Reading List:January
The month of January has come and gone so quickly that I can only marvel and weep at such a passage of time that flitted with the ease of a sparrow`s dance from limb to limb.
My time has been greedily hoarded between my occupation and my family, leaving my private moments few and far between; though still quite ample, for I am one who desires to make the most of his time in whatever that might be worth in itself.
Over the last thirty-odd days, my mind has consumed many pages of books and I would like to chronicle the month`s ingestion herewith:
Franz Peter Schubert (1797 – 1828)
“Picture to yourself a man whose health can never be re-established, who from sheer despair makes matters worse instead of better. Picture to yourself, I say, a man whose most brilliant hopes have come to nothing, to whom proffered love and friendship are but anguish, whose enthusiasm for the beautiful – an inspired feeling, at least – threatens to vanquish entirely; and then ask yourself if such a condition does not represent a miserable and unhappy man.
Each night, when I go to sleep, I hope never again to waken, and every morning reopens the wounds of yesterday.”
Franz Peter Schubert was an Austrian composer born on this day in the year 1797 – he died on November 19, 1828 after a prolonged sickness.
Schubert wrote some six hundred romantic songs as well as many operas, symphonies, sonatas and many other works. Public appreciation of his work during his lifetime has long been thought to be limited, but when he died over one hundred of his compositions had already appeared in print. He was never able to secure adequate permanent employment and for most of his life was supported by friends or employed by his father.
Today, with his imaginative, lyrical and melodical style, he is counted among the most gifted composers of the 19th century. Franz Liszt said of Schubert that he was “the most poetic Musician ever.”
In clarity of style Schubert is easily subordinate to Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, in power of Musical construction he is far inferior to Ludwig van Beethoven – but in poetic impulse and suggestion he is unsurpassed. He wrote always at headlong speed and he seldom blotted a line. The greater part of his work bears, in consequence, the essential mark of improvisation.
His Music is fresh, vivid, spontaneous, impatient of restraint, full of rich color and of warm imaginative feeling.
Franz Schubert was one of the greatest songwriters who ever lived, and almost everything in his hand turned to song.
A Stranger`s Longing
I was at the local public library this evening… dropping off some books that I had recently finished reading (and were soon to be due) as well as acquiring a few books pertaining to material I would be teaching on in the coming week.
I had checked the library`s catalog online before leaving my house, so it was simply a matter of locating the texts within their respective sections – a precautionary measure I am wont to take because of my natural tendency to linger long among the stacks of a library, a habit I formed in the years of my youth.
While I was perusing through the stacks, and previewing the material as I found it, I began to notice the repeated occurrence of being in the same section as another patron – a young woman in her early to mid-twenties.
Normally I would not regard such a “coincidence” as being entirely remarkable (after all, Norman`s public library is hardly the Library of Congress), but my overaggressive sensitivity to my surroundings (a trait, I would add, I am rather adept at disguising) dismissed the likelihood of mere happenstance after the third encounter.
Despite being aware of this, I shoved it to the back of my snickering mind. While silly thoughts of conspiracy and espionage entertain my subconscious for a moment`s musing, my cold reason bats away such frivolities for the sake of the task at hand. It has been a long day at work and I am eager to get back home…
Suddenly the stranger approaches me and, looking at the books I have cradled in my left arm, mentions one of them by name and asks if I`m going to be checking that one out. Distracted by the congenial intrusion, I pause to consider this… before politely answering that I had intended to but had no great need to possess that volume at the moment. I then held up the book and offered it to her, to which she thanked me in a somewhat fawning manner
I considered the matter over and continued on in my endeavor – but she inquired as to my opinions on the book, its author, and the material with which it is concerned. To which I offered a few middling responses that, I hoped, betrayed my inability to invest considerable discussion on the matters without appearing aloof or disinterested.
Unperturbed by my seeming haste, the young lady followed me to the next section and continued to talk about these (and others) matters – as though I had opened a porthole on a submarine.
