, including THE stone Scottish and English monarchs have been crowned on for centuries (the English since 1305, the Scottish even before that), and then we saw the prison barracks where they held American prisoners of war (treated as pirates) during the war for Independence. One of the American men carved ‘Lord Nord’ next to a carving of a man hanging from the gallows on one of the prison doors. Lord North was the prime minister who imposed the tea tax. I got a nice laugh out of it, though neither Julene o Jackie found it quite as funny.
Not to forget: we saw the grounds of Edinburgh Castle, and the view of Edinburgh from the top of the hill.
We left the Castle around 3pm and walked down the better-half of the Royal Mile, ate at Quizno’s and when to ‘Chocolate Soup’ for a hot chocolate. We did some shopping, watched and American street performer, and walked back to our hotel the long way.
Jackie and I went in search of ice cream before watching Braveheart to get in the Scottish-pride spirit. All was great from there on out.
“I feel like ice cream.” – Emerson Cod (Pushing Daisies S1 E3)
22 October 2009
The third day of our trip in Scotland was probably the best. When we left our hotel room the sun was shining in Edinburgh. Yes—shining. I hadn’t been able to get money out of the bank because my bank freezes my account every 30 days, so I called to get it cleared up and they told me to wait two days and this was the day to attempt withdrawing money. Like I said, the sun was shining. I was able to withdraw money and pay off my debts to Julene and Jackie.
Afterwards we walked toward Edinburgh castle and stopped at the Scottish National Gallery where I saw one of John Singer Sergeant’s most famous pieces, pieces by Van Gogh, Money, Van Dyke, Gainsborough, Rubens, Lorraine, Vermeer, Rembrandt, and Boucher—I know most of those names may mean nothing to you, but I’d just studied them in my Humanities classes, and I loved learning about those artworks and then seeing their work in a gallery and thinking, ‘That looks like a Van Dyke,’ looking at the plaque and being RIGHT. Jackie and I toured the place as fast as we could, getting pretty excited about what we saw after every corner we turned.
We then left for the Castle but the admission was £12. No one wanted to go in but me, so I convinced Jackie we would regret it if we didn’t, and she convinced Julene—so we went in after much deliberation. Needless to say, it was VERY worth it, and we didn’t regret it.
We saw the 1 o’clock gun go off, we walked into St. Margaret’s Chapel, the oldest building in Edinburgh, we looked through the church-like war memorial building, saw the Scottish crown jewels, including THE stone Scottish and English monarchs have been crowned on for centuries (the English since 1305, the Scottish even before that), and then we saw the prison barracks where they held American prisoners of war (treated as pirates) during the war for Independence. One of the American men carved ‘Lord Nord’ next to a carving of a man hanging from the gallows on one of the prison doors. Lord North was the prime minister who imposed the tea tax. I got a nice laugh out of it, though neither Julene o Jackie found it quite as funny.
Not to forget: we saw the grounds of Edinburgh Castle, and the view of Edinburgh from the top of the hill.
(War Memorial)
We left the Castle around 3pm and walked down the better-half of the Royal Mile, ate at Quizno’s and when to ‘Chocolate Soup’ for a hot chocolate. We did some shopping, watched and American street performer, and walked back to our hotel the long way.
Jackie and I went in search of ice cream before watching Braveheart to get in the Scottish-pride spirit. All was great from there on out.
Monday, November 9, 2009
DAY TWO: The Docks of Edinburgh
"Timid men prefer the calm of despotism to the tempestuous sea of liberty."--Thomas Jefferson
21 October 2009
Our second day in Edinburgh we walked down to the docks, and the shopping mall nearby. First we took a long walk down Leith Street where we found about fifteen places we could eat over the next three day—cheaper than the food on the Royal Mile. Oddly enough, we didn’t end up eating at any of these places; we ate on the Royal Mile. It took us a while fo din a way down to the docks, but we finally did.
