Dead Poets Month: D.H. Lawrence

I'm barely familiar with Lawrence, but this poem reminds me of falling in love when I was 16. 

And because he was Todd, the story has a happy continuance.

Letter from Town: The Almond Tree

You promised to send me some violets. Did you forget?

 White ones and blue ones from under the orchard hedge?      

 Sweet dark purple, and white ones mixed for a pledge    

Of our early love that hardly has opened yet.        

Here there’s an almond tree—you have never seen            

 Such a one in the north—it flowers on the street, and I stand      

 Every day by the fence to look up for the flowers that expand    

At rest in the blue, and wonder at what they mean.        

Under the almond tree, the happy lands      

 Provence, Japan, and Italy repose,      

 And passing feet are chatter and clapping of those    

Who play around us, country girls clapping their hands.        

You, my love, the foremost, in a flowered gown,      

 All your unbearable tenderness, you with the laughter      

 Startled upon your eyes now so wide with hereafter,     

You with loose hands of abandonment hanging down.

Dead Poets Month: the Wisdom Authors

I often forget the power of the Book of Wisdom, one of the seven Sapiential books in the Old Testament (it is not included in the Bibles of the Protestant communities).

These lines open today's first reading in the Liturgy of the Word.

When peaceful stillness compassed everything

and the night in its swift course was half spent,

Your all-powerful word, from heaven's royal throne bounded,

a fierce warrior,

into the doomed land,

bearing the sharp sword of your inexorable decree.

And as he alighted, he filled every place with death;

he still reached to heaven, while he stood upon the earth.

Wisdom 18.14-16

Dead Poets Month: John Updike

November

The stripped and shapely
Maple grieves
The ghosts of her
Departed leaves.

The ground is hard,
As hard as stone.
The year is old,
The birds are flown.

And yet the world,
In its distress,
Displays a certain
Loveliness.

~John Updike, A Child's Calendar

Image Source.

Dead Poets Month.

November is usually my Dead Poets month. Not because I liked the movie (I didn't).

This year, however, we have somehow arrived at November 9 without a single living poem from a dead man. To remedy that, and because all philosophers desperately need poetry in their lives, here is my darling Yeats.

To a Young Girl

My dear, my dear, I know

More than another

What makes your heart beat so;

Not even your own mother

Can know it as I know,

Who broke my heart for her

That she denies

And has forgot,

Set all her blood astir

And glittered in her eyes.

Through the Year with Padre Pio.

St. Padre Pio became one of my very dearest friends last year--he battled for me when I was too exhausted or depressed to even pray. If you buy me a coffee, I'll tell you the whole story.

So I jumped at the chance to review Through the Year with Padre Pio, a collection of his letters and sayings edited by Patricia Treece. This book is so sweet: for every day of the year, there is a brief excerpt from Padre, followed by a parallel Scripture passage. It's simple, gentle material for lectio divina and a great companion to the Divine Office.

The prevailing popular impression of the Padre is one of a cranky, crotchety old gheezer who yelled at women in the confessional. There are grounds for that impression (although, don't you think that even church ladies ought to be yelled at once in a while?). But the overwhelming written evidence is of a man filled with mirth, gentleness, wisdom, and peace. After spending several weeks with him, day by day, you will be chastised but happier.

This review was written as part of the Catholic book reviewer program from The Catholic Company, and the reviewer received a free copy of the text in exchange for her opinion. Visit The Catholic Company to find more information on Through the Year with Padre Pio. They also have some beautiful Advent wreaths!

Miriam and a postcard from the volcano.

Yesterday, the Scientist Dad stayed home from the university so that I could go meet with a priest for spiritual direction and Confession. It was blessed.

This afternoon, as I sliced red peppers and whisked together the curry, 3-year-old Bella queried:

"Miwiam, why dost (she really says dost) Mummy have to go to Kerfeshun?"