I tried to extricate myself as gracefully as possible, but the young woman was eager to talk with me… a trifle overeager, it seemed. What is more, some of her lines of discussion I thought to be inappropriate for someone she had barely met. For example: after noticing my wedding band, she started talking about her own desire to someday get married but she was unable to find someone with whom she would be willing to settle down. “Guys my age can be such little boys,” she said at one point.
Finally, I was forced to take some relatively drastic measures. Hesitating for a moment before the front desk, I offered her my hand and wished her the best of fortune. To this, a shadow fell across her face and I thought I saw a glint of hurt in her eyes – but she shook my hand eagerly, and offered to contact me whenever she was finished with the book. I assured her that it was not necessary but that I certainly appreciated her offer. To this I turned my back and approached the librarian behind the counter.
As I drove home in the private darkness, I thought of the event in epilogue and wondered about the encounter… the strangeness of it, and the bizarre undercurrent of her eagerness. Unless my senses have taken leave of me, it seemed that I was being “courted” in some strange sense – and that I had but to show even the slightest interest in her and she would reciprocate. Curiouser and curiouser…
More than this, I wondered at her apparent loneliness, and wondered at the loneliness that far too many know… the loneliness of being estranged from Him.
Leadbelly (1888 – 1949)
“I only know two things `bout this ol` world,
that I`m a born Sinner and Jesus is the LORD.”
On this day in 1888 was born Huddie William Ledbetter on a plantation near Shreveport, Louisiana…
Notable both for his clear “high tenor” vocals and his unparalleled virtuosity on the twelve-string guitar, “Leadbelly” remains one the most influential and beloved Blues performers of the pre-War era. His contribution towards the preservation of many historical American folk tunes (by the popularity of his performance of them) is also significant.
Although his most commonly played instrument was the twelve-string, Leadbelly boasted an impressive degree of aptitude on the piano, mandolin, harmonica, violin, concertina, and accordion. In fact, for some of his earlier recordings (such as in his versions of the ballad “John Hardy”) he performs on the accordion instead of the guitar in a masterful interpretation of the Zydeco style of his native Louisiana.
The topics of Leadbelly`s music covered a wide range of subjects – everything from sacred hymns about the Gospel to rousing cautionary Blues songs about fast women or the evils of liquor, as well as various topical commentaries on the issues and people of his day. A rarity in his time, he was a performer of both socially concerned and culturally traditional material – a singular aspect which would come to directly influence such musical luminaries as Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger, Bob Dylan, and Creedence Clearwater Revival.
Huddie William Ledbetter died in New York City in 1949, leaving behind a vast songbook (of what would later be recognized as American folk standards) and an influence on popular music that remains to this day.
The LORD`s Day
Worship Service starts at 2:30pm.
Sermon by Pastor Michael Johnson
“…yet once more, in a little while, I will shake the Heavens and the Earth and the Sea and the Land; and I will shake all nations, so that the treasures of all nations shall come in, and I will fill this house with Glory – thus speaks the LORD of Hosts.
The silver and the gold is Mine, declares the LORD of Hosts; the latter glory of this house shall be greater than the former, says the LORD of Hosts.
In this place I will give peace, declares the LORD of Hosts.”
Amen… come Sovereign LORD, the living GOD, shake the world again.
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756 – 1791)
On this day…
in the year 1756…
in Salzburg Austria…
…was born one of the greatest musical geniuses of all time, Johannes Chrysostomus Wolfgangus Amadeus Mozart. Unrivaled in significance and influence among all composers of Classical Music, his works are loved by many and are still frequently performed.
Stream Of Unconsciousness (week-ending)
A heap of broken images. Breathe. Relax. Rest. Sigh. Breathe. The week`s work has ended, the weekend`s work has just begun…
`Tis been a mighty fierce span o` moments, since the dawning of the first “Moon Day” o` this week, and I feel the pains of this middling duration even in the wee hidden corners of my frame. Tension and fatigue grip lazily at the bowstrings of my forelock; a braying soreness mocks me from the recess of my lower spine.