It definitely wasn’t pristine down there, but it smells and sounds like the ocean and that’s enough. When I saw it I felt home-sick, not because I lived by the ocean, so much as what it represents, that it represents home, someplace I feel peace and wish I could be most of the time.
Before we left for the docks, we asked the lady at the front desk of our hotel about the lighthouse, and she had no clue what we were talking about. It occurred to us that maybe lighthouses aren’t as important to people in the UK as they are to Americans—or at least to my family, we always visit lighthouses.
We didn’t get particularly close to it, but I did find something slightly resembling a lighthouse, and so I’ve dubbed it the Edinburgh lighthouse, even if it isn’t really.
The ocean is like a memory, always constant memory—even when it is right before you. It’s as if you forget how you miss it until you’re in it again, and so memory is turned and all you’re doing is remembering the time before. The cold, the breeze, the salt, the sound of the gulls, and it fills you up. That’s what I thought when I got up that morning, I thought, “I’,m glad we’re going to the seaside, I need to be filled up again.’ I didn’t think it in those exact words, but I realize now that I awaited the healing power of being near seawater, that somehow it really does pour energy and inspiration back into you. I’m guessing that’s why my parents never take us to Kansas for our family vacations. There’s something about the ocean.
We walked down by the docks a little hwile and then stopped into a mall to warm ourselves again. IT was there we decided on tickets for ‘The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus.’ My first movie in the UK—in Scotland—FINALLY! (Current plans are being made for ‘Bright Star’ on this coming Wednesday or Friday. I am content.) The movie wasn’t for two hours, so we walked down by the docks into the nicer part of town, an found a Sihk temple, sat by the water and talked.
Then the movie. I loved it. Jackie and Julene didn’t care for it as much, they thought it was strange and said it was ‘dollar-theatre’ worthy. I scoff. That’s an insult, but that’s because I don’t believe in dollar-theatres, and as Charles Ballard says, ‘Movie-snobs of the world, unite!’ Because he and I have had several conversations about how we are definitely movie-snobs, but I think my whole family is, secretly. For example, my Dad, when told that I wanted the Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn movie ‘Charade’, told me I wasn’t allowed to buy the cheap version off of Amazon, because the print wasn’t a good one (in so many words, that is). Luckily, I got around this by getting it for Christmas from my roommate who doesn’t know about such things.
But it raises the question: Do stories keep the world going? Does faith? And is the world the paradise we let it be full of choices that will make us immortal and forever remembered—in one way or another—or will ultimately destroy us? ‘Yes’ On such a deep level that I’m sure wasn’t intended. Our stories are all we have of loyalty, of love, of fights for freedom—and the faith that we harbour by telling them can make us into better people. The world is like a vacation away from heaven and everything we have here is more than we had there (apart from the presence of God, of course), but there are choices that will either get us back safely, or will destroy us. Glorious metaphor, really.
After several long debates about food, we finally settled on eating at Pizzahut. I know that sounds awful, but the Pizza huts here are like California Pizza Kitchen’s—good food, and a nice place to sit. But they’re cheaper than CPK, so better. We came back to the hotel, and Julene and I did homework while Jackie watched the Chelsea vs. Liverpool Soccer game (3-0, Chelsea).
We watched ‘The Thomas Crowne Affair’ and then went to bed in our comfortable and clean hotel room.
It was also my mother’s birthday, but I was in Scotland and so forgot, but I have since repented.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
DAY ONE: Scotland--Arthur's Seat
"That is the most offensive thing I have seen in 20 years of teaching--and that includes a elementary school production of 'Hair'."--Sue Sylvester (from Glee, Ep.2)
I owe this post to so many people.
Scotland. 20 October 2009.
I opened my eyes to Scotland about 6.20am on 20 October 2009, despite difficulty sleeping. Fountain’s Abbey, previously in first place as the most beautiful think I’d ever seen, was immediately bumped to second place, even though I hadn’t yet gotten a great view of Scotland, it being only 6.20 in the morning. Since that time, I think Herefordshire (western England, near Wales) in the fall is the most beautiful place I’ve been, but I’m beginning to learn the unimportance of ‘bests’ and ‘favorites.’
