In my own little world, I am declaring 2011 the Year of the Empress.
Every woman is Empress of her home, whether she lives alone, is a single mother, is a working wife or mother, or especially if she stays at home. As a daughter, and therefore an Empress-in-training it is my duty, nay, my joy, to cultivate those traits and habits which befit an Empress, that when my Emperor arrives to take me to our shared domain I may be well-equipped and well-prepared to assisst him in ruling.
Throughout this year I will be chronicling my own adventures in preparation for Empresshood, and will be posting them here for your entertainment, edification and amusement.
Stay tuned.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
My Gift is My Song
...And this one's for you.
I don't often write love songs, but even if I do, they're usually written to someone who doesn't know I'm writing them. Punctuated with all the sadness and frustration of unrequited love, which is an unkind and jealous master, they're not the hymns to joy most Top 20 love songs are made of.
But if I ever did write a love song to a love who loved me back...
I would want it to be like Your Song by Elton John.
Say what you will about the man, and his penchant for the overwrought ('Daniel' and 'Candle in the Wind' come to mind) Your Song is about as good as it gets.
It's sweet, honest and simple in an effective way, whereas most songs that try for that just sound like they came from a 13 year old's diary. The song's narrator is an uncomplicated man without a lot to offer or declare. He can't give the object of his love glamour or glitz or even a tangible work of art, all he has is a song.
And that's what I love most about Your Song. It's a love song about trying to write a perfect love song. Believe me, it's a difficult task. Sometimes you get so caught up in the mechanics of writing a song that you lose all the feeling, or get so caught up in the feeling you lose the mechanics of the song. And on top of that you have to deal with the fact that no matter how perfect you think it is, the person it's meant for may not like it at all.
I hope the object of Your Song loved it as much as I do. I can't imagine a better love song. I've even joked before that after it, there's really no reason to try writing another.
And so, if I ever do have the inclination to write a real love song, I want it to be like Your Song. Simple, honest, sweet, a labor of...well, love.
Because let's face it. I'm not one of those that can easily hide.
I don't often write love songs, but even if I do, they're usually written to someone who doesn't know I'm writing them. Punctuated with all the sadness and frustration of unrequited love, which is an unkind and jealous master, they're not the hymns to joy most Top 20 love songs are made of.
But if I ever did write a love song to a love who loved me back...
I would want it to be like Your Song by Elton John.
Say what you will about the man, and his penchant for the overwrought ('Daniel' and 'Candle in the Wind' come to mind) Your Song is about as good as it gets.
It's sweet, honest and simple in an effective way, whereas most songs that try for that just sound like they came from a 13 year old's diary. The song's narrator is an uncomplicated man without a lot to offer or declare. He can't give the object of his love glamour or glitz or even a tangible work of art, all he has is a song.
And that's what I love most about Your Song. It's a love song about trying to write a perfect love song. Believe me, it's a difficult task. Sometimes you get so caught up in the mechanics of writing a song that you lose all the feeling, or get so caught up in the feeling you lose the mechanics of the song. And on top of that you have to deal with the fact that no matter how perfect you think it is, the person it's meant for may not like it at all.
I hope the object of Your Song loved it as much as I do. I can't imagine a better love song. I've even joked before that after it, there's really no reason to try writing another.
And so, if I ever do have the inclination to write a real love song, I want it to be like Your Song. Simple, honest, sweet, a labor of...well, love.
Because let's face it. I'm not one of those that can easily hide.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Money
Money has always seemed like chocolate to me. The more you have, the more you want, and it's pretty darn awesome, but if you have too much things go south pretty fast.
Last night at the bookstore I thumbed through a book written about Consuelo Vanderbilt and her (yes, her, named for her Cuban godmother's surname) mother. When Consuelo's grandfather died, he had more money than most people even now can possibly fathom. And almost immediately following his death, his son and daughter-in-law started spending it. They were determined to skyrocket to the top of New York and Newport society, and the only way to do it was to outspend everyone around them.
It eventually led to Consuelo's arranged and loveless marriage to the Duke of Marlborough, Charles Spencer-Churchill-yes-that-Churchill, which has pretty much become emblematic of the void, socially-savvy marriages of the Gilded Age. It was said that on their wedding night, she told her husband she was in love with someone else, to which he responded, "So am I." The Duke treated her like dirt because, like most Old World nobles who married New World heiresses, he thought her to be very much beneath him, but was quite fond of her shiny new money. (Her dowry was close to $100 million by today's counts.)
Somewhere along the ropes of pearls, gown designs, and expensive trans-Atlantic crossings on huge boats they managed to also support women's suffrage, which I guess makes them...brave? Noble? I'm really not sure. I got a little bored. I'm not an enormous Gilded-Age fan, aside from the clothes and some of the furniture, and really only picked up the book because A, the cover was pretty and B, I've always been curious why her name was Consuelo instead of Consuela.
But I was rather struck by the undeniable truth of Consuelo's life; money does not make you happy.
And it got me thinking about my own views on money. I make jokes frequently about having a fabulous amount of it someday from my heartbreaking works of staggering genius, but really? I want a limited amount.
I'd like enough to buy land, and build a nice house on it. I'd REALLY like to buy enough land to build multiple houses with plenty of land around them, so that various family members, and, one day, offspring, can have lovely places to live and be near me. If I became ridiculously wealthy I'd probably build a big, English-style manor, complete with trick bookcases and secret rooms, and have a "house farm" a la Mount Vernon. I'd like to have enough to set up a homestead with some rare and heritage breeds, and enough to put back for me and mine that would assure we would never have to worry about anything.
There are gifts I'd like to buy, vacations I'd like to take, and friends whose futures I'd like to help stabilize. And, yes, there are parties I'd like to throw.
But the truth is, even if I never build an enormous Biltmore of a home...I firmly intend to have at least a little something just outside of town. And if all I ever keep are chickens, so be it. That's within my reach no matter. And even if I were insanely wealthy, you can bet your boots I'd want to be as off-grid as possible. I have few needs. Running water and indoor plumbing; hot water even if I have to carry it from a stove; and a room somewhere, and it could be a closet with a window unit, that I could go into during the heat of an Oklahoma summer and cool off. I think I admire my ancestors most of all for making it through a summer in this state without central air!
But all this ridiculousness, this obsession with things. My days of it mattering to me are not all that far behind me, I know. I still have several ridiculously pricey handbags from a time when the name on my purse, I thought, mattered a great deal. I blame McGuinness a lot, actually. There were more labels strolling those halls on an average Tuesday than some of the places I went in Vegas. I remember an email, once, that promised me I'd be the envy of all when I whipped out my super-rare $15 lip glaze that's only available in Japan, but that I can buy here for a limited time. I remember it mattering so much, so much to me if I could get this eyeshadow, or these shoes, or that purse. I even feel a little of it now, at college, when I drive my beat-up little Bug past some of these brand new BMWs that kids my own age and younger are driving.
I know people who have gotten so wrapped up in it as adults that it's sickening. People who spend themselves into pits of debt so that maybe, maybe people will think that they're one level above their real income bracket. I could go on and on. Most who know me are aware of my distaste for the Cult of Designer Junk and some of the highly popular films and TV shows that promote it. Heck, I was channel surfing the other day and came across a show so simply and honestly titled "Rich Women."
But I've had a couple of glimpses of the real world. A committee here, a training there, and particularly now where I attend Church. When I worked on Crystal Darkness, it was probably the first time I had ever been around a large number of people who had more important things to think about than that. PRSS training, too, was an amazing foray into a world wherein my experiences and what I had learned from them mattered far more than how expensive my clothes were.
And Church! I've been to Churches before where I acutely felt my own financial inadequacies. I've finally found one where people care far too much about why we're actually supposed to be there.
It's just hit me as I'm writing this that I used to dread Christmas. The time of year when people buy more, more, more has always made me focus on what I don't have. This year I'm noticing completely different things. And you know?
I like it much better.
Last night at the bookstore I thumbed through a book written about Consuelo Vanderbilt and her (yes, her, named for her Cuban godmother's surname) mother. When Consuelo's grandfather died, he had more money than most people even now can possibly fathom. And almost immediately following his death, his son and daughter-in-law started spending it. They were determined to skyrocket to the top of New York and Newport society, and the only way to do it was to outspend everyone around them.
It eventually led to Consuelo's arranged and loveless marriage to the Duke of Marlborough, Charles Spencer-Churchill-yes-that-Churchill, which has pretty much become emblematic of the void, socially-savvy marriages of the Gilded Age. It was said that on their wedding night, she told her husband she was in love with someone else, to which he responded, "So am I." The Duke treated her like dirt because, like most Old World nobles who married New World heiresses, he thought her to be very much beneath him, but was quite fond of her shiny new money. (Her dowry was close to $100 million by today's counts.)
Somewhere along the ropes of pearls, gown designs, and expensive trans-Atlantic crossings on huge boats they managed to also support women's suffrage, which I guess makes them...brave? Noble? I'm really not sure. I got a little bored. I'm not an enormous Gilded-Age fan, aside from the clothes and some of the furniture, and really only picked up the book because A, the cover was pretty and B, I've always been curious why her name was Consuelo instead of Consuela.
But I was rather struck by the undeniable truth of Consuelo's life; money does not make you happy.
And it got me thinking about my own views on money. I make jokes frequently about having a fabulous amount of it someday from my heartbreaking works of staggering genius, but really? I want a limited amount.
I'd like enough to buy land, and build a nice house on it. I'd REALLY like to buy enough land to build multiple houses with plenty of land around them, so that various family members, and, one day, offspring, can have lovely places to live and be near me. If I became ridiculously wealthy I'd probably build a big, English-style manor, complete with trick bookcases and secret rooms, and have a "house farm" a la Mount Vernon. I'd like to have enough to set up a homestead with some rare and heritage breeds, and enough to put back for me and mine that would assure we would never have to worry about anything.