I enjoy the work and I adore the children but I fall over myself into each weekending, eager for the laughing tranquility and loving quietude of my home. Though my time is certainly always my own (as much as such an abstraction can be thus) it is never felt to be so as much as it is during the weekend.
A week`s worth of memories, where thoughts flutter into one another like butterflies in a clear jar…
…dead Winter`s trees sleep
in the black silhouettes against the starlit night.
The hurtling roar of the automibile and the faraway whine of a siren,
the wind creekings through the dry branches.
I think on the many lessons taught and learned, a method wrought and re-worked through the molten steel of theory and practice. Bemused countenances, haughty sneers, ebulient wonder, and bitter tears …all of this, on the faces of children.
One two-day span to rest and prepare, two days too short – never enough time to do it all, all the time in the world to not do enough.
Living For A Working
In a recent conversation with Michael, he mentioned the exertion of types of work; that one might engage in labors that strain the body, leaving their minds more than adequately unwearied for all manner of study.
Alternatively, the tasks of the intellect can easily sap ones capacity for more strenuous pursuits… for the mind can yet exert the will even when the flesh is lingering. However, if the thought be not vigilant, then the strength of one`s frame is a hollow shell that cannot prevail.
Verily I can concur with this, especially insofar as I can testify to it in my particular experiences of employment – my current vocation in particular…
The work I do is not physically exerting to a great degree, though it does have its moments, but it requires considerable emotional and intellectual endurance. Upon my arrival home, it is all I can do to simply repose in the sweet bosom of my family – with a mind still swelling with the wine of the day`s words and events.
It is not only a matter of the recitation of bare facts before an audience of note-taking pupils, but that it is actually the process of learning that many of them struggle. With the matter of intellectual limitations aside, the students are also suffering from events as far-ranging as acclimation within their peer environs to abusive situation within the home.
All of this, I must find a way to guide through the perilous corridors of their own education… and, all of this, I must carry along the way.
The secret griefs, that they can scarcely share with anyone, are entrusted with me… the frustration and the pain of being limited in mind or body (or both), are mine in empathy… the loneliness of being utterly estranged and unable to escape one`s lot… the despair of being marked as flawed and fated as undesirable… all of this, accompanies me for far longer than those hours between the figurative punch of a time-clock.
All of this, shall stay with me.
The World You Shall Know
On this evening, as I hold my sweet infant daughter, I wonder at the world I know and the one she was born into – the state of affairs, the history, the legacy left to her by her forebears…
A cynic might carp that one would do well not to bring a new child into a world such as this one, that it would be better to avoid the possibility altogether than to subject another human being to the potential of suffering – an optimist might proffer that one should look upon one`s descendents as fellow crusaders in the ongoing epic struggles of human civilization… but I would incline entirely towards one end or the other.
The world shall flounder onward in its progression of human innovation and the seeming perpetual regressions of culture`s ebb and flow. Older days were not better than these and neither shall be any days yet to come – save for that glorious day of His inevitable return.
In the meantime, we shall all be biding our time. It is giving to men a time to accomplish what they will, and I must consider thus in a like manner for my children. I am not a breeder of conscripts to push forth as fodder before the onslaught, but neither shall I take me and mine into the hidden hills in fearful avoidance.
This daughter of mine has a path that she has yet to know, and it is expected of me that I should aide her in preparation for what might come.
Bricks Into Gold Without Straw
In the words of that great philosopher-poet, Winnie-the-Pooh: “Oh bother!”
The issues of finances remain as great an annoyance to me as ever, and I would just as soon do away with them as anything else. While we strive to live within our means, with a life of relative simplicity, it is the issue of the paucity of our means which complicates matters.
We are a frugal household with little-to-no expenditures outside of the immediate “needs” of shelter, transportation, and food – and even our disbursement in these basic categories is remarkably economical. However, when all is said and done, our belt leaves little room to be tightened.