The Mother Superior responded, "Well, Belly, sometimes Mommy is a Bad Catholic. So, she has to go and tell the priest, who is really Jesus just for a minute, that she was a Bad Catholic. Then she is a Good Catholic again, until she does something else bad. Then, if she wants to be a Good Catholics again, she has to go back and tell Father."

Yes. That just about sums it up. It's simple. Baptism: We are all good Catholics. We get lazy, we drift, we fall asleep on the watch, we sin. Bad Catholics. The fix is simple: if we want to be good again, we just tell father.

I loved the "if," which reminds me:

I'm finishing Lucy Beckett's A Postcard from the Volcano, a fabulous crash course in 20th-century history, the Western canon, and... well, all of Western philosophy. (I have raved about her In the Light of Christ, a more formal introduction to the canon.) Not to give it away, but one of the main characters, originally a convert to Catholicism, ends up spending three years without the sacraments. He attends Mass, sitting in the back row, but never reconciles with the Church. In effect, a Bad Catholic.

Max's dearest friend, Adam, questions him: Why has he stayed away so long? His affair had ended, his 18 months of the lusts of the world had ended, tragically in an abortion. Why had he not confessed, been absolved, and returned home? Max's answer is poignant.

During his time of "real life," in the world of sex, drugs, and jazz (no rock 'n' roll in pre-War Germany), he had found himself feeling alive, feeling unhappy, but electric. His lover would tell him, "You're not really a Prussian bureaucrat who only likes Brahms. You just look like one, talk like one, work like one. Take it all off with your clothes." And he did. He even felt relief when she had the abortion--although he also immediately left her--just because he wouldn't be tied down to her forever.

He tells Adam he is uncertain now--after it all--of who he is, what he believes, even of God's interest in him. Confession seems too certain, Mass only a fragment of his self. How can he confess a sin he enjoyed, a sin that he felt relief at?

Adam listens--and this is good--but then brings Max back to the simplicity: "Now listen to me. Eros is the only sickness for which we volunteer. You are anwerable for what happened between you and Eva, in a way that she's not, or not yet--no one knows... Your reaction to the abortion shows that you know [there was hardly any connexion between you]. It also shows that you understand the self-indulgence, the distance rom God, of the whole thing. You understood this all along. The fact that Eva didn't understand helped you to hide from the fact that you did."

Adam continues, "What I would like you to do is this. Tomorrow is Sunday. The village Mass is at nine. Come with me half an hour early and make your confession to Father Stanislaw. He's a good man--not that it matters what he's like. Tell him the simple facts. Be given absolution. be given Communion. Pray for your child. Pray for Eva. And for me."

And that is what they do. Then Max takes the train back to Breslau and realizes that he can once again play Bach. "Adam had restored him to a place where the truth was steady."

That's what Confession does. The sloth of sin and the the grime of accumulated falls make the world spin. Reality is unsteady. Was it really so bad? Did I even mess up? Does God really care?

The only clarification is in absolution. When you want to be a Good Catholic again, after you fight through all that grime and grasp the rock, the light breaks through.

I can play Bach again.

Miriam has the instinct, if her vocabulary is a little reminiscent of the 1950's CCD teacher. Mommy was, for a little while, a Good Catholic again. And I found that the truth was steady.

Come to think of it, I think Miriam's ready for her own First Confession. Next month.

Image source.

The Way and the Saints.

One of the most beautiful feasts of the year: The Solemnity of All Saints.

Reading and meditating on the lives of the saints is an act of true devotion to Christ. There is no better way, for such social creatures as human beings, to know and love God's ways, which are truly "not our ways." In them, God's light shone so clearly. We can only love God more for having known His children. And we, too, can only become His children in the company of our elder brothers and sisters.

"To become saints means to fulfill completely what we already are, raised to the dignity of God's adopted children in Christ Jesus... The saints bring to light in creative fashion quite new human potentialities... The saints are themselves the living spaces into which one can turn ... There is no isolation in heaven. It is ... the fulfillment of all human togetherness." ~Benedict XVI, via Magnificat