There are gifts I'd like to buy, vacations I'd like to take, and friends whose futures I'd like to help stabilize. And, yes, there are parties I'd like to throw.
But the truth is, even if I never build an enormous Biltmore of a home...I firmly intend to have at least a little something just outside of town. And if all I ever keep are chickens, so be it. That's within my reach no matter. And even if I were insanely wealthy, you can bet your boots I'd want to be as off-grid as possible. I have few needs. Running water and indoor plumbing; hot water even if I have to carry it from a stove; and a room somewhere, and it could be a closet with a window unit, that I could go into during the heat of an Oklahoma summer and cool off. I think I admire my ancestors most of all for making it through a summer in this state without central air!
But all this ridiculousness, this obsession with things. My days of it mattering to me are not all that far behind me, I know. I still have several ridiculously pricey handbags from a time when the name on my purse, I thought, mattered a great deal. I blame McGuinness a lot, actually. There were more labels strolling those halls on an average Tuesday than some of the places I went in Vegas. I remember an email, once, that promised me I'd be the envy of all when I whipped out my super-rare $15 lip glaze that's only available in Japan, but that I can buy here for a limited time. I remember it mattering so much, so much to me if I could get this eyeshadow, or these shoes, or that purse. I even feel a little of it now, at college, when I drive my beat-up little Bug past some of these brand new BMWs that kids my own age and younger are driving.
I know people who have gotten so wrapped up in it as adults that it's sickening. People who spend themselves into pits of debt so that maybe, maybe people will think that they're one level above their real income bracket. I could go on and on. Most who know me are aware of my distaste for the Cult of Designer Junk and some of the highly popular films and TV shows that promote it. Heck, I was channel surfing the other day and came across a show so simply and honestly titled "Rich Women."
But I've had a couple of glimpses of the real world. A committee here, a training there, and particularly now where I attend Church. When I worked on Crystal Darkness, it was probably the first time I had ever been around a large number of people who had more important things to think about than that. PRSS training, too, was an amazing foray into a world wherein my experiences and what I had learned from them mattered far more than how expensive my clothes were.
And Church! I've been to Churches before where I acutely felt my own financial inadequacies. I've finally found one where people care far too much about why we're actually supposed to be there.
It's just hit me as I'm writing this that I used to dread Christmas. The time of year when people buy more, more, more has always made me focus on what I don't have. This year I'm noticing completely different things. And you know?
I like it much better.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Next time...*grumble*
I always try to follow the written recipe once.
Even when I KNOW the dry to wet ingredient ratio they have me using is NOT going to bode well.
Low and behold, a rather dry, crumbly cake plopped out of my pan in three pieces. I know this pan. A well-made cake falls perfectly out of it without a crumble missing.
So, it's in dire need of a good glazing to take the edge of the dry off. But flavor wise it's very nice, not ridiculously sweet and just rich enough. It'll still be good, it just won't be pretty.
Next time I'm just adding the concentrated Earl Grey to my usual, standby chocolate pound cake recipe.
Even when I KNOW the dry to wet ingredient ratio they have me using is NOT going to bode well.
Low and behold, a rather dry, crumbly cake plopped out of my pan in three pieces. I know this pan. A well-made cake falls perfectly out of it without a crumble missing.
So, it's in dire need of a good glazing to take the edge of the dry off. But flavor wise it's very nice, not ridiculously sweet and just rich enough. It'll still be good, it just won't be pretty.
Next time I'm just adding the concentrated Earl Grey to my usual, standby chocolate pound cake recipe.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Short: Out of Luck
(Per usual, names have been changed.)
Me: The only guy I spend any time around is Hat Guy.
Kitty: Oh. Huh. I guess you're out of luck, then.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
The Hard Part
Melodrama warning.
Everything worth anything has a hard part to it. A difficult component, something that must be overcome. I'm, unfortunately, hitting a lot of things at the hard part right now. In descending order of importance...
The most important one, as it's the one with the most far-reaching and grave implications, is my religion. Being a Traditional Catholic is...well, it's hard. People around you, unless they're also traditional Catholics, really don't understand it. It's so very counter-cultural, and by that I don't mean prepackaged ripped fishnets and safety pin earrings. I mean it is directly opposed to the culture in which I'm living, the culture of modern America. I really can't find solace amid most modern Catholics, either. Frankly I might as well appliqué a large, scarlet SSPX on all my blouses now and save the trouble of what usually happens.
Traditional Catholicism is a bloodless war, fought constantly, waking and sleeping. It's not something you can really do halfway. You must believe in it, and believe in it with all you are. Otherwise, it's not going to be worth it to go through what you will go through. And that's all I'm going to say about that.
There's also another thing that I really can't talk about. Not here, anyway. It's sort of a pervasive thing that hangs over a lot of what I do, and it...well, it stinks. I can't go into detail, which is frustrating. I feel a little like Odette in the Swan Princess; the worst part of my plight is I can't speak about it.
And on a related note, my pride is...well, it's pretty much limping along. The only reason I can really tell that I have any left is because it's hurting. But I've had plenty of it chipped away lately, from several different directions but one in particular. I'm starting to feel a little like a yo-yo or a court jester or something.
Also, I'm at a point in the outlining stage of my novel where I'm running a little dry. I know I need to set it aside and brainstorm for a few days, but I have two more days of formatting before I can do that. At this point I'm just chugging in through, making notes on top of each other and layering. It's magnificent to watch it all come together slowly, but it's also tedious. I have the most fickle, demanding, mercurial muse in the history of difficult muses.
And then of course I have finals next week, which seem to be most of my friends' chief concern. I myself have always been really good in a testing environment. That and the sheer amount of other stuff I have going on make finals seem a little less do-or-die than they have in the past.
And with a deep breath I offer them all up. My Nanny turned me on to the idea of having a "God Jar," where you place on paper the things that you wish to offer up, things that are bothering you and things that are filling you with worry. Beyond prayer, the physical act of placing my worry, on paper, in the jar (I use a teapot) is really good at reminding me that I did in fact place this in God's hands and He is in control of the situation. When it gets full, you're supposed to empty it out and burn the papers. I actually kind of like to look through them and see what worries have worked out alright.
So I've got quite a few strips of paper for my teapot tonight...
Everything worth anything has a hard part to it. A difficult component, something that must be overcome. I'm, unfortunately, hitting a lot of things at the hard part right now. In descending order of importance...
The most important one, as it's the one with the most far-reaching and grave implications, is my religion. Being a Traditional Catholic is...well, it's hard. People around you, unless they're also traditional Catholics, really don't understand it. It's so very counter-cultural, and by that I don't mean prepackaged ripped fishnets and safety pin earrings. I mean it is directly opposed to the culture in which I'm living, the culture of modern America. I really can't find solace amid most modern Catholics, either. Frankly I might as well appliqué a large, scarlet SSPX on all my blouses now and save the trouble of what usually happens.
Traditional Catholicism is a bloodless war, fought constantly, waking and sleeping. It's not something you can really do halfway. You must believe in it, and believe in it with all you are. Otherwise, it's not going to be worth it to go through what you will go through. And that's all I'm going to say about that.
There's also another thing that I really can't talk about. Not here, anyway. It's sort of a pervasive thing that hangs over a lot of what I do, and it...well, it stinks. I can't go into detail, which is frustrating. I feel a little like Odette in the Swan Princess; the worst part of my plight is I can't speak about it.
And on a related note, my pride is...well, it's pretty much limping along. The only reason I can really tell that I have any left is because it's hurting. But I've had plenty of it chipped away lately, from several different directions but one in particular. I'm starting to feel a little like a yo-yo or a court jester or something.
Also, I'm at a point in the outlining stage of my novel where I'm running a little dry. I know I need to set it aside and brainstorm for a few days, but I have two more days of formatting before I can do that. At this point I'm just chugging in through, making notes on top of each other and layering. It's magnificent to watch it all come together slowly, but it's also tedious. I have the most fickle, demanding, mercurial muse in the history of difficult muses.
And then of course I have finals next week, which seem to be most of my friends' chief concern. I myself have always been really good in a testing environment. That and the sheer amount of other stuff I have going on make finals seem a little less do-or-die than they have in the past.
And with a deep breath I offer them all up. My Nanny turned me on to the idea of having a "God Jar," where you place on paper the things that you wish to offer up, things that are bothering you and things that are filling you with worry. Beyond prayer, the physical act of placing my worry, on paper, in the jar (I use a teapot) is really good at reminding me that I did in fact place this in God's hands and He is in control of the situation. When it gets full, you're supposed to empty it out and burn the papers. I actually kind of like to look through them and see what worries have worked out alright.
So I've got quite a few strips of paper for my teapot tonight...
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Short: Groundhog Day
Background: I was having another conversation with Bourbon about one of the pervasive topics that's been permeating my thoughts as of late. She suggested a resolution to a problem that, quite frankly, has an exact 50/50 chance of being "A Huge Relief" or "Excruciatingly Humiliating."
Me: The thought of doing that makes me want to jump under my covers, hide, and not come out until Groundhog Day.
...And if I see my shadow, I'm going back in for six more weeks.
Bourbon: So emerge from your burrow at night.
Me: ...Touché.
Me: The thought of doing that makes me want to jump under my covers, hide, and not come out until Groundhog Day.
...And if I see my shadow, I'm going back in for six more weeks.
Bourbon: So emerge from your burrow at night.
Me: ...Touché.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Mercury Falling...
Winter comes. It does this every year, I know. It's done so exactly 20 times from the moment I was born.
But there's something different about this year, a subtle yet profound shift in thought which makes me all the more aware of the changes taking hold of the earth around me.
Trees once arrayed in fine gold are losing their splendour now, silhouetted against skies of ice-grey. Around me songs of winter romance and bright, glistening promises of cementing every relationship in my life with the purchase of some thing, any thing, swirl like fallen leaves in the biting wind. Though bright and beautiful, with no access to roots, they are nonetheless dead.