At times such as these, it becomes a game of: what seeming indulgence can we do without? With the only feasible choice being our internet and telephone accounts – as the “indulgences” of electricity and running water are better considered as more essential than superfluous.
Within my soul I feel a tumult of contradictory emotions – including, though not limited to, a vague petulant irritation at those whom complain amidst considerable relative affluence as well as the humbling understanding that there are many whom suffer a far greater degree of impoverishment than we.
…but it is not so much the “not having” as it is an exasperation at the wearisome pattern of treading water and being slowly drowned `neath the incessant breakers of each month – as though we only hold the deficits in a tenuous abeyance, and never reach a foothold from which we can keep from falling behind.
Again, were it a matter of poor stewardship and fiscal irresponsibility, then such behaviors could be rehabilitated… but my belt has been at its tightest notch for as long as I can remember, and I cannot spin straw into gold.
That Which Is Necessary
Last month, as I was reading the Gospel of Luke, I came to the episode involving Martha and Mary (the sisters of Lazarus) in which it was written that Martha was “distracted” with much serving – and I remember I gave that point more than a moment`s consideration, so much so that even now I think upon it…
…that one might become encumbered by something so noble as service that they might lose sight of the LORD even as He resides within their own household is a marvel to me, though I do not pretend it cannot be so. This, I know all too well.
I do not so much doubt the intention of Martha`s labors – for I can imagine that she spared neither cost nor effort, thinking no preparation to be too sumptuous or grand, to honor her most holy guest.
Even as Martha`s actions in regards to her love for her LORD were manifest in how she engaged in tasks devoted towards Him, she became burdened by them so as to keep herself from His presence… in a sense, forsaking the guest of honor for the benefit of the party.
True service is inseparable from fellowship with Jesus Christ and even the loveliest overtures of individual service pale before ardently seeking the presence of He that is necessary unto Himself. Even as we, His people, are little more than bondservants to the King – He bids us come and sit at His feet as adopted children.
May I do so gladly, neglecting neither the blessing of nor the reason for service – but seeking to praise and honor Him in both.
The LORD`s Day
“May our sons in their youth be like plants full grown, our daughters like corner pillars cut for the structure of a palace…”
“Behold! children are a heritage from the LORD, the fruit of the womb a reward. Like arrows in the hand of a warrior are the children of one`s youth.”
Amen.
Sophia`s home!
Initially there was some concern that Candace and Sophia might have to remain at the hospital for an extended stay – due to the dire prognostications of our local mages of meterology.
However… the Gale force winds and the blinding blizzards snows fail to arrive in harmony with the dire predictions of these overzealous weathermen, as the day`s weather shows far more of a soden sobbing “whimper” than the expected “bang” of a High Plains whiteout. Ah well, we can always blame it on El Niño.
The good news is that there is nothing keeping us from being discharged from the hospital and returning home with our newest addition.
Arriving home with her in the early afternoon, the rest of the day flows as naturally as any other. With one qualifier…
I have not yet acclimated to seeing a newborn infant within my home. Several times today I would enter into a room where Sophia would be and, being consumed with my own thoughts, I would be surprised to see her there – upon which instance I would laugh to myself at my own elation.
So tonight, all is well. My daughter has been delivered safely and rests now in the bosom of her adoring family… where she belongs.
The Day After
The culmination of nearly a year`s worth of preparations, the fruition of our hopes and prayers – now leaving a sudden strange sighing of exhaled pent-up breath…
O, I shall part from her with many tears,
you earthly treasure pure and undefiled;
yet not without a weight of anxious fears
for the coming future of my newborn child…
My second daughter, Sophia, is born – healthy and without any visible impairment. I praise the LORD for His mercy and loving-kindness towards me and my house.
Today and tonight, I have spent a goodly amount of time with my two older children – talking to them of their thoughts on this turn of events, of my expectations for them, of the many ways in which this child will likely change the dynamics of our home… and we play too, and I tickle them with fanciful imaginings.
