a book to close reluctantly

A friend lent us her copy of The Diary of a Country Priest and recommended it as good lenten reading. Since I just finished a really ridiculous paperback fantasy novel by Robert Jordan, which took me a disproportionately long time to read (I began it the day after Christmas), I decided that Great Lent might be a good time to return to real literature and make a better effort to spend more time reading, rather than just snatches of time in between other tasks, and uh, wathcing evening re-runs of Seinfeld, and (more embarrassingly) King of Queens.

I began this a few days ago and can already sniff it out as a book that will become a favorite. It says something that I actually failed to realize at first that it is fiction; I thought for the first several pages that it was a real, published diary. But long ago I decided that fiction that could be real, might as well be real; and fiction that might as well be real, is in fact real, because it has a real effect, and good fiction has a real effect on the reader. For me, the mere existence of a holy person has great power to cheer me up and bolster my faith, even if I don't know them personally. The character of the country priest is real to me in this way, and his existence, his articulation of thoughts, his virtue, sensitivity, self-deprecation, second guessing of himself, social awkwardness, consciensciousness (will someone spell this for me while I type it out?) toward others, ability to perceive, his feelings of impotence and powerlessness within the realm of practical things, and so on, gives me hope, cheers me up, and comforts just as adequately as would the existence of a real person, alive right now, or having lived in another century. Far from slamming this book shut like a hot potato, I keep closing it reluctantly.

Here are just a few quotes related to his thoughts on keeping a diary:

"When writing of oneself one should show no mercy. Yet why at the first attempt to discover one's own truth does all inner strength seem to melt away in floods of self-pity and tenderness and rising tears...."

"I hoped that this diary might help me concentrate my thoughts, which will go wandering on the few occasions when I have some chance to think a little. I had thought it might become a kind of communion between God and myself, an extension of prayer, a way of easing the difficulties of verbal expression which always seems insurmountable to me, due no doubt to the twinges of pain in my inside. Instead I have been made to realize what a huge inordinate part of my life is taken up with the hundred and one little daily worries which at times I used to think I had shaken off for good. Of course Our Lord take His share of all our troubles, even the paltriest, and scorns nothing. But why record in black and white matters which should be dismissed as fast as they happen?"

you can't satisfactorily slam shut a mini edition

My parents are sweet, and always sending me random things through the mail. For Valentine's Day, I got two mini-edition books from them: a sentimental book about mother-daughter relationships, and The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. I always wonder, while standing in line at Barnes & Noble's, who the heck buys those crazy, pointless mini editions. Well, now I know.

The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People keeps re-introducing itself to me, each time giving me a bigger inferiority complex. The first time I had to overcome my aversion to self-help books in order to read it for a class at seminary. It was a major breakthrough, because I sincerely loved it, and learned a lot from it. The chapter on listening, in particular, impacted me and actually made its way into my permanent value system. Other chapters made me enthusiastic, but were more short-lived, as evidenced by the fact that I can't remember them well. Something about your circle of influence, negotiating win-win situations, and making sure to get the proper amount of sleep and exercise because you don't want to kill the chicken in order to get the golden egg, if that makes sense.

A few years after seminary was way behind me, I got it down from the shelf and started reading through it again with renewed enthusiasm. I wanted those habits to be mine, my very own, and now that I was out of the crucible of seminary life, I might actually have a chance to reflect on the habits and encorporate them into life in the real world. I think I may have even made a sincere attempt at writing a life mission statement, which is one of the book's recommendations ("begin with the end in mind").

But somehow the project fell flat in the end, particularly the personal mission statement. For example, if I had written a mission statement a few years ago, I never would have presumed that I would now have a living, breathing child to my credit. Some people just assume that parenthood will eventually befall them, but I always assume the worst. I thought something tragic, like never finding anyone to marry, or a miscarriage, or worse, would surely befall me before the honor of parenthood would. I could just never bring myself to write detailed game plan that encompassed my future, as if I could presume anything about the future, and the roles I would play. But I'm getting sidetracked.