In winter, at least to me, the pain of loss must be so very acute. I don't yet know that pain, though it nips closer and closer at my heels each year. As of yet I only know the pain of separation...but it's more than enough for now. Perhaps it is more piercing this year because I have no way to drown it. Outside my own solemn thoughts cash registers clink and lights blink to mark this Exmuss season that occurs between Thanksgiving and December 25th.
But it is not Christmas yet. Counting today, four Sundays will pass between now and then.
Today the color is purple. Now is the time to make up my mind what I shall be in the coming year. Now is the time to divest myself of what I've done these two decades that has wrought ill. Now I and others wait, prepare, pray, allowing our joy to swell until it bursts.
And then it will be Christmas, and it will remain so for us long after the stores have cleared away the wire reindeer to prematurely put out the heart-shaped boxes of chocolate. (Which, if I recall correctly, is usually about December 27th.)
Though those who know me wouldn't believe for a second that I'm not busy ordering the last of my gifts, or making preparations for gingerbread and cookies and pies.
So have a blessed Advent, my friends, and may Christmas find you surrounded by all those you love.
But there's something different about this year, a subtle yet profound shift in thought which makes me all the more aware of the changes taking hold of the earth around me.
Trees once arrayed in fine gold are losing their splendour now, silhouetted against skies of ice-grey. Around me songs of winter romance and bright, glistening promises of cementing every relationship in my life with the purchase of some thing, any thing, swirl like fallen leaves in the biting wind. Though bright and beautiful, with no access to roots, they are nonetheless dead.
In winter, at least to me, the pain of loss must be so very acute. I don't yet know that pain, though it nips closer and closer at my heels each year. As of yet I only know the pain of separation...but it's more than enough for now. Perhaps it is more piercing this year because I have no way to drown it. Outside my own solemn thoughts cash registers clink and lights blink to mark this Exmuss season that occurs between Thanksgiving and December 25th.
But it is not Christmas yet. Counting today, four Sundays will pass between now and then.
Today the color is purple. Now is the time to make up my mind what I shall be in the coming year. Now is the time to divest myself of what I've done these two decades that has wrought ill. Now I and others wait, prepare, pray, allowing our joy to swell until it bursts.
And then it will be Christmas, and it will remain so for us long after the stores have cleared away the wire reindeer to prematurely put out the heart-shaped boxes of chocolate. (Which, if I recall correctly, is usually about December 27th.)
Though those who know me wouldn't believe for a second that I'm not busy ordering the last of my gifts, or making preparations for gingerbread and cookies and pies.
So have a blessed Advent, my friends, and may Christmas find you surrounded by all those you love.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
I Can Has Theologeez? Part 3
The lovely Everly Pleasant asked me about my Theological studies, and as it fills up a post's worth of space. she agreed to allow me to post it here! So...
Everly,
Currently, I'm making my way through the Bible as always. I'm jumping around a lot because it's rather slow going this time: I'm not only reading it in English, but also in the Latin Vulgate, the exhaustive and unparalleled work of St. Jerome which brought the Scriptures, up until that point written in several languages dependent upon who penned them and when, all together under one language.
I'm reading a book called My Catholic Faith as well, which is intended for middle schoolers, I believe, give or take a couple of years, but is really quite great. It's very simple and straightforward and lays down in no uncertain terms the tenants of the Faith. I appreciate it, since I never really got a complete education on the core points that make one Catholic rather than anything else.
I'm looking for a good translation of St. Thoma Aquinas' Summa Theologica, and in the meantime I've been reading the Confessions of St. Augustine. They're less theological, and more of a memoir, but it makes them approachable. St. Augustine knew better than most the healing power of Grace, and the staggering scope of God's mercy to the truly contrite, and that makes his writings especially touching.
On top of this, of course, layered the article I linked too a while back on the Theology and Spirituality of the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, Archbishop Marcel Lefebvre's Open Letter to Confused Catholics, aaaaand...
A fantastic little book called Where We Got the Bible by the Rev. Henry Grey Graham, the text of which can be found here; http://www.catholicapologetics.info/apologetics/protestantism/wbible.htm
Everybody who loves and reveres the Bible ought to read it. It's taken from a series of talks he gave to audiences of Catholics and Protestants, so it's very conversational, very quick, and at times quite witty. He is Scottish and preaches like a Scotsman, if that gives you any idea. It's more than a book about the Catholic Church's role in the creation of the Bible, it's a defense of the validity and applicability of Scripture itself. There are a few passages in there that ought to be in the arsenal of every advocate of home education, as well.
And there you have it! You know, there was a Methodist preacher in New England once named Jonathan Edwards who read so much he built himself a rotating, six sided table so that he could always have six books open at once...I may have to get something to that effect.
Everly,
Currently, I'm making my way through the Bible as always. I'm jumping around a lot because it's rather slow going this time: I'm not only reading it in English, but also in the Latin Vulgate, the exhaustive and unparalleled work of St. Jerome which brought the Scriptures, up until that point written in several languages dependent upon who penned them and when, all together under one language.
I'm reading a book called My Catholic Faith as well, which is intended for middle schoolers, I believe, give or take a couple of years, but is really quite great. It's very simple and straightforward and lays down in no uncertain terms the tenants of the Faith. I appreciate it, since I never really got a complete education on the core points that make one Catholic rather than anything else.
I'm looking for a good translation of St. Thoma Aquinas' Summa Theologica, and in the meantime I've been reading the Confessions of St. Augustine. They're less theological, and more of a memoir, but it makes them approachable. St. Augustine knew better than most the healing power of Grace, and the staggering scope of God's mercy to the truly contrite, and that makes his writings especially touching.
On top of this, of course, layered the article I linked too a while back on the Theology and Spirituality of the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, Archbishop Marcel Lefebvre's Open Letter to Confused Catholics, aaaaand...
A fantastic little book called Where We Got the Bible by the Rev. Henry Grey Graham, the text of which can be found here; http://www.catholicapologetics.info/apologetics/protestantism/wbible.htm
Everybody who loves and reveres the Bible ought to read it. It's taken from a series of talks he gave to audiences of Catholics and Protestants, so it's very conversational, very quick, and at times quite witty. He is Scottish and preaches like a Scotsman, if that gives you any idea. It's more than a book about the Catholic Church's role in the creation of the Bible, it's a defense of the validity and applicability of Scripture itself. There are a few passages in there that ought to be in the arsenal of every advocate of home education, as well.
And there you have it! You know, there was a Methodist preacher in New England once named Jonathan Edwards who read so much he built himself a rotating, six sided table so that he could always have six books open at once...I may have to get something to that effect.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Kicking the Habit
My name is L, and I was a Facebook gaming addict.
It was pretty bad. Not to the point of spending small fortunes on play money bad, but...close. We had suffered falling outs in the past, but I'd always come back to that little Flash fantasyland, where you can trick yourself via noise and color into thinking you've accomplished something other than spending time and in some cases money to collect arrangements of pixels to decorate your pixel menagerie.
Seriously, think about it. That's what Farmville, or Frontierville, or CafeWorld, or any of those games are. Pixels. You want to talk about investing in things you can't take with you? You close the tab and it's gone. That Maison you spent two weeks frantically hunting down enough climbing vines and slate tiles for? Doesn't exist. The beehive you have to check every two days or the bees with leave? It's fake. The "achievements" you've earned by doing certain things in a certain order in a crunched time frame? A stream of data waiting to be called up. And the limited edition item you plunked down real money for? You don't have room for it in your pixel menagerie, so I guess it's time to start harvesting pixels on an unforgiving schedule until you have enough game money to expand your pixel square.
It doesn't actually sound that fun, does it?
I know the purpose of things like this is to be an escape for harrowed Facebook users in this world, but really? I found them to be more trouble then they were worth. Heck, I was even carting around the official application on my phone so that I could harvest my fake blackberries while walking to class. I really couldn't stop.
And then? I went out of town for four days and had no Internet. I came home to withered *crops* (That I could un-wither for a small fee!) and overgrown land (That I could clear faster with more energy for a small fee!). It's all quite ingenious.
Except for the fact that this time, I didn't do it. Sure, I tried to pick my games back up once or twice, but it just wasn't worth it. I was going to spend ages trying to work back up to where I was, and then what? A bigger pixel square?
For some people, I understand, Farmville is no more than a few passing clicks in their day. But not for most of the "friends" I had, who would scour their Facebook feeds all day long to snatch up a choice item in the first ten seconds.
I'm also aware that for most people this is the closet they'll ever get to a cow or a stalk of wheat. And it's on this particular measure that I thank God it doesn't apply to me! In my own little twist of the inescapable fact that we are of dust, and to dust we will return, I am of the soil, and I plan to go back to it someday.
And with dead leaves to be dug into the raised bed, so that next spring I can harvest some actual vegetables?
I've got enough to do without worrying about un-withering fake tomatoes.
It was pretty bad. Not to the point of spending small fortunes on play money bad, but...close. We had suffered falling outs in the past, but I'd always come back to that little Flash fantasyland, where you can trick yourself via noise and color into thinking you've accomplished something other than spending time and in some cases money to collect arrangements of pixels to decorate your pixel menagerie.
Seriously, think about it. That's what Farmville, or Frontierville, or CafeWorld, or any of those games are. Pixels. You want to talk about investing in things you can't take with you? You close the tab and it's gone. That Maison you spent two weeks frantically hunting down enough climbing vines and slate tiles for? Doesn't exist. The beehive you have to check every two days or the bees with leave? It's fake. The "achievements" you've earned by doing certain things in a certain order in a crunched time frame? A stream of data waiting to be called up. And the limited edition item you plunked down real money for? You don't have room for it in your pixel menagerie, so I guess it's time to start harvesting pixels on an unforgiving schedule until you have enough game money to expand your pixel square.
It doesn't actually sound that fun, does it?