Now I remain alone and awake in the quiet darkness, whilst my beloved continues her prescripted remainder at the hospital for general observation and recovery. I wonder at what is occurring even as I write this, imagining the way that the dim light falls across the beautiful faces of my child and my wife.
Both the Past and Present days converge upon my mind in white-knuckle tension and foresight of what days might yet come… and, amid the clustering din of echoes, His hand holds my Soul fast.
Sophia Rhiannon Love
We arrived to the hospital early in the morning, but running a bit late – which was fine, it is not as though they could very well start without us.
The staff was very professional yet also very personable and friendly; they exuded a sort of natural warmth that showed how much they truly enjoyed their work – a rare attribute, in my experience, for the medical profession.
Things progressed well, though it seemed that Sophia was content to take her own sweet time in coming forth – though Candace maintained her typical even keel. As all the busied tumult whirled around us, our eyes would meet and everything would fade into a low faraway hum – our smiles told each other everything in silence.
After a morning of meandering and tenuous wondering, everything started to fall into place by the turn of the Noontide hour.
My daughter descended further down and out within her mother`s Birth Canal… soon the Doctor arrived and, at the stroke of thirty-seven minutes after Noon, Sophia Rhiannon Love emerged from her mother`s Womb, ruddy and coated with small traces of blood and Vernix mucus. Her mouth was wide open, and I saw her take her first breath of free air – letting it loose in a beautiful wail of newborn life.
I was handed a pair of medical scissors and cut my daughter`s umbilical cord in a single quick motion – as though I were somehow sanctioning her birth through the severing of the cord, symbolizing my role (and that of my wife) as the child`s provider and guardian in this wilderness of the world.
While the Doctor and her assistants saw to my wife`s post-natal concerns, I saw to those of our daughter – hovering over the technicians, offering my assistance in full “overzealous father” mode. They were jovial and pleasant, even allowing me to give Sophia her first bath in the Nursery.
As soon as my wife had recovered from the initial physical trauma of the birth, we brought the children into the room – so that they could meet their new sister, who has thus far only existed within their dreams and as a great bulge in their mother`s abdomen.
Gaelynn was eager to hold Sophia and snuggle-cuddle but Israel was a trifle more reticent – not fearful or anxious, simply reserved about the whole affair. He seemed to prefer to keep his distance, and speak lovingly of his sister from a vantage point across the room.
Eventually, the day grew long… the remains of the day had taken their toll, and I hesitantly returned home – leaving my sweet wife and beautiful newborn daughter at the hospital, as per the orders of her Doctor.
Tonight I spoke with my older children about what had occurred – and how they felt about it all. We laughed and played, rather far past regular bedtime. As I left them to their dreamings, my daughter asked me if we could have another baby next Winter. I laughed at this and told her to go to sleep. Silly girl.
Now I sit alone in the candlelit quietude of my house, longing for my beloved and missing the tiny princess I have only just met.
Upon this, the close of her first day, I wonder at what the days with her will bring.
Sophia`s Coming…
Yesterday we met with Candace`s doctor of Obstetrics for her weekly check-up, during which time it was decided by Candace and I (upon the recommendation of her doctor) that she would be induced into labor on Thursday morning. If everything goes smoothly, then Sophia Rhiannon Love will likely be born sometime around the late morning/early afternoon of January 18th 2007 – sharing a birthday with Daniel Webster, A.A. Milne, and my youngest brother Joshua.
O`er the passage of the evening, we have been making our preparations and arrangements for the coming days – however, we`ve been preparing for this since Autumn, so I think we`re in rather good shape.
Furthermore, as we are scheduled to begin the induction procedure at 6:30am, our Pastor has generously agreed to come over to our house first thing in the morning to look after our children until they awake and then bring them up to the hospital. Some of my colleagues at the school have also availed their services, on an as-needed basis of course. When combined with the willingness of my friends and Brethren to aide us during this time, I imagine all shall progress quite well.