The book has so many great principles for living in it, and they once really set a fire under my seat. I think that's why when I open the book now, even the mini edition, I feel like a loser. The mini edition comes to me at a time when I feel like I am constantly struggling to do the basics, as I've written about before. There are some really embarrassing aspects of my life right now that are indicative of my incompetency, or, if you will, my ineffectiveness. I'll share two: 1) I was a member of the local YMCA here for a year and a half, paying dues, even though I haven't been in over a year; I finally went in and canceled today; and 2) Jeff and I are paying for two separate phone plans rather than being on a family deal that would save us money, all because I keep putting off that dreaded trip to the cingular store to change our contract. And then there are pesky things like the credit card offers that, rather than opening and shredding as they come in daily, I let pile up until they become a huge shredding project that I want to put off indefinitely.

Considering the elemental level of my current struggles, I thought that perhaps I could humble myself enough to read the mini edition. In fact, I started cheering myself up with the possibility that perhaps the mini edition is exactly what I need right now. Instead, I opened to the first page, encountered something about composing a mission statement, felt a sharp pang of loser-hood, and tried to slam it shut. Unfortunately, the mini edition doesn't afford a very satisfactory slamming.

cookie monster, you disappoint me

grapefruit monster?
Originally uploaded by Julia Wickes.

The cookie monster, a cultural icon of cookie-o-philia, is trying to publicly reinvent himself. How much did they pay him, I wonder, to hang up his true cookie-loving public persona? Personally, I think it's too late for him-- he's been around too long to change this late in the game. I can't look at him and associate him with anything but the Famous Amos food group.

Our friend Violet pulled this magnet out of a bag of citrus she bought and announced that the cookie monster was no longer eating cookies. As a parent, I find this confusing and disturbing. Being a parent can be confusing enough, without the cookie monster pulling the rug out from under your feet. I am constantly seeking out information on how to parent well. I've dabbled in so many parenting books that my mind is a veritable storehouse of parenting theories, many of them in direct contradiction to one another. I am weary of instructions on sleep training, soothing methods, and attachment versus "let cry." Pretty soon, Esme will begin eating solid foods. I just bought a great book on how to make healthy baby food at home, called The Petit Appetit. I am always striving to give Esme the best, but over and over again, life isn't perfect. On some occasions, I'm going to let her eat cookies rather than grapefruit, with or without the traditional support of the cookie monster.

fat tuesday meets compunction already in progress

Yesterday evening was spiritually disjointed in a way that is becoming familiar. Being at Notre Dame, it makes sense that most of our friends are Catholic. Therefore when we accepted an invitation to a get-together at the house of our friends Mike and Violet, I might have remembered that it was actually a party for Fat Tuesday, which is the day before Ash Wednesday, and Lent's beginning in the Catholic Church. And fat was indeed served. I kept wondering why all of these normally frugal eaters, veritable champions for simplicity of lifestyle and social responsibility, were whipping out, in a manner implying a rare break from the norm, a variety of imported cheeses, fruity beers, juicy olives, quiche, jumbalaya (sp?), and finally king's cake with cream cheese icing. I just came out of a coma; lent is over, and it's Pascha!! No. It was Fat Tuesday. The only problem is that we were already two days into Orthodox Lent, and should probably be eating boiled potatoes...or something. Oh well. As usual, I say oh well.

The party was good-clean-fun. Some friends who were at Notre Dame last year but had since moved back to New Orleans were back in town with their new baby. There were babies, joking, scrabble, various cooks in the kitchen, and platters of salty things. "I'm nursing anyway, so I'm not exactly doing the fast formally," I told myself. At the dinner table the conversation was exuberent. Somehow "your mamma's so fat jokes" came up as topic. Anyone who attended public schools would be able to contribute something to such a conversation. Liz, however, puzzled us all by throwing out, "Your mamma's so fat she ate skittles and a rainbow came out." What? We all decided she was missing some key element to the logic of that one. Mike said it was like saying: "Your mamma's so fat, she doesn't need to mow the lawn because she has blades on her feet and just walks across it." I suppose you woulda-hadda-been-there, but I was laughing hilariously. St John Climacus would surely not approve.