I know the purpose of things like this is to be an escape for harrowed Facebook users in this world, but really? I found them to be more trouble then they were worth. Heck, I was even carting around the official application on my phone so that I could harvest my fake blackberries while walking to class. I really couldn't stop.
And then? I went out of town for four days and had no Internet. I came home to withered *crops* (That I could un-wither for a small fee!) and overgrown land (That I could clear faster with more energy for a small fee!). It's all quite ingenious.
Except for the fact that this time, I didn't do it. Sure, I tried to pick my games back up once or twice, but it just wasn't worth it. I was going to spend ages trying to work back up to where I was, and then what? A bigger pixel square?
For some people, I understand, Farmville is no more than a few passing clicks in their day. But not for most of the "friends" I had, who would scour their Facebook feeds all day long to snatch up a choice item in the first ten seconds.
I'm also aware that for most people this is the closet they'll ever get to a cow or a stalk of wheat. And it's on this particular measure that I thank God it doesn't apply to me! In my own little twist of the inescapable fact that we are of dust, and to dust we will return, I am of the soil, and I plan to go back to it someday.
And with dead leaves to be dug into the raised bed, so that next spring I can harvest some actual vegetables?
I've got enough to do without worrying about un-withering fake tomatoes.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
I Can Has Theologeez? Part 2
So what is Theology?
Simply defined, it is the study of God and of God's relationship with the world. It can also mean the collected teachings of a particular Faith in God. Not surprisingly, there is good theology and bad theology, though depending on where you stand your opinion on what constitutes either may be different. I normally have three criteria that I use when assessing a work of theology;
1. It must be Truth. If it isn't truth, and therefore is wrong about the nature of God or any facts concerning Him, it's not really the study of God and as such cannot be called theology.
2. It must be challenging. If the unexamined life truly is not worth living then my study of God must inspire me to examine myself. Basically if it isn't telling me I could stand to change a thing or two about myself and could grow a little more from area to area, it's probably not worth reading.
3. I like a good, meaty theology. Something I can sink my teeth into. Something that'll fill me with ammo for those inevitable debates.
Following those three criteria, I can safely say that throughout my academic career I haven't ever studied Theology.
The chapel I attend was only recently affiliated with the SSPX. Before that, they were affiliated with the FSSP, and there are a lot of points of contempt between the two. Consequently I was a little confused as to why in the space of less than a year everyone I had met seemed to be really, fully on board with the SSPX's stances that differ with the FSSP, in some cases quite strongly. And then I got my handy-dandy "New to Tradition Kit" in the mail. Sure, I could see the obvious differences, and there was a way that I felt inside the nave of St. Michael's that I had never really felt before, but I still wasn't really, truly certain about why.
I'm trying to maintain some measure of seriousness here, but I really can't describe this any other way.
This, to a Catholic that has grown up in the Novus Ordo and is only just now learning about the differences between it and Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, is like being hit in the brain with a fully-loaded freight train full of Theology. My only issue with it, my only issue, is that it is printed on shiny paper which is not conducive to highlighters.
Every book and booklet I pull out of this box is the same way. I am hit, head-on, with doctrine beyond decay and above reproach. And in that I am confronted with my own errors, my own false ideas. And at once I'm filled with comfort and courage, aware that I may not have all the answers yet, but I know I'm not far from finding them.
I had a conversation with a young lady from Kansas City this afternoon about the way God works in our lives, and I began to realize the utterly providential events that led me to where I am now. I am at last where I was always meant to be. And it gives me hope. When I was a little girl, watching my Dad leave with an armful of clothes on hangers, still not fully understanding the implications of what was going on, I never, ever would've dreamed that it would somehow, someway, lead me to where I am now.
But I can't possibly deny that if that day had never happened, I wouldn't be here. Now, I have no clue where I am to go next...He laughs at every plan I make and steers me gently where I ought to be heading...but I do know that He knows exactly what he's doing. After all, look where I am now!
For the first time in two decades, I'm finally studying Theology!
Simply defined, it is the study of God and of God's relationship with the world. It can also mean the collected teachings of a particular Faith in God. Not surprisingly, there is good theology and bad theology, though depending on where you stand your opinion on what constitutes either may be different. I normally have three criteria that I use when assessing a work of theology;
1. It must be Truth. If it isn't truth, and therefore is wrong about the nature of God or any facts concerning Him, it's not really the study of God and as such cannot be called theology.
2. It must be challenging. If the unexamined life truly is not worth living then my study of God must inspire me to examine myself. Basically if it isn't telling me I could stand to change a thing or two about myself and could grow a little more from area to area, it's probably not worth reading.
3. I like a good, meaty theology. Something I can sink my teeth into. Something that'll fill me with ammo for those inevitable debates.
Following those three criteria, I can safely say that throughout my academic career I haven't ever studied Theology.
The chapel I attend was only recently affiliated with the SSPX. Before that, they were affiliated with the FSSP, and there are a lot of points of contempt between the two. Consequently I was a little confused as to why in the space of less than a year everyone I had met seemed to be really, fully on board with the SSPX's stances that differ with the FSSP, in some cases quite strongly. And then I got my handy-dandy "New to Tradition Kit" in the mail. Sure, I could see the obvious differences, and there was a way that I felt inside the nave of St. Michael's that I had never really felt before, but I still wasn't really, truly certain about why.
I'm trying to maintain some measure of seriousness here, but I really can't describe this any other way.
This, to a Catholic that has grown up in the Novus Ordo and is only just now learning about the differences between it and Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, is like being hit in the brain with a fully-loaded freight train full of Theology. My only issue with it, my only issue, is that it is printed on shiny paper which is not conducive to highlighters.
Every book and booklet I pull out of this box is the same way. I am hit, head-on, with doctrine beyond decay and above reproach. And in that I am confronted with my own errors, my own false ideas. And at once I'm filled with comfort and courage, aware that I may not have all the answers yet, but I know I'm not far from finding them.
I had a conversation with a young lady from Kansas City this afternoon about the way God works in our lives, and I began to realize the utterly providential events that led me to where I am now. I am at last where I was always meant to be. And it gives me hope. When I was a little girl, watching my Dad leave with an armful of clothes on hangers, still not fully understanding the implications of what was going on, I never, ever would've dreamed that it would somehow, someway, lead me to where I am now.
But I can't possibly deny that if that day had never happened, I wouldn't be here. Now, I have no clue where I am to go next...He laughs at every plan I make and steers me gently where I ought to be heading...but I do know that He knows exactly what he's doing. After all, look where I am now!
For the first time in two decades, I'm finally studying Theology!
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Short: Opposite Reactions
I arrived home with a new potato ricer last night, very pleased with myself for making said purchase and having at least five different uses for it in my head at the moment.
Me: Look! Isn't it cool?
Mom: What the heck is that?
Me: It's a potato ricer.
Mom: What does it do?
Me: Purees stuff. It was only 30 dollars.
Mom: *makes a face that I can only describe as bulging eyes and Disapproving Mom Mouth coupled with her Inflation-Still-Bothers-Me noise.*
Me: . . .
Mom: The idea is just...very foreign to me.
Five minutes later...
J: What's that?
Me: It's a potato ricer.
J: You know usually you have either potatoes or rice, but not both.
Me: Ha, ha.
J: What does it do?
Me: It forces boiled potato through at an angle, resulting in little fluffy rice-sized grains of potato...
J: ...So in other words it makes the best homemade mashed potatoes ever?
Me: Yes.
J: SCORE!
*High five*
Me: Look! Isn't it cool?
Mom: What the heck is that?
Me: It's a potato ricer.
Mom: What does it do?
Me: Purees stuff. It was only 30 dollars.
Mom: *makes a face that I can only describe as bulging eyes and Disapproving Mom Mouth coupled with her Inflation-Still-Bothers-Me noise.*
Me: . . .
Mom: The idea is just...very foreign to me.
Five minutes later...
J: What's that?
Me: It's a potato ricer.
J: You know usually you have either potatoes or rice, but not both.
Me: Ha, ha.
J: What does it do?
Me: It forces boiled potato through at an angle, resulting in little fluffy rice-sized grains of potato...
J: ...So in other words it makes the best homemade mashed potatoes ever?
Me: Yes.
J: SCORE!
*High five*
Monday, November 1, 2010
I Can Haz Theologeez? Part 1
Nobody seems to study Theology anymore.
There a select few things I remember from studying my faith in a Catholic school. Let's go by year, shall we?
Key: * No Catholic teacher, # Catholic teacher rotated religion and another class with my homeroom teacher because homeroom teacher was not Catholic.
*Salad Days: I went to Mass with Mom, usually on Saturday nights. Our Church was Saint Mary's, and we had a little statue of her which I used to sit and talk to outside. Years later I left her a rose on an Easter trip back. I remember thinking they were singing "You take away the cents of the world" and it made sense to me because we had just gone through the Offertory, after all. I would usually sit on the floor by Mom's feet until "The part where Father told jokes."
*K-2nd grades: Went to a "non denominational" Christian School. Excellent Curriculum, close-minded principal. And a lot of silly assumptions about things like peace signs and animals not having souls. Watched a lot of Veggie Tales.
*3rd grade: Get called "Mary Worshipper" in class. Get laughed at for making sign of the cross. Teacher tries desperately to help, being married to a Catholic man, and wants the class to learn more about Catholicism. Principal doesn't even bother to tell the kids teasing is bad. Mom angrily calls school board. Board chair is a limp noodle about the whole thing. Later learn through his business dealings with my Dad that he pretty much always is a limp noodle. We decided we had to move.