I find that, as the hour nears, I can hardly contain my excitement. Soon I shall, by the LORD`s Grace, be holding my newborn daughter in my arms – I shall see her face and hear her voice… `tis something wondrous and my Soul is brimming with praise for GOD`s abundant mercies and loving-kindness towards me and my house.
May He sustain my beloved during her time of labor, granting her the courage to birth this child with her characteristic strength and valor; may the LORD keep watch over the doctors` care, that they might practice their talents with skill and verve.
In these, as in all things, may GOD`s Will be done.
"…ice in the rigging & the howling wind…"
Mood: Convivial & Wry
Weather: Cold & hard; clear skies above a frozen Earth
Reading: The Courting of Marcus Dupree, by Willie Morris
Listening To: Takk… by Sigur Rós
Walking.
Black iced roadways,
sleek and hard frozen thoroughfares,
glimmering car-lights pierce the cold dry darkness,
illuminate a cloudy crystal path through the brown rolling slush.
Chills from the smooth exposed skin along the sides of my neck
dance down the length of my back, back up my spine
into a tremor of chattering teeth and bone.
Alone longing for home,
I turn on my heel
to return.
The children and I played out in the out-of-doors this Day & Evening, as the pale Winter`s Sun descent set in flames of silver red golden purples… the Sky swelling into a bruise, fade to black and starlit Night.
We skated across neighboring driveways in our boot-shod feet, slipping falling and laughing… I sprained my wrist and slightly injured my left knee over the period of a couple hours, laughing the entire time.
The below-freezing temperatures hardened whatever snow and ice had melted, creating a frozen tundra over the top of the ground that enables one to easily slide across one`s own yard. With even my own tenuous footing over such a surface, I had the children zooming across the width of our backyard in a makeshift sled.
Aside from the trifles of my reckless stumbling (or a single episode where Israel slipped and fell face-first into a crusty snowdrift along the side of the road), we had a grand time without any great malady and got quite cold & wet before it was all said and done.
The remainder of the evening was spent with my beloved… thinking, talking, and preparing for Sophia`s imminent arrival.
Bright blessed days, dark sacred nights.
Martin Luther King (1929 – 1968)
Would that the activists who have claimed to follow in his footsteps remembered this sentiment – for it is only by the power of the Gospel, that the hearts of men can be changed.
"…all those who follow in my bloodline…"
Paedobaptism, the Baptism of children of Believers – as contrasted with Credobaptism, the Baptism of professing Believers. Both perspectives claim that it is a form of initiation rite of a person into a covenantal community – however, they disagree in what sort of Grace (if any) is being conveyed and what the fundamental meaning of the ceremony entails…
I only mention this because of a few events that have transpired of late. Each separate unto itself, but strangely connected to one another…
A common thread shared by each instance is the book William the Baptist by James Chaney, and the praise which has followed its reading – a common sentiment seemingly shared by all is that it has resolved the mind and conscience of its readers towards the issues of Baptism, touching both upon the mode as well as the meaning.
While I have not yet read the work myself, I cannot help but wonder at this small phenomenon…
I could easily dismiss it as being a confirmation bias on the part of the readers, each of whom claim to have been former Credobaptists that were swayed by the argumentation of the book but each of them having a vested self-interest in being thusly “swayed” – one of them being a “former Southern Baptist” whose husband is currently attending a PCA seminary; another whose background was in “mainstream Evangelicalism” but is now a Youth Minister in an OPC church; and still another, who describes her upbringing as “typical Baptist” is now an ardent espouser of Federal Vision doctrine… and so on and so forth.
However, I do not wish to so hastily renounce the viscosity of the arguments simply because my own presuppositions dismiss outright the validity of Infant Baptism and/or the mode of Aspersion (that is, “sprinkling”), thus providing my own set of cognitive biases. I neither wish to renounce the personal integrity of the individuals involved nor acquiesce to the implications of this book upon the minds of rational and sincere Brethren.