The coach ride into Scotland was bearable, but less than pleasant, although I do have to say that despite its short comings as a comfortable trip, there were no snorers aboard. There was a man sitting behind me who smelled of smoke and who had such an awful cough I was certain he’d die in his seat. He didn’t.
We finally got to Edinburgh (ed-in-bur-ah) about 8am. It didn’t take us long to find our hotel—King James hotel. (Out of the coach station, down to South St. Andrews St., left on Prince Street, voila!) We had to pay extra for a three person room because we weren’t smart enough to only send two people inside to check our luggage, but it turned out for the better: we were able to go straight up to our room and take napes. Room 448 was spacious enough, had three beds (two pushed together to create a double bed), a clean bathroom with a shower, toilet, and shampoos and soaps that were refilled everyday (I stole several upon leaving), a flat-screen TV, a desk, a small table, an ice-bucket, a hair dryer, ironing board, and towels. Sort of an odd description of the room, but I wanted to give off the impression that I’m certain it’s the nicest hotel I’ll ever stay in without my parents for years.
After our nap we walked down what we learned was the boring half of the Royal Mile on our way toward Holyrood Palace and Park, and Arthur’s Seat. When Orson Pratt (Mormon missionary) was sent to Edinburgh, Scotland to preach the gospel, he hiked Arthur’s Seat often (I touched what Julene, Jackie and I single-handedly dubbed the Orson Pratt Rock—in reference to the fact that I want to touch everything. I walked up the hill off the path and said, “Orson Pratt probably rested on this rock,” and touched it. Julene took a picture.). I picked flowers and pressed them so I would always remember the meadows and when we got to the top, I realized why he frequented the top of the hill. We sat for a little while, took pictures of the view, and came back down, frolicking through the fluffy grasses in the meadow. Frolic is a good word, right?
Atop Arthur’s Seat: “We’re here—and we’ve come to the realization of absolute freedom. Four days—or three and a half. £40 for our coach to Edinburgh and back. £100 the King James hotel. £10 for Carmel flavored rice-cakes, Pringles, digestives, and Reeses peanut butter cups. Throwing rocks off of Arthur’s Seat atop Edinburgh? Priceless.
“But it’s beautiful. Edinburgh is beautiful. Churches, abbeys, the Royal Mile, the ocean, the cold breeze, and the absolute green.”
We walked back down the Royal Mile and came across the Edinburgh Museum (free admission), so we went inside. It was larger than we initially supposed so it took us over an hour: it had information about Edinburgh’s beginnings there nearly-current. It was a make-shift museum, with some legitimate artifacts, which was interesting because of how used we are to glorified display cases.
Still tired from getting only 4-5 hours of sleep that night, we went back to the museum and watched 21, then got ready to go out to a pub to get fish and chips. Despite Julene’s reluctance (she didn’t like the idea of going to a pub at night), Jackie and I refused to pass up the experience. We went to ‘The Tass’ for £6.50 fish and chips. It was good, the pub was low-key, and overall we enjoyed ourselves.
We came back to the hotel and watched Hands Across the Table, one of my favorite movies (with Fred MacMurray and Carole Lombard). Jackie and Julene enjoyed it.
I owe this post to so many people.
Scotland. 20 October 2009.
I opened my eyes to Scotland about 6.20am on 20 October 2009, despite difficulty sleeping. Fountain’s Abbey, previously in first place as the most beautiful think I’d ever seen, was immediately bumped to second place, even though I hadn’t yet gotten a great view of Scotland, it being only 6.20 in the morning. Since that time, I think Herefordshire (western England, near Wales) in the fall is the most beautiful place I’ve been, but I’m beginning to learn the unimportance of ‘bests’ and ‘favorites.’