#4th grade: I arrived with no clue how to say about half the prayers in the Rosary. So I learned all of those. Didn't learn much else because whenever we took quizzes the teacher sort of rigged it. "Is the answer A, B, C, or D?" she'd read out loud. I do remember my homeroom teacher saying she thought the idea of Lent was stupid. That's pretty much it. Oh and I accidentally took Communion at the beginning of the year, and didn't have my actual First Communion until that Spring. I had my first taste of a feeling I've yet to encounter anything comparable to: the feeling of absolution. Received my only failing grade through grade, middle and high school: an essay on Stewardship in which I said I thought the idea of mandatory volunteer hours made no sense and that the Church sent way too many specialized collection envelopes home. Apparently God really, really wanted me to serve chili pies at turkey bingo.
#5th grade: I had really bad penmanship and consequently it took half of the year for the teacher to realize I was not, in fact, spelling Jesus "Gesus." I became an altar server and I remember no one ever wanted to be "Server 2" because that involved the most work. "Server 1" had to ring the bells. Ideally you'd be "Server 3," but not on a Sunday when they used the big, heavy procession cross. We watched a movie about Fatima. Discovered writing "JMJ" atop my math tests before taking them was not a valid substitute for understanding the concepts.
6th grade: A guy in my class didn't know how to pronounce "chaste." We went over abstinence and "girl/boy stuff" for the first time. I wrote a lot of letters to a lot of nuns. I wanted to be a cloistered Carmelite. Was in Children's Choir. Remembered really wishing we would have done "Praise to the Lord, the Almighty" instead of "People Worry About This and That" during the Archbishop's visit.
7th grade: We had to do a "Return to the Church" ad for a project and two of the guys did a song parody of "I Ran" by A Flock of Seagulls for theirs. Also at some point I was Napoleon in a skit about a persecuted French soldier. There was swordfighting with rulers. I did a 180 from the year before and couldn't care less about the Faith. Studied Church History, and instead of actually talking about the Inquisition in the context in which it took place the book spent a paragraph saying, "Oh, yeah, that. That...well...we were all on vacation. With the Sephardic Jews and Moors. In Palm Beach. They liked it so much they stayed." Received thurifer training. Did KEEP, which made me leery of drinking after people who had recently eaten Doritos owing to a demonstration about kissing we did. Though I firmly intended to save myself, I wasn't too fond of the "u guyz 4bst1n3nc3 iz roxxorz!" approach.
#8th grade: Ugh, what a year. Teacher had a remarkable gift for explaining things in the poorest, harshest and most inaccessible way possible. Learned more from the life and example and conversation from my History teacher that year than from all five years of Religion classes combined. Election year and the whole school acted like Bush had descended from heaven to save us from Planned Parenthood...which actually received a pay spike during his previous tenure. Whole school shut down the day Benedict XVI was elected. I remember watching the reveal on TV.
9th grade: Classes were now called "Theology" classes. I don't remember much about Theology being prevalent. I remember reading "The Seven Habits of Highly Effective Teens" and watching "What About Bob?" There was also a graphic and depressing presentation on abortion that really made me wish I hadn't taken the class in first hour.
10th grade: Left for correspondence courses. Discovered Ladies Against Feminism and wrote a few articles for them. Contemplated attending a traditional Catholic Mass with a friend of mine who went, but it never panned out.
*The rest of the time: Bouncing back and forth between being Catholic because that's what my family 'did,' the ever-popular 'agnostic' label, and Calvinist Protestant. Didn't have much of a clue one way or the other, but emerged knowing two things: 1. The world couldn't possibly be as old as this Biology book was telling me, and 2. I really didn't like pants.
To be Continued.
There a select few things I remember from studying my faith in a Catholic school. Let's go by year, shall we?
Key: * No Catholic teacher, # Catholic teacher rotated religion and another class with my homeroom teacher because homeroom teacher was not Catholic.
*Salad Days: I went to Mass with Mom, usually on Saturday nights. Our Church was Saint Mary's, and we had a little statue of her which I used to sit and talk to outside. Years later I left her a rose on an Easter trip back. I remember thinking they were singing "You take away the cents of the world" and it made sense to me because we had just gone through the Offertory, after all. I would usually sit on the floor by Mom's feet until "The part where Father told jokes."
*K-2nd grades: Went to a "non denominational" Christian School. Excellent Curriculum, close-minded principal. And a lot of silly assumptions about things like peace signs and animals not having souls. Watched a lot of Veggie Tales.
*3rd grade: Get called "Mary Worshipper" in class. Get laughed at for making sign of the cross. Teacher tries desperately to help, being married to a Catholic man, and wants the class to learn more about Catholicism. Principal doesn't even bother to tell the kids teasing is bad. Mom angrily calls school board. Board chair is a limp noodle about the whole thing. Later learn through his business dealings with my Dad that he pretty much always is a limp noodle. We decided we had to move.
#4th grade: I arrived with no clue how to say about half the prayers in the Rosary. So I learned all of those. Didn't learn much else because whenever we took quizzes the teacher sort of rigged it. "Is the answer A, B, C, or D?" she'd read out loud. I do remember my homeroom teacher saying she thought the idea of Lent was stupid. That's pretty much it. Oh and I accidentally took Communion at the beginning of the year, and didn't have my actual First Communion until that Spring. I had my first taste of a feeling I've yet to encounter anything comparable to: the feeling of absolution. Received my only failing grade through grade, middle and high school: an essay on Stewardship in which I said I thought the idea of mandatory volunteer hours made no sense and that the Church sent way too many specialized collection envelopes home. Apparently God really, really wanted me to serve chili pies at turkey bingo.
#5th grade: I had really bad penmanship and consequently it took half of the year for the teacher to realize I was not, in fact, spelling Jesus "Gesus." I became an altar server and I remember no one ever wanted to be "Server 2" because that involved the most work. "Server 1" had to ring the bells. Ideally you'd be "Server 3," but not on a Sunday when they used the big, heavy procession cross. We watched a movie about Fatima. Discovered writing "JMJ" atop my math tests before taking them was not a valid substitute for understanding the concepts.
6th grade: A guy in my class didn't know how to pronounce "chaste." We went over abstinence and "girl/boy stuff" for the first time. I wrote a lot of letters to a lot of nuns. I wanted to be a cloistered Carmelite. Was in Children's Choir. Remembered really wishing we would have done "Praise to the Lord, the Almighty" instead of "People Worry About This and That" during the Archbishop's visit.
7th grade: We had to do a "Return to the Church" ad for a project and two of the guys did a song parody of "I Ran" by A Flock of Seagulls for theirs. Also at some point I was Napoleon in a skit about a persecuted French soldier. There was swordfighting with rulers. I did a 180 from the year before and couldn't care less about the Faith. Studied Church History, and instead of actually talking about the Inquisition in the context in which it took place the book spent a paragraph saying, "Oh, yeah, that. That...well...we were all on vacation. With the Sephardic Jews and Moors. In Palm Beach. They liked it so much they stayed." Received thurifer training. Did KEEP, which made me leery of drinking after people who had recently eaten Doritos owing to a demonstration about kissing we did. Though I firmly intended to save myself, I wasn't too fond of the "u guyz 4bst1n3nc3 iz roxxorz!" approach.
#8th grade: Ugh, what a year. Teacher had a remarkable gift for explaining things in the poorest, harshest and most inaccessible way possible. Learned more from the life and example and conversation from my History teacher that year than from all five years of Religion classes combined. Election year and the whole school acted like Bush had descended from heaven to save us from Planned Parenthood...which actually received a pay spike during his previous tenure. Whole school shut down the day Benedict XVI was elected. I remember watching the reveal on TV.
9th grade: Classes were now called "Theology" classes. I don't remember much about Theology being prevalent. I remember reading "The Seven Habits of Highly Effective Teens" and watching "What About Bob?" There was also a graphic and depressing presentation on abortion that really made me wish I hadn't taken the class in first hour.
10th grade: Left for correspondence courses. Discovered Ladies Against Feminism and wrote a few articles for them. Contemplated attending a traditional Catholic Mass with a friend of mine who went, but it never panned out.
*The rest of the time: Bouncing back and forth between being Catholic because that's what my family 'did,' the ever-popular 'agnostic' label, and Calvinist Protestant. Didn't have much of a clue one way or the other, but emerged knowing two things: 1. The world couldn't possibly be as old as this Biology book was telling me, and 2. I really didn't like pants.
To be Continued.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Creepy By Design
And, my readers, since it's that time of year, I present to you a short list of six traditionally creepy creatures...and something I bet you didn't know about each one.
1. Crows and Ravens
Crows, Ravens, and other Corvids are the smartest birds on earth. Crows have been observed bending pieces of metal into fish hooks and fishing with them. They've also been seen placing hard-to-crack nuts in busy intersections during red lights and returning at the next red light to snatch up the nut after it's been run over by a car.
2. Spiders
If a spider is trapped without access to food, it can survive indefinitely, and even grow, by eating it's own silk, which is made up primarily of protein.
3. Rats
Rats are excellent mothers. You can leave the young of another rat, mouse, or almost any type of rodent with a recently pregnant rat and she'll clean, nurse, and defend them like her own.
4. Bats
Bats may be the reason your favorite vacation spot is so popular. Back before vaccinations and Deep Woods Off!, people living in the Southern United States would travel northward during the summer to escape the swarms of mosquitoes that thrived in the humidity. Without realizing it, they often went to places with very high bat populations, which kept mosquitoes under control.
5. Snakes
The venom of the Copperhead snake is currently being researched for its cancer-fighting properties; used and prepared correctly, it attacks cancerous cells while leaving the surrounding tissue unharmed.
6. Wolves
The hierarchy of a wolf pack is more sophisticated than some forms of human government.
1. Crows and Ravens
Crows, Ravens, and other Corvids are the smartest birds on earth. Crows have been observed bending pieces of metal into fish hooks and fishing with them. They've also been seen placing hard-to-crack nuts in busy intersections during red lights and returning at the next red light to snatch up the nut after it's been run over by a car.
2. Spiders
If a spider is trapped without access to food, it can survive indefinitely, and even grow, by eating it's own silk, which is made up primarily of protein.