All the same, I do also see a sort of intellectual security in this general reliance upon tradition, as many a wise hoary head and ivy-strewn sanctuary have maintained this liturgical vanguard – while those of my ilk are often relegated to the “highways and the hedges” outside of the spacious scholastic arenas.
The “high church” mystique is an enchanting one, and the lore of ancient custom appeals to many – of which I am certainly no exception.
Besides, what parent wouldn`t love to be able to ascertain some dowry of a spiritual inheritance – that one could almost bequeath one`s own Faith to one`s descendants.
Rage Awake & Blow Destroy
O, rare sweet Wintry kisses upon our sultry South, as delicious as those from a Woman`s mouth – and just as tender are its windswept Skies, as any Beauty`s glimmering eyes.
Rage! Awake! you tempestuous North, in chilling bluster and blast – weaving a frozen enchantment, as your subtle Spell `tis cast. Cleave us free from warm verdant chains, drown the dead brown Floræ `neath your blistering rains.
Hide our land under frigid caves, with the wild-eyed Songs of your winds and waves. Pile high your ice-blossoms into a swirling floe, in an avalanche of Prairie snow. Wrap our souls in Nights of land clouds, bawl above us as we hide `neath shrouds.
Pierce weak hearts in jealous flame, that Mankind might know some bitter shame. Men such as I, to whom the World seems like a toy, that consider not what we oft Destroy.
"Bolt and Bar the Shutter…"
“…there was a murmur soft and low;
white folds of cambric, parted slow;
as little fingers played with snow…”
I have come to the decision that there are few better ways to awaken upon a Saturday morning then to the gleaming whiteness of an overnight snowfall…
Starting Friday past, from the late morning hours `til the very moment I am now writing, we Normans have been host to a rather stodgy Cold Front – combining with the prevailing Gulf Coast moisture, that has beleaguered our lands of late with unseasonably high temperatures, to produce a trifling (though still quite pleasant) accumulation of snow and ice.
While the snowfall has only amounted to a light dusting, the ice has glazed our roads with a slick coating – prompting the cancellation, postponements, and closings of most of our local community functions and commerce. The dance o` the hours has ground to a halt of eerie calm solemnity.
Nevertheless, those of my household and I have been out-and-about in this blinding white squall. Proceeding with only a very few municipal errands while spending as much time out-of-doors with the children as tolerable. Though the absence of much powdery accumulation inhibits our playful ambitions (for snowmen, snow angels, and/or snowball fights) there is more than sufficient icy terrain for slip-sliding and sledding.
Candace and I rig up a sled out of a laundry basket and a long sturdy strap, trading-off turns pulling the children around the grounds and neighborhood… before escaping another onslaught of blowing wind and ice into our warm & cozy home, where hot cocoa and steaming meals await us.
Even as the Night falls upon the town, and the children fall captive to their evening`s rest, I venture out – first to the Downtown area and then to the university campus… after which I consider dropping in on some friends unannounced but, thinking better of it, decide to circle around the nearby park before following the train tracks homeward.
I spend a long time out… thinking, and listening to the sonorous Quiet… to the symphonic emptiness of human-kind. Pausing before dark houses and wondering at the dreamings of others; hesitiating outside of Bars to listen to the raucous din… I wonder, and wander for a goodly stretch of hours.
All in all, a delightful and refreshing sojourn… that I intend to follow on the morrow`s eve.
Inclement Weather
The snow & ice comes far earlier in the day than we have been led to believe by our local weather authorities…
All of us saw this inclement weather coming, but the reports all maintained that it would not hit until the overnight hours between Friday and Saturday. Now it is but Friday morning, and the grounds are already powdered white and the sidewalks slickened with ice.
Murmurings amongst the faculty seem to incline towards an abbreviated day, for the sake of safe commutes for both students and teachers – but no such sentiment comes from the Administration on high. The day will continue on, as planned.
Afternoon extra-curricular activities are cancelled and/or postponed, but the academic day progresses according to schedule… even as a steady exodus of students (that is, those being picked-up by their parents) soon decimates the present population to a one-fourth, if even that much.