The coach ride into Scotland was bearable, but less than pleasant, although I do have to say that despite its short comings as a comfortable trip, there were no snorers aboard. There was a man sitting behind me who smelled of smoke and who had such an awful cough I was certain he’d die in his seat. He didn’t.
We finally got to Edinburgh (ed-in-bur-ah) about 8am. It didn’t take us long to find our hotel—King James hotel. (Out of the coach station, down to South St. Andrews St., left on Prince Street, voila!) We had to pay extra for a three person room because we weren’t smart enough to only send two people inside to check our luggage, but it turned out for the better: we were able to go straight up to our room and take napes. Room 448 was spacious enough, had three beds (two pushed together to create a double bed), a clean bathroom with a shower, toilet, and shampoos and soaps that were refilled everyday (I stole several upon leaving), a flat-screen TV, a desk, a small table, an ice-bucket, a hair dryer, ironing board, and towels. Sort of an odd description of the room, but I wanted to give off the impression that I’m certain it’s the nicest hotel I’ll ever stay in without my parents for years.
Atop Arthur’s Seat: “We’re here—and we’ve come to the realization of absolute freedom. Four days—or three and a half. £40 for our coach to Edinburgh and back. £100 the King James hotel. £10 for Carmel flavored rice-cakes, Pringles, digestives, and Reeses peanut butter cups. Throwing rocks off of Arthur’s Seat atop Edinburgh? Priceless.
“But it’s beautiful. Edinburgh is beautiful. Churches, abbeys, the Royal Mile, the ocean, the cold breeze, and the absolute green.”
We walked back down the Royal Mile and came across the Edinburgh Museum (free admission), so we went inside. It was larger than we initially supposed so it took us over an hour: it had information about Edinburgh’s beginnings there nearly-current. It was a make-shift museum, with some legitimate artifacts, which was interesting because of how used we are to glorified display cases.
Still tired from getting only 4-5 hours of sleep that night, we went back to the museum and watched 21, then got ready to go out to a pub to get fish and chips. Despite Julene’s reluctance (she didn’t like the idea of going to a pub at night), Jackie and I refused to pass up the experience. We went to ‘The Tass’ for £6.50 fish and chips. It was good, the pub was low-key, and overall we enjoyed ourselves.
We came back to the hotel and watched Hands Across the Table, one of my favorite movies (with Fred MacMurray and Carole Lombard). Jackie and Julene enjoyed it.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
History & Culture 101 - Stonehenge, Stourhead and Bath
". . . Have you ever noticed that there are people who do things which are most indelicate, and yet at the same time--beautiful?" - A Room With a View E. M. Forster
I wish this post could just be written the way the day was felt. I hardly know how to begin, but I’ll try.
Stonehenge. I’m probably exaggerating when I say my Dad’s been making semi-random mentions and references to Stonehenge since I could comprehend, but that’s how I perceive it, and therefore that is my truth. Like puppies. (You pick your favorite.—Name that TV show.) I sent my Dad a postcard, that’s how great Stonehenge was. I actually licked a stamp, since they don’t believe in sticker-stamps in this country (almost as dumb as separate hot and cold faucets) and put it on a postcard and sent it. Hardship. But it was worth it, because I Was there and he was all I could think about.
You see, although I’ve wanted to see Stonehenge since I could remember, I needed no help to strangle that desire with doubt—I don’t think I really believed I’d ever get to see Stonehenge. And now that I have, that doubt is entirely irrelevant. I love irrelevating doubt. I think I may spend the rest of my life doing it.
I wasn’t disappointed at all. Although I wish I could have touched it and walked through it—to date it would have been the oldest thing I’ve touched (if I could’ve)—because I’m not sure I could have found anything older. (Does anyone else have that insatiable desire to touch old things? You don’t have to answer that question.) But I’m content merely having been there.