3. Rats
Rats are excellent mothers. You can leave the young of another rat, mouse, or almost any type of rodent with a recently pregnant rat and she'll clean, nurse, and defend them like her own.
4. Bats
Bats may be the reason your favorite vacation spot is so popular. Back before vaccinations and Deep Woods Off!, people living in the Southern United States would travel northward during the summer to escape the swarms of mosquitoes that thrived in the humidity. Without realizing it, they often went to places with very high bat populations, which kept mosquitoes under control.
5. Snakes
The venom of the Copperhead snake is currently being researched for its cancer-fighting properties; used and prepared correctly, it attacks cancerous cells while leaving the surrounding tissue unharmed.
6. Wolves
The hierarchy of a wolf pack is more sophisticated than some forms of human government.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Celebrity
I'm not usually timid.
My first day on the Crystal Darkness Committee, during which I shared a table with the head of the Department of Mental Health, the head of the Bureau of Narcotics, and a former DA, I called out the Superintendent of OKC Schools for trying to use tactics fit for grade and middle school students to get high school students interested in the project. From the committee members from whom I did not win friendship, I won respect, and from the two I did not even win respect, I at least won the begrudging acknowledgement that I did in fact know what I was talking about.
In PRSS training I told a cultural competency instructor that her facts were wrong.
I've got a little chip on my hip, a hereditary sass passed down from my Nanny that once earned me the nickname "General Sassy." (And I have the commercially embroidered ballcap to prove it.)
But joining a new Church? *shiver* I can honestly say I really hadn't interacted with many people outside of superficial pleasantries until this past weekend. I'm always afraid I'll slip up in this most important of aspects of my life. What if I genuflect on the wrong knee? Can you genuflect on the wrong knee? What if I do this wrong, or that wrong? What if my skirt is a 1/32nd of an inch too short? What if my veil doesn't cover enough? WHAT IF I DON'T STICK MY TONGUE OUT FAR ENOUGH AND THE HOST FALLS OFF?????????
Yeah, I probably grew a grey hair in anticipation of my first few Sundays.
But the morning after my first choir practice? That was completely different.
I don't really think I was being treated all that differently. Sure, a number of people I hadn't formally met came up to tell me how well I had done...when I really only sang a few of the propers...but other than that, I think it was entirely due to a shift in my own mind. On the one hand, I was in the choir. A real choir. Not a children's choir. I suddenly felt accepted, as if I belonged. As if I was welcome truly, and not just tolerated because everyone was far too nice to say anything to me.
More importantly, I felt useful. Allow me to transport you, via the magic of pan flute, to my childhood.
It's the summer after we've moved to the city. I've started attending a performing arts camp that a few of my friends from school went to. It was the first time I'd really done any singing outside of into a hairbrush or shampoo bottle.
I very quickly figured out that mine was NOT the voice of a princess.
I did try valiantly, but when your competition is a slender, curly-haired blonde with a spinto soprano like a nightingale...Yeah. Eventually I got to the point where I preferred the comedic side roles to the princesses, anyway, but I still could never find any kind of vocal role where I fit.
There was a brief moment in eighth grade where I was highly necessary, as the only girl in seventh or eighth grade who could hit a low E, when we did the Carol of the Bells for the Christmas program, but when high school arrived, it was more of the same.
Now? I came knocking on the door of a chapel with a choir recovering from a greatly reduced congregation, with a desire to build itself back up to polyphonic proportions, and only one alto. Many people's first or second questions upon meeting me, actually, were "Do you sing?" and "What's your range?" Every time I said alto it was like I had revealed myself capable of spinning straw into gold.
I feel like I have something to offer back now. In return for all that this little chapel and its people have given me. I feel like I have something figured out for the first time in ages; what I believe. It feels more liberating and freeing than anything I've tried before under the pretext of "liberation" has felt.
And most of all, and I nearly wept when I came to realize this, I feel like I used to feel as a little child when I was in Church; enveloped by cloaks of red and of light blue. In the arms of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, and of the Blessed Mother.
And I'm so, so grateful to God that I have something useful to give back.
My first day on the Crystal Darkness Committee, during which I shared a table with the head of the Department of Mental Health, the head of the Bureau of Narcotics, and a former DA, I called out the Superintendent of OKC Schools for trying to use tactics fit for grade and middle school students to get high school students interested in the project. From the committee members from whom I did not win friendship, I won respect, and from the two I did not even win respect, I at least won the begrudging acknowledgement that I did in fact know what I was talking about.
In PRSS training I told a cultural competency instructor that her facts were wrong.
I've got a little chip on my hip, a hereditary sass passed down from my Nanny that once earned me the nickname "General Sassy." (And I have the commercially embroidered ballcap to prove it.)
But joining a new Church? *shiver* I can honestly say I really hadn't interacted with many people outside of superficial pleasantries until this past weekend. I'm always afraid I'll slip up in this most important of aspects of my life. What if I genuflect on the wrong knee? Can you genuflect on the wrong knee? What if I do this wrong, or that wrong? What if my skirt is a 1/32nd of an inch too short? What if my veil doesn't cover enough? WHAT IF I DON'T STICK MY TONGUE OUT FAR ENOUGH AND THE HOST FALLS OFF?????????
Yeah, I probably grew a grey hair in anticipation of my first few Sundays.
But the morning after my first choir practice? That was completely different.
I don't really think I was being treated all that differently. Sure, a number of people I hadn't formally met came up to tell me how well I had done...when I really only sang a few of the propers...but other than that, I think it was entirely due to a shift in my own mind. On the one hand, I was in the choir. A real choir. Not a children's choir. I suddenly felt accepted, as if I belonged. As if I was welcome truly, and not just tolerated because everyone was far too nice to say anything to me.
More importantly, I felt useful. Allow me to transport you, via the magic of pan flute, to my childhood.
It's the summer after we've moved to the city. I've started attending a performing arts camp that a few of my friends from school went to. It was the first time I'd really done any singing outside of into a hairbrush or shampoo bottle.
I very quickly figured out that mine was NOT the voice of a princess.
I did try valiantly, but when your competition is a slender, curly-haired blonde with a spinto soprano like a nightingale...Yeah. Eventually I got to the point where I preferred the comedic side roles to the princesses, anyway, but I still could never find any kind of vocal role where I fit.
There was a brief moment in eighth grade where I was highly necessary, as the only girl in seventh or eighth grade who could hit a low E, when we did the Carol of the Bells for the Christmas program, but when high school arrived, it was more of the same.
Now? I came knocking on the door of a chapel with a choir recovering from a greatly reduced congregation, with a desire to build itself back up to polyphonic proportions, and only one alto. Many people's first or second questions upon meeting me, actually, were "Do you sing?" and "What's your range?" Every time I said alto it was like I had revealed myself capable of spinning straw into gold.
I feel like I have something to offer back now. In return for all that this little chapel and its people have given me. I feel like I have something figured out for the first time in ages; what I believe. It feels more liberating and freeing than anything I've tried before under the pretext of "liberation" has felt.
And most of all, and I nearly wept when I came to realize this, I feel like I used to feel as a little child when I was in Church; enveloped by cloaks of red and of light blue. In the arms of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, and of the Blessed Mother.
And I'm so, so grateful to God that I have something useful to give back.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Sacris Solemnis
It was my first day in the choir loft Sunday.
I had made a point over the past few weeks to try and absorb a few of the responses I knew were the same week after week, and as such I could jump into the Kyrie without rehearsing it. Fortunately for a newcomer like myself, even though the propers for the time of year are always the same tune, they have different words, and as such were rehearsed Saturday night.
We also rehearsed a little polyphony, but not enough for me to be able to pick up on it. This afforded me a rather special opportunity during the Offertory.
There I was, standing in the middle of a swirl of earth-shatteringly beautiful voices, male and female, building in harmony for so beautiful a purpose. My eyes wandered down over the railing, where the priest stood, censing the altar. The smoke billowed up in clouds around the crucifix, and immediately I was glad I wasn't singing.
If I had been, I'm pretty sure I would've choked on the note.
Surrounded by beauty and solemnity, simplicity and reverence, I had to fight the urge to weep. I shouldn't be so surprised. After all, it's human nature to be wrong. To be foolish. To forsake true beauty for something less.
But I just don't understand it.
I've been blessed to see the difference between a High and a Low Mass, and it's given me a whole new understanding of the Sacrifice. Mass can be done without music. It can be done without pomp, and circumstance. In truly desperate times, as in the case of Father Maximilian Kolbe, unleavened bread and a bit of wine will suffice. Everything else, everything that Catholics are always so maligned for, the so-called excesses, the Traditions, the necessities, they're all an expression of love.
From the craftsman who fashioned the gilt vessels, to the composers who wrote the sacred music, the priest who turned his back on the world to follow where God led him...it's all done out of love. Out of a deep, unquenchable desire to give God our very best, to surround Him with things worthy of Him. Love and the greatest respect are what have driven generation after generation to pass down the priesthood, the prayers, the sacraments and the physical representations of them.
And in a space of time that amounted to no more than a blink on the pages of history, we were all too willing to give it all up.
I'm liable to go on a ten page tangent if I don't stop now, so I will. I've never been too good with endings.
I'm just at a loss to know why.
I had made a point over the past few weeks to try and absorb a few of the responses I knew were the same week after week, and as such I could jump into the Kyrie without rehearsing it. Fortunately for a newcomer like myself, even though the propers for the time of year are always the same tune, they have different words, and as such were rehearsed Saturday night.
We also rehearsed a little polyphony, but not enough for me to be able to pick up on it. This afforded me a rather special opportunity during the Offertory.
There I was, standing in the middle of a swirl of earth-shatteringly beautiful voices, male and female, building in harmony for so beautiful a purpose. My eyes wandered down over the railing, where the priest stood, censing the altar. The smoke billowed up in clouds around the crucifix, and immediately I was glad I wasn't singing.