We left the party early because the Lollars, who moved here from the seminary last July, had invited us to join them in saying the Canon of St Andrew of Crete, the prayers that are said on the first Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday of Lent in the Orthodox Church. These were some of my favorite services at the seminary, like listening to a series of short stories sung primarily by the basey voices of the male choir and a cluster of black-robed priests. Each failure in the Old and New Testaments is reviewed (which is why it takes three nights). The prayers are punctuated with, "Oh my soul, you are worse than [said character], for you have [committed an even worse act] by [neglecting to love God in some specific way that is similar to said character]. It is very poetic, very creative, beautiful, and sobering.

When we got to Deacon Joshua's house, all was quiet, as their three children were already in bed. Esme was also asleep in her car seat and I set her down in a dark room downstairs with their baby moniter on. We put on coats and hats and crept through their snowy backyard into their carport, which is newly-built, with clean wood beams inside. Deacon Joshua is not going to use it as a carport, but is converting it into a chapel, which is quite useful, since we all go to church one hour away and simply can't go that often. After candles were lit inside, we began the prayers; we could see our breath in the cold air. It was hard to get in touch with the prayers; I kept thinking about funny things said at dinner even as my toes got cold. My body was standing in a frosty, humble family chapel on the second day of Lent. I was trying to say words to "my soul" about its destitution. But my heart, mind and soul were still at a Fat Tuesday party, laughing at something someone said.

This was all just happenstance and not really significant, but it reminded me of how I often feel, when my feeble attempts to live according to the liturgical calendar turn into a fiasco involving the pull of other relationships. Neither mine nor Jeff's parents are Orthodox. While at Jeff's parents' house before Christmas, for example, we would not have had a snowball's chance in a Southern Baptist parking lot of keeping the fast. Not that we're champion fasters in the best of times, by any means, but still, the dilemma is ever-present. I often feel that if Jeff and I wanted to be "turbo-Orthodox", it would mean a significant, deliberate limiting of many relationships, particularly family, and particularly on holidays, which is basically impossible, and of course undesirable and unthinkable. In the meantime, holidays continue to feel schizophrenic, and it is no one's fault that I can see. As far as I can tell, this is just the way it is when you convert to Orthodoxy.

During Forgiveness Vespers, we toted Esme around with us as we bowed and asked forgiveness of each person at church. Her eyes were alight and she seemed delighted with this game. I thought about how different her life will be as she cycles through these services year after year and they imprint themselves on her upbringing. This may be premature, but if she keeps the faith and I live long enough, she will get to spend holidays with parents who share the same perspectives, the same traditions. I'm glad she'll have that..and I'm glad I'll have that too.

don't leave your heart at the movies

I spent several hours tinkering with my computer the past few days, on the phone with apple technical support. Everyone I talked to there was very nice, but I'd rather have a working computer. I'm at the library using a public machine, and there is a foreign hair in a keyboard crevice, which I want to remove, but dare not touch. So if I'm behind on reading your blog or answering your e-mail, you know why.

Some friends-- two couples, actually-- volunteered to babysit Esme so that Jeff and I could go out on Valentine's Day. It had been so long since we'd seen the inside of a movie theater, that we decided to plan our evening around a movie. The only good one playing, at least in South Bend, was Pan's Labyrinth, so we went. Our plan was to come home afterward and watch Lost with our friends on television at 10 p.m. I should have known it would happen, but after it was all over and I went to bed, the themes and images that had passed before my eyes that night kept me wakeful, as Jeff snoozed peacefully beside me. I got up and wrote, wrote, wrote, since that is the only thing I know how to do when my mind is working that way. I wrote with a pen in a notebook, my laptop a cold lump of silver metal beside me. I felt disturbed by the scenes of cruelty in Pan's Labyrinth involving the central antagonist, a Spanish military captain, who could make the gentlest saint entertain, for a split second, the thought of murder if it meant relieving the planet of his wickedness. In one evening, I saw people knifed, shot, beaten, bleeding, tortured, and desperate to escape some enemy-- several times over. It made me feel as if danger was beating down the door of our apartment, in which a little baby lies sleeping in total vulnerability. This theme keeps reappearing on my blog, getting old, but I guess it reappears in my life too, which is why I rarely have an entire week of good sleep.