My professor, Dr. Paxman, has spoken to us a couple of times about internalizing the information we receive and the places we go. He mentioned that sometimes people go places merely to check it off their list of things to do before they die. Honestly—although I love lists—Stonehenge was and is far too important to merely check it off my list. It’s been checked, don’t get me wrong, but he asked us what type of pilgrimage we were doing—one for show, or one for spiritual and intellectual development. I guess I don’t know the answer to that. It’s that Stonehenge is so old. It’s that Stonehenge proves men haven’t changed one bit. Sure, God is the best architect there is, but men get pretty close. That’s not to say Stonehenge is the most beautiful building or monument I’ve ever seen, but that need to build, that need to say something is a human trait I’ve always admired.
There’s an interesting idea, because after Stonehenge we drove to Stourhead. (Those are the gardens filmed in the newer Pride and Prejudice when Darcy proposes to Elizabeth; incidentally, the little temple where he proposed was closed for cleaning and repairs. You told me, Lindsey, you told me.) I said that the whole idea of God being the best architect and yet men coming close was interesting because the plot of land bought by Henry Hore in 1717 was transfigured into an “idealized” garden to be more of an ‘artful wilderness.’ In other words, the whole area is meant to look untouched, while all the while it’s taken care of so that it looks perfect, with several vistas—those picture perfect spots.
Here’s a few examples.
It sounds a little awkward, maybe a little like you’re being tricked into appreciating nature—but once you’re there none of that matters. It’s beautiful. The colors are vibrant, the water looks clean, the little temples in the background are picturesque, and you realize that God must not mind getting a little help getting the gardening done—not when it can create something so beautiful.
Last on the agenda for the day was Bath. I never wanted to go to Bath because I never really considered it as a possibility, but when I was told we were going I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. Bath—Bath. Where aristocracy used to go to on vacation, where the Roman Baths are, where people used to come to get well again. They thought the sulfur water could cure them of anything. I spent almost all my time in Bath at the Roman Baths, and walking around a small shopping area. I tried Ben’s Cookies for the first time (best cookie I’ve ever had, I think—except when Chocolate Krinkles are made perfectly), and went into Bath Abbey.
I will look back on the Roman Baths as one of the most incredible things I’ve ever seen. I still have a hard time getting my head around it. The only naturally occurring hot springs in Britain are in Bath. The Romans came to Bath in 43 AD, defeating the Dobunni tribe for the land. They immediately built the Baths there to model the baths at home in Italy, and did an incredible job of it. Along with the baths, they built an entire courtyard, a temple, an altar for sacrifices, and a staircase to the sacred spring that even the Dobunni used for worship.
I tell you this, because of the doorstep into the Sacred Spring. That doorstep had been crossed for worship so many times, it was worn away into a crescent shape. It wasn’t a mere polishing of the stone from feet rubbing across it—it was several inches of stone worn away by a constant crossing of the threshold. For some reason it just demonstrates such dedication and devotion to faith and worship—even if the worship was for the wrong reasons or to the wrong God. If they believed it, that says enough. We should be proud for our temples’ doorsteps to be so worn away.
The Baths are still lined with lead, just as they were during Roman times. The pipes from the hot springs still run into the baths. They found gemstones and roman coins at the bottom of the baths, either lost or sacrificed. They found curses etched into lead sacrificed to the Sacred Springs—asking for the death of whoever stole a pair of gloves, for the blindness of whoever stole a hood. Reminds us of why the Roman Empire fell, doesn’t it? But if I really think on it, the Romans probably left more good in this world than bad; a lot of idealism, and beauty, and sincerity. I’d rather have that.
I wish this post could just be written the way the day was felt. I hardly know how to begin, but I’ll try.
Stonehenge. I’m probably exaggerating when I say my Dad’s been making semi-random mentions and references to Stonehenge since I could comprehend, but that’s how I perceive it, and therefore that is my truth. Like puppies. (You pick your favorite.—Name that TV show.) I sent my Dad a postcard, that’s how great Stonehenge was. I actually licked a stamp, since they don’t believe in sticker-stamps in this country (almost as dumb as separate hot and cold faucets) and put it on a postcard and sent it. Hardship. But it was worth it, because I Was there and he was all I could think about.