This is also the last day of the marking period and the required material for this Quarter has been exhausted – next Term`s material cannot be initiated (due to the absence of the majority of the student body), therefore the teachers are left “killing time” in a strange schedular anomaly. Leaving their students to entertain themselves with games or movies, most of the teachers direct their attentions towards entering their grading data into the system.
However, in our classroom there is still opportunity for education – even if the required curricular goals have been “exhausted” (whatever that might mean), there is always ample opportunity to study further and deeper than the institutional criterion demands… always, especially during days as anarchic as these.
Sophia
Late at night, I lay alongside your mother and run my fingers along her distended abdomen – a vast smooth orb of life within life, a miracle. You, Sophia, this is you… tucked within the darkness of your mother`s hearth, growing and forming… listening, hiccupping, dreaming, stretching out your tiny arms within a confinement that has become increasingly restrictive.
With my fingers spread wide, I hold my palm against your mother`s stomach… feeling your vibrant tumult. My heart leaps as I think I feel the form of a tiny hand pass against mine, moments later I feel what seems like a knee or an elbow. Eventually you become calm and still, so I hold my hand against your back… I holding you, you within your mother – father and mother and child.
I think about you all the time – my imagination playfully running wild with the vastness of unknown potentiality… a blonde, straight-haired, dark-eyed girl; a dark brown, curly-headed, blue-eyed girl; ad infinitum and ad absurdum. I really don`t care how it all comes out, I just cannot wait to hold your wriggling self in my arms and hear your first wail of living breath.
It has been a long and vigorous forty weeks. Both your mother and I eagerly anticipate your coming – and, judging by the force of your struggles against your tightening incubation, you are also quite ready to emerge into the outside world. Your mother has bore you so well o`er these several months, never frazzled nor complaining but mild of temperament and robust in all of her endeavors – a testament to the wondrous Grace of our LORD, as well as to her own hearty pilgrim soul.
Now we behold this final turn in the journey of your coming, and it shall certainly be more sooner than later… I pray that the LORD will continue to bless my beloved with abundant health, continuing to keep her stout-hearted bearing throughout the pains of labor – and that He would guide my daughter safely into the world.
Alea Iacta Est
Roman historian Suetonius writes in his Lives of the Twelve Caesars that Gaius Julius Caesar spoke these words as he (and his Legion) crossed the river Rubicon on January the 10th. Alea iacta est, that is: “The die is cast.”
Caesar is purported to have spoken some variation of this phrase, even as his own actions precipitated a chain of events that ended with him upon the throne of Rome. A sentiment that seems to pass off one`s own deliberate choices as being mere manifestations of chance and happenstance.
I spoke with my students of this, talking of the life of Caesar – his meteoric rise and ignominious fall from grace. My hope was to draw parallels between this conspicuous example of a man`s hubris and the same way of thinking which pervades much of modern youth – that whatever befalls them somehow occurs independent of their own actions, words, and decisions; thus absolving them of responsibility.
Discussion on such matters is typically easily flowing, as the children are passionate about ideas and hungry to understand, but ill-trained to really see the ends of many of their thoughts and impulses. Their vapid culture has ingratiated an ethos of perpetual victimhood and Moral Relativism has sabotaged the low-glowing embers of consequences and justice that reside within the mind of a child. Replaced with the perverse inconsistencies of Humanism.
We talk these things through and, after much winnowing away of sludge and foul-smelling dark matter, warmth and light begins to emerge – like a mud-sodden branch pulled from a dank bog that has been cleaned and dried in the Sunlight, ready for kindling.
However, just as we are ready to sink our teeth into the marrow of the matter, a bell tolls a new hour. The students hurry to the next period, to the next appointment, to the next distraction. I slowly clench my fists in a secret gesture of glacial patience and smile inside for the next opportunity.
Gutta cavat lapidem non vi sed saepe cadendo.