I finally had to remind myself that although the evil I saw was realistic in a sense, not fantastic, believable (sort of), it wasn't my evil, exactly. "We do not know what to ask of you, whether a cross of a consolation." Crosses are probably as abundant as I suspect, but I have to believe in an arbiter or crosses, someone who distributes them in a reasonable, sensible manner, with consolations in between. The world is not just a chaos of torture, as I feel it is after several hours of movies and television. Somewhere in my teenage readings of C.S. Lewis I remember him saying that no one suffers all the pain in the world single-handedly, and that by itself makes the problem of pain in this world seem much more manageable.

I'm grateful that Lent is right around the corner. I'm ready for it. I will probably never swear off television and movies forever, but perhaps I need a break to allow myself to get in touch with the consolations of my life. Also, I don't think God requires me to lose sleep over the problem of evil in the universe at large, only the problem of evil within me.

the rickety furnaces i depend on

bedroom window
Originally uploaded by Julia Wickes.

When the temperatures stay this low, for this long, I think about the planet as a dangerous place. I think about the homeless, or just people who live in drafty houses. I think about the fact that anyone exposed could actually die or lose limbs in these temperatures.

Our church is an hour drive from us, in Chesterton, and going actually seemed kind of risky this past Sunday. I mean, our car is reliable, but it still felt like a flimsy separation between us and the howling desert of ice that we drove through just to show up (very late) to liturgy. At coffee hour I was recruited to a table of women-- all mothers of various ages-- including the priest's very sweet wife. She uncerimoniously pinched my wrist and informed Esme that her mother "did not eat enough calories." What? Firstly, I must say that I in fact pig out. Lately I have been eating no less than four tofutti cuties per day, for example. Secondly, my wrist is not the place to pinch if you are going to measure the percentage of my body fat unless you want to get a false reading. Nevertheless, the discussion about how to eat nourishing foods while breastfeeding made me quietly recommit to a high calorie breakfast, so this morning I woke up and made buckwheat pancakes and baked pears with cinnamon.

I was lying awake thinking of these things and also of a story my grandfather told me about WWII. He was stationed in the Aleutian Islands (Alaska), where he said that the temps were so low that they had to read the thermometer from a distance, with binoculars, to get a true reading. If a man approached the mercury too closely, his body heat would cause it to rise.

I don't know how cold it would have to get to create such a phenomenon, but it was negative five degrees when Jeff left for school the other day.

I started taking vitamin D to keep seasonal affective disorder at bay, and it seems to work. I have energy to accomplish things around the apartment and don't get plowed under the frost and shadow, taking Esme with me. Our social calendar is also pretty full this month, which helps tremendously. I have a girl's game night, dinner with friends, a folk festival at the University of Chicago, and another meeting with some friends in Indianapolis all lined up. Oh, and some friends volunteered to babysit Esme so that Jeff and I can go out on Valentine's Day. Knowing that all of these things are coming up really helps keep me from my usual post-holiday gloominess.

But all of it feels like a room full of rickety furnaces against the cold outside. I'm frantically tending them, stoking them. What if one of those furnaces were to falter and give out? My computer died, and it's usually one of my surest life lines against isolation and stagnation at home. I can feel the draft blowing from the particular corner. I'm spoiled, for sure. How did people survive winters in decades past? I know my brother-in-law from Wisconsin says they all got together at people's houses, all the time, to play games and watch the Packers. If you can't do that, I imagine the whole thing turning into a nonfiction version of Ethan Frome.