You see, although I’ve wanted to see Stonehenge since I could remember, I needed no help to strangle that desire with doubt—I don’t think I really believed I’d ever get to see Stonehenge. And now that I have, that doubt is entirely irrelevant. I love irrelevating doubt. I think I may spend the rest of my life doing it.
I wasn’t disappointed at all. Although I wish I could have touched it and walked through it—to date it would have been the oldest thing I’ve touched (if I could’ve)—because I’m not sure I could have found anything older. (Does anyone else have that insatiable desire to touch old things? You don’t have to answer that question.) But I’m content merely having been there.
My professor, Dr. Paxman, has spoken to us a couple of times about internalizing the information we receive and the places we go. He mentioned that sometimes people go places merely to check it off their list of things to do before they die. Honestly—although I love lists—Stonehenge was and is far too important to merely check it off my list. It’s been checked, don’t get me wrong, but he asked us what type of pilgrimage we were doing—one for show, or one for spiritual and intellectual development. I guess I don’t know the answer to that. It’s that Stonehenge is so old. It’s that Stonehenge proves men haven’t changed one bit. Sure, God is the best architect there is, but men get pretty close. That’s not to say Stonehenge is the most beautiful building or monument I’ve ever seen, but that need to build, that need to say something is a human trait I’ve always admired.
There’s an interesting idea, because after Stonehenge we drove to Stourhead. (Those are the gardens filmed in the newer Pride and Prejudice when Darcy proposes to Elizabeth; incidentally, the little temple where he proposed was closed for cleaning and repairs. You told me, Lindsey, you told me.) I said that the whole idea of God being the best architect and yet men coming close was interesting because the plot of land bought by Henry Hore in 1717 was transfigured into an “idealized” garden to be more of an ‘artful wilderness.’ In other words, the whole area is meant to look untouched, while all the while it’s taken care of so that it looks perfect, with several vistas—those picture perfect spots.
Here’s a few examples.
Last on the agenda for the day was Bath. I never wanted to go to Bath because I never really considered it as a possibility, but when I was told we were going I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. Bath—Bath. Where aristocracy used to go to on vacation, where the Roman Baths are, where people used to come to get well again. They thought the sulfur water could cure them of anything. I spent almost all my time in Bath at the Roman Baths, and walking around a small shopping area. I tried Ben’s Cookies for the first time (best cookie I’ve ever had, I think—except when Chocolate Krinkles are made perfectly), and went into Bath Abbey.
I will look back on the Roman Baths as one of the most incredible things I’ve ever seen. I still have a hard time getting my head around it. The only naturally occurring hot springs in Britain are in Bath. The Romans came to Bath in 43 AD, defeating the Dobunni tribe for the land. They immediately built the Baths there to model the baths at home in Italy, and did an incredible job of it. Along with the baths, they built an entire courtyard, a temple, an altar for sacrifices, and a staircase to the sacred spring that even the Dobunni used for worship.
I tell you this, because of the doorstep into the Sacred Spring. That doorstep had been crossed for worship so many times, it was worn away into a crescent shape. It wasn’t a mere polishing of the stone from feet rubbing across it—it was several inches of stone worn away by a constant crossing of the threshold. For some reason it just demonstrates such dedication and devotion to faith and worship—even if the worship was for the wrong reasons or to the wrong God. If they believed it, that says enough. We should be proud for our temples’ doorsteps to be so worn away.
The Baths are still lined with lead, just as they were during Roman times. The pipes from the hot springs still run into the baths. They found gemstones and roman coins at the bottom of the baths, either lost or sacrificed. They found curses etched into lead sacrificed to the Sacred Springs—asking for the death of whoever stole a pair of gloves, for the blindness of whoever stole a hood. Reminds us of why the Roman Empire fell, doesn’t it? But if I really think on it, the Romans probably left more good in this world than bad; a lot of idealism, and beauty, and sincerity. I’d rather have that.
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