If I had been, I'm pretty sure I would've choked on the note.
Surrounded by beauty and solemnity, simplicity and reverence, I had to fight the urge to weep. I shouldn't be so surprised. After all, it's human nature to be wrong. To be foolish. To forsake true beauty for something less.
But I just don't understand it.
I've been blessed to see the difference between a High and a Low Mass, and it's given me a whole new understanding of the Sacrifice. Mass can be done without music. It can be done without pomp, and circumstance. In truly desperate times, as in the case of Father Maximilian Kolbe, unleavened bread and a bit of wine will suffice. Everything else, everything that Catholics are always so maligned for, the so-called excesses, the Traditions, the necessities, they're all an expression of love.
From the craftsman who fashioned the gilt vessels, to the composers who wrote the sacred music, the priest who turned his back on the world to follow where God led him...it's all done out of love. Out of a deep, unquenchable desire to give God our very best, to surround Him with things worthy of Him. Love and the greatest respect are what have driven generation after generation to pass down the priesthood, the prayers, the sacraments and the physical representations of them.
And in a space of time that amounted to no more than a blink on the pages of history, we were all too willing to give it all up.
I'm liable to go on a ten page tangent if I don't stop now, so I will. I've never been too good with endings.
I'm just at a loss to know why.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Want V. Need
Let's get something straight here. I don't need anything.
I have a house, a car, a family, and seriously in the event of disaster enough food to get us all by. Sure we might be eating box mashed potatoes and canned spinach for a while, but we'd still be eating.
However, there are a number of things that I really, really, REALLY want.
For instance, I'd like to be able to just up and buy my friends and family stuff they want but can't really justify spending money on. Like a birdseed pail, or a $500 sword, or a Mustang Shelby.
And then there are the things I'd like for myself. Right now the list is pretty long. And it wasn't too bad, but then J got this catalog in today and I suddenly realized that I really would like an ankle length hostess skirt and sash in Leatherneck or Cornish National tartan. And a brown bustle skirt to match my black one. And a cloche baker, and if I could find one, an oblong cloche baker...a potato ricer, an immersion blender, a copy of "Large Family Logistics," a nice pair of cufflinks, a pile of fabric, a new Rosary, everything Storey Publishing's ever put out, heirloom seeds, soil conditioners, two beehives, a beekeeping outfit that doesn't make me look like a man or a SciFi villain...and as long as we're on a tangent how about a couple dozen acres of well-drained land, zoned agricultural, with a natural spring?
To be fair, I have a ridiculous amount of personal spending money. But with it comes responsibilities. For instance, usually if I want to cook something out of the ordinary I've got to pay for the ingredients myself. And I do buy my own gas. Other than that, occasional eating out, but that's it. However, in November and December I find myself needing to buy presents for people, and the number of people I have to buy for can sometimes be overwhelming. And then you have instances where you meet someone and you think "Oh, wow, I have the best Christmas gift idea for them," but it really would've been a lot easier if you had met them in, say, March and not August so that you could've had more time...Whoops, rambling again.
Anyway, the point is...we get really wrapped up in things we think we need. It's easy for me to think "I need more modest clothes." But do I really? Maybe I could do laundry more often, or get a few camisoles to wear under some things?
And I may think to myself that I need a cloche baker. But truly, out of all the things my oven tends to mess up, it does bread really, really well. Just a few weeks ago I tried out a brand new recipe for a part flour part cornmeal loaf that came out remarkable, crisp on the outside, delicate and moist in the inside, with no addition of steam on my part.
Food. Shelter. And someone to lean on, even if all we have to lean on is God. Our basic needs are so much less complicated then we're often led to believe.
I have a house, a car, a family, and seriously in the event of disaster enough food to get us all by. Sure we might be eating box mashed potatoes and canned spinach for a while, but we'd still be eating.
However, there are a number of things that I really, really, REALLY want.
For instance, I'd like to be able to just up and buy my friends and family stuff they want but can't really justify spending money on. Like a birdseed pail, or a $500 sword, or a Mustang Shelby.
And then there are the things I'd like for myself. Right now the list is pretty long. And it wasn't too bad, but then J got this catalog in today and I suddenly realized that I really would like an ankle length hostess skirt and sash in Leatherneck or Cornish National tartan. And a brown bustle skirt to match my black one. And a cloche baker, and if I could find one, an oblong cloche baker...a potato ricer, an immersion blender, a copy of "Large Family Logistics," a nice pair of cufflinks, a pile of fabric, a new Rosary, everything Storey Publishing's ever put out, heirloom seeds, soil conditioners, two beehives, a beekeeping outfit that doesn't make me look like a man or a SciFi villain...and as long as we're on a tangent how about a couple dozen acres of well-drained land, zoned agricultural, with a natural spring?
To be fair, I have a ridiculous amount of personal spending money. But with it comes responsibilities. For instance, usually if I want to cook something out of the ordinary I've got to pay for the ingredients myself. And I do buy my own gas. Other than that, occasional eating out, but that's it. However, in November and December I find myself needing to buy presents for people, and the number of people I have to buy for can sometimes be overwhelming. And then you have instances where you meet someone and you think "Oh, wow, I have the best Christmas gift idea for them," but it really would've been a lot easier if you had met them in, say, March and not August so that you could've had more time...Whoops, rambling again.
Anyway, the point is...we get really wrapped up in things we think we need. It's easy for me to think "I need more modest clothes." But do I really? Maybe I could do laundry more often, or get a few camisoles to wear under some things?
And I may think to myself that I need a cloche baker. But truly, out of all the things my oven tends to mess up, it does bread really, really well. Just a few weeks ago I tried out a brand new recipe for a part flour part cornmeal loaf that came out remarkable, crisp on the outside, delicate and moist in the inside, with no addition of steam on my part.
Food. Shelter. And someone to lean on, even if all we have to lean on is God. Our basic needs are so much less complicated then we're often led to believe.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
The Seven Degrees of Sharing
(This is sort of a cross between a serious and a fun post, because while it's a little soul-searching, it's pretty humorous as well.)
Every time I decide I'm going to share something I've created, be it visual, musical, or just something I've written, there's a seven-step process I go through before bringing myself to sharing it with anyone.
Step 1: Create said thing. Usually it's the first ten pages of a novel, or a book-jacket style blurb, though occasionally it is a Youtube video, and, on even rarer occasion, it is a song. For example, a while back I wrote a song on the guitar called "Too Good For Me" that I'm seriously considering trying to sell.
Step 2: I mention my creation, thinking that it will be ignored like most of my status updates. At this point I am usually proven wrong, as I was Friday, when Gwen commented on said status and asked if I'd play it for her. This brings me to
Step 3: Contemplation. It's at this point that I narrow my eyes and tilt my head at my computer screen to assess whether or not I'm really comfortable sharing what I view to be a poor attempt at creativity with someone whose opinion I value. Eventually my vanity wins, and I proceed to
Step 4: The Sure! I'll play you my song/read you my novel/hang my deepest inner thoughts up as target paper in the gun range of your constructive criticism! stage. At this point I haven't really thought through what sharing actually entails. But it never fails, sometime later, like when I'm about to say my bedtime Rosary, it hits me.
Step 5: Abject Panic. This particular case hit me a little hard. I've only written one other song with the same amount of emotion as "Too Good for Me," and since it was written much, much farther in my past than TGFM, it doesn't feel as raw, or fresh, or scary to share. It also occurred to me last night that TGFM is ABOUT a MAN. That set of a fresh wave of AHHH!!!!! on top of my usual nerves.
Step 6: This is the stage where I decide something to the effect of, "Well, in the long run, it'll probably be a lot less embarrassing to play the song for a gal pal than when Judgement comes and said MAN the song is ABOUT becomes aware that at the age of 19 I wrote a song about him." This is the, "Oh, why not?" stage where I jump in and despite the jitters, decide to share my work anyway. However, I often teeter between stages 4-6 until I at last reach
Step 7: Another human reads/hears/sees what I've made. Have not yet reached this stage. Bourbon's heard part of the song, but not the whole finished kit and kaboodle. It's high time to share, I suppose, so...Bourbon, Gwen, I'll be pulling my guitar out soon!
Every time I decide I'm going to share something I've created, be it visual, musical, or just something I've written, there's a seven-step process I go through before bringing myself to sharing it with anyone.
Step 1: Create said thing. Usually it's the first ten pages of a novel, or a book-jacket style blurb, though occasionally it is a Youtube video, and, on even rarer occasion, it is a song. For example, a while back I wrote a song on the guitar called "Too Good For Me" that I'm seriously considering trying to sell.
Step 2: I mention my creation, thinking that it will be ignored like most of my status updates. At this point I am usually proven wrong, as I was Friday, when Gwen commented on said status and asked if I'd play it for her. This brings me to
Step 3: Contemplation. It's at this point that I narrow my eyes and tilt my head at my computer screen to assess whether or not I'm really comfortable sharing what I view to be a poor attempt at creativity with someone whose opinion I value. Eventually my vanity wins, and I proceed to
Step 4: The Sure! I'll play you my song/read you my novel/hang my deepest inner thoughts up as target paper in the gun range of your constructive criticism! stage. At this point I haven't really thought through what sharing actually entails. But it never fails, sometime later, like when I'm about to say my bedtime Rosary, it hits me.
Step 5: Abject Panic. This particular case hit me a little hard. I've only written one other song with the same amount of emotion as "Too Good for Me," and since it was written much, much farther in my past than TGFM, it doesn't feel as raw, or fresh, or scary to share. It also occurred to me last night that TGFM is ABOUT a MAN. That set of a fresh wave of AHHH!!!!! on top of my usual nerves.
Step 6: This is the stage where I decide something to the effect of, "Well, in the long run, it'll probably be a lot less embarrassing to play the song for a gal pal than when Judgement comes and said MAN the song is ABOUT becomes aware that at the age of 19 I wrote a song about him." This is the, "Oh, why not?" stage where I jump in and despite the jitters, decide to share my work anyway. However, I often teeter between stages 4-6 until I at last reach
Step 7: Another human reads/hears/sees what I've made. Have not yet reached this stage. Bourbon's heard part of the song, but not the whole finished kit and kaboodle. It's high time to share, I suppose, so...Bourbon, Gwen, I'll be pulling my guitar out soon!
Friday, October 15, 2010
The Obligatory Introductory Post
Honestly I think the reason I've held off on starting this blog, even though I created it a month ago, is that I never know where to begin.
This isn't my first foray into the Blogosphere, but it's definitely the first I've ever brought to the attention of my Facebook gaggle. In the past, I've started at least, oh...probably ten, just because I like playing around with themes and the like. I've only had one, however, that I updated regularly.
Anyway, I'm beginning this one now, for several reasons.
Number one: I've got a lot going on in my life right now, and journaling is a good way to process.
Number two: Like all ladies with a penchant for performing, I love feedback. Plus, I have a good number of friends and relatives scattered around that I can't exactly share a private diary with.
And, number three: The handful of truly good friends and confidants I have in the general area are getting tired of my ramblings, which are often a lot like clicking from page to page on Wikipedia. This is both an outlet for my thoughts and an exercise in self-mastery, and I hope it will help me become better able to formulate my thoughts.
At this point, I'm keeping personal identification to a minimum. I've never been afraid of the Big Scary Internet, and the people who may lurk on it. But I do believe in being prudent, and as such, until I get comfortable in these waters, I will be going by L and Miss L, and I'm likely to refer to people by their initials. That being said, if you have a pseudonym you'd like to go by, feel free to let me know. :) I'll probably eventually create a "Directory" post of sorts, denoting where everyone fits in the widespread web that is my extended family.
Hmm, introduction, introduction...ah, yes. A brief autobiography, slightly more detailed than my "About Me"
Mom spent her childhood travelling around, and Dad was always a country boy, even though they met in the city. Eventually they moved out to where he had been raised, where the extended family ventures ran the gamut from beef cattle and hogs to angora goats to alfalfa hay. By the time I was four years old a combination of things led to the end of the marriage and the beginning of a number years where it was just Mom and myself in the house. During this time I remained very close to my Dad and his mom, my Nanny, and we saw each other more than once a week. I also made some long journeys to visit Mimi and Pops, Mom's parents, and my pretty substantial number of aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins, great aunts and uncles, and people several times removed. We've all had crazy adventures of our own and I love them all.
Mom remarried when I was seven, and after a few rocky years, Mom, J and I managed to form a cohesive and loving family unit. I feel so, so blessed that instead of just two amazing, loving, supportive and quirky parents, I've got three! Not to paint an illusion of perfection; there are always rapids in the river. But life's not about everything being easy...
We moved to Oklahoma City in the middle of my fourth grade year, and frankly I'm only just now getting a handle on how much that shook me up. But so much good has come out of it, and I've met so many amazing people. I feel I've got the best of both worlds, growing up in the country and the city, and coming from long lines of fascinating, loving, tough-as-nails ancestors.
Right now I'm going to college, and my day to day world is filled with recopying notes, studying for tests, trying to fit in everyone I care about, and riding the waves of my thrice-a-week Unofficial Lunch Club (consisting of my best friend, alias Bourbon Bordeaux, and a mysterious individual known only as Hat Guy), which needs a snazzier name and sometimes has trouble reaching a smooth consensus, or even agreeing to disagree.
As for the Marie Antoinette references? I've always really identified her. On the surface, who wouldn't want to be Queen? Beautiful gowns, fabulous food, and everything done for you before you even anticipate it. Several years ago when the Sofia Coppola movie came out, I made a point to pick up Antonia Fraser's biography of the queen before every single one in town was emblazoned with Kirsten Dunst's face. I found a truly easy to relate to person, essentially just a girl trapped by her high birth in a situation she had to make the best of, and with duties she was bound to. As time went on, she longed for simplicity, and so had her village, "Le Hameau de la Reine," built for her and her closest friends.
And while they would dress up as shepherdesses and feed lambs, milking cows with porcelain "buckets" and staying in rich mansions designed to look like cottages, it wasn't all about excess and escapism. Those who worked at and kept Le Hameau were poor and destitute families given another shot at life. Neither Louis nor Marie wanted their children to grow up with no idea what the real world outside Versailles was like; they would, so they thought, rule all of France someday, after all. Research in agriculture was conducted, and French craftsmen were supported. If I were a Queen, I would definitely want a similar project.
And with my plans to revamp our garden, keep bees, and purchase a couple of Heritage/endangered geese in the suburbs of a big city, I kind of like to think I'm building my own little Hameau.
Now, on to the mechanics. I'm going to try to update it twice a week, once with something serious on the weekend, and once with something fun during the week. This may or may not pan out. But, I spend too much time online as it is, and if I'm going to be online, I might as well do something that at least seems productive, right? So this is this week's Serious Post. Hehe.
Oh, I almost forgot. Three members of my family that I haven't introduced yet...Teddy Bear the Havanese, Baron the German Shepherd, and Tigger the enormous tabby cat. They find their way into most of the pictures I take around here, so I'll point them out as they make appearances.
~L
This isn't my first foray into the Blogosphere, but it's definitely the first I've ever brought to the attention of my Facebook gaggle. In the past, I've started at least, oh...probably ten, just because I like playing around with themes and the like. I've only had one, however, that I updated regularly.
Anyway, I'm beginning this one now, for several reasons.
Number one: I've got a lot going on in my life right now, and journaling is a good way to process.
Number two: Like all ladies with a penchant for performing, I love feedback. Plus, I have a good number of friends and relatives scattered around that I can't exactly share a private diary with.
And, number three: The handful of truly good friends and confidants I have in the general area are getting tired of my ramblings, which are often a lot like clicking from page to page on Wikipedia. This is both an outlet for my thoughts and an exercise in self-mastery, and I hope it will help me become better able to formulate my thoughts.
At this point, I'm keeping personal identification to a minimum. I've never been afraid of the Big Scary Internet, and the people who may lurk on it. But I do believe in being prudent, and as such, until I get comfortable in these waters, I will be going by L and Miss L, and I'm likely to refer to people by their initials. That being said, if you have a pseudonym you'd like to go by, feel free to let me know. :) I'll probably eventually create a "Directory" post of sorts, denoting where everyone fits in the widespread web that is my extended family.
Hmm, introduction, introduction...ah, yes. A brief autobiography, slightly more detailed than my "About Me"
Mom spent her childhood travelling around, and Dad was always a country boy, even though they met in the city. Eventually they moved out to where he had been raised, where the extended family ventures ran the gamut from beef cattle and hogs to angora goats to alfalfa hay. By the time I was four years old a combination of things led to the end of the marriage and the beginning of a number years where it was just Mom and myself in the house. During this time I remained very close to my Dad and his mom, my Nanny, and we saw each other more than once a week. I also made some long journeys to visit Mimi and Pops, Mom's parents, and my pretty substantial number of aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins, great aunts and uncles, and people several times removed. We've all had crazy adventures of our own and I love them all.
Mom remarried when I was seven, and after a few rocky years, Mom, J and I managed to form a cohesive and loving family unit. I feel so, so blessed that instead of just two amazing, loving, supportive and quirky parents, I've got three! Not to paint an illusion of perfection; there are always rapids in the river. But life's not about everything being easy...
We moved to Oklahoma City in the middle of my fourth grade year, and frankly I'm only just now getting a handle on how much that shook me up. But so much good has come out of it, and I've met so many amazing people. I feel I've got the best of both worlds, growing up in the country and the city, and coming from long lines of fascinating, loving, tough-as-nails ancestors.
Right now I'm going to college, and my day to day world is filled with recopying notes, studying for tests, trying to fit in everyone I care about, and riding the waves of my thrice-a-week Unofficial Lunch Club (consisting of my best friend, alias Bourbon Bordeaux, and a mysterious individual known only as Hat Guy), which needs a snazzier name and sometimes has trouble reaching a smooth consensus, or even agreeing to disagree.
As for the Marie Antoinette references? I've always really identified her. On the surface, who wouldn't want to be Queen? Beautiful gowns, fabulous food, and everything done for you before you even anticipate it. Several years ago when the Sofia Coppola movie came out, I made a point to pick up Antonia Fraser's biography of the queen before every single one in town was emblazoned with Kirsten Dunst's face. I found a truly easy to relate to person, essentially just a girl trapped by her high birth in a situation she had to make the best of, and with duties she was bound to. As time went on, she longed for simplicity, and so had her village, "Le Hameau de la Reine," built for her and her closest friends.
And while they would dress up as shepherdesses and feed lambs, milking cows with porcelain "buckets" and staying in rich mansions designed to look like cottages, it wasn't all about excess and escapism. Those who worked at and kept Le Hameau were poor and destitute families given another shot at life. Neither Louis nor Marie wanted their children to grow up with no idea what the real world outside Versailles was like; they would, so they thought, rule all of France someday, after all. Research in agriculture was conducted, and French craftsmen were supported. If I were a Queen, I would definitely want a similar project.
And with my plans to revamp our garden, keep bees, and purchase a couple of Heritage/endangered geese in the suburbs of a big city, I kind of like to think I'm building my own little Hameau.
Now, on to the mechanics. I'm going to try to update it twice a week, once with something serious on the weekend, and once with something fun during the week. This may or may not pan out. But, I spend too much time online as it is, and if I'm going to be online, I might as well do something that at least seems productive, right? So this is this week's Serious Post. Hehe.
Oh, I almost forgot. Three members of my family that I haven't introduced yet...Teddy Bear the Havanese, Baron the German Shepherd, and Tigger the enormous tabby cat. They find their way into most of the pictures I take around here, so I'll point them out as they make appearances.
~L
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