I just read Lauren Winner's book Still: Notes on a Mid-Faith Crisis and am particularly struck by her recognition and discussion of the presence and importance of middles. She mentions the middle voice in other languages in which the subject both acts and is acted upon. She discusses a middle tone in painting which is everything but the striking and noticeable lights and darks; it is everything that plays a supporting role in the painting (but without which the painting, as itself, couldn't exist).
The middle of a hole is empty space. The middle of a hole makes sense, is understood as necessary to and characteristic of a hole, only when the edges are secure and sensible. Otherwise there would be no hole, only uncontained emptiness.
Middles are where silence lives. All that escapes notice, defies voice, and resists definition participates in silence. Bernard Dauenhauer writes about the intervening silences that punctuate language and music by creating rhythm: silence as the empty middle space between sound that gives the sound sense and beauty. In art, silence is in the vacuum of surprise that precedes an altered consciousness.
If middles are where silence is, then God must be there, too. This makes sense to me conceptually, and I like the sound of it; I can't say any further than that.
Wednesday, April 30
Monday, April 28
going native
I can no longer separate my self from my project and I don't know the extent to which this compromises the integrity of argument and my conclusions.
I am living right now in a lacuna in my own life narrative that I cannot quite understand or articulate. Perhaps despair might be considered the fear that the lacuna will be revealed as all there is; the fear that there is no other side to this hole or rupture.
What if I went away? "I could leave my life. I could change completely. Is it time?"* Would that be the reorientation Iris Murdoch discusses, or would that be an attempt to escape into fantasy?
When narrative stalls, is there some other way to propel oneself toward new meaning, or must one simply wait for shore or ship to appear?
*Shelley Jackson, "Sleep," in The Melancholy of Anatomy
I am living right now in a lacuna in my own life narrative that I cannot quite understand or articulate. Perhaps despair might be considered the fear that the lacuna will be revealed as all there is; the fear that there is no other side to this hole or rupture.
What if I went away? "I could leave my life. I could change completely. Is it time?"* Would that be the reorientation Iris Murdoch discusses, or would that be an attempt to escape into fantasy?
When narrative stalls, is there some other way to propel oneself toward new meaning, or must one simply wait for shore or ship to appear?
*Shelley Jackson, "Sleep," in The Melancholy of Anatomy
Friday, April 25
the ghost of spinsterhood yet to come
On Easter Sunday I took an early train from Chicago to the Milwaukee airport so I could spend the day with my family. Sunday mornings are an interesting phenomenon in the Loop, as the streets are quite empty of traffic of all kinds. When the sun is out, the bare openness of the streets bisecting dense forests of concrete, brick, and metal is surprisingly lovely. The sun was out, the air was crisp, and though I had to balance a delicate custard pie, it was a pleasure to be out.
On Easter morning, the streets and the train station were even more deserted than usual. There were few passengers for the morning train. One passenger did catch my eye. She was not young, probably somewhere between late fifties or mid-sixties. I liked how she looked: Her shoes appeared to balance comfort with some style. Her pants had a just-wide-enough leg and a clean line, and they were just swing-y enough without being clingy, fluid, or drape-y. Her hair was a blond-leaning gray and was cropped close in a pixie that was entirely age-appropriate and attractive. She may have worn glasses, but I don't remember that well.
In the morning, at the station, I noticed her and made (as you can see above) little mental notes to myself to file away for my own middle age. While sitting in the waiting area, she looked perfectly pleasant: not timid, nor sour, nor too-bright, nor nervous, nor narrow... She seemed to me to be rather well put together.
She was there again on the Chicago-bound platform at the Milwaukee airport that evening and I had another chance to observe her. I imagined that, like me, she spent the day with some family for the Easter holiday. Perhaps she has a job that prevented her from spending Sunday night away from Chicago. In any event, like me, she made her trip a day-long affair and no more. Like me, she traveled alone.
I can't, of course, claim great insight into a woman's life on the strength of a haircut, a pair of pants, and a commuter train timetable. Perhaps she is happily partnered and spent the day with a dear friend. Perhaps she is indeed single but unhappily so, and the mildness I believed I saw is the result of years of careful hiding. Still I wondered whether that would be me in twenty or thirty years, taking the train alone early on a Sunday morning for a few hours' participation in family life before returning home, alone, to habitual solitude.
On Easter morning, the streets and the train station were even more deserted than usual. There were few passengers for the morning train. One passenger did catch my eye. She was not young, probably somewhere between late fifties or mid-sixties. I liked how she looked: Her shoes appeared to balance comfort with some style. Her pants had a just-wide-enough leg and a clean line, and they were just swing-y enough without being clingy, fluid, or drape-y. Her hair was a blond-leaning gray and was cropped close in a pixie that was entirely age-appropriate and attractive. She may have worn glasses, but I don't remember that well.
In the morning, at the station, I noticed her and made (as you can see above) little mental notes to myself to file away for my own middle age. While sitting in the waiting area, she looked perfectly pleasant: not timid, nor sour, nor too-bright, nor nervous, nor narrow... She seemed to me to be rather well put together.
She was there again on the Chicago-bound platform at the Milwaukee airport that evening and I had another chance to observe her. I imagined that, like me, she spent the day with some family for the Easter holiday. Perhaps she has a job that prevented her from spending Sunday night away from Chicago. In any event, like me, she made her trip a day-long affair and no more. Like me, she traveled alone.
I can't, of course, claim great insight into a woman's life on the strength of a haircut, a pair of pants, and a commuter train timetable. Perhaps she is happily partnered and spent the day with a dear friend. Perhaps she is indeed single but unhappily so, and the mildness I believed I saw is the result of years of careful hiding. Still I wondered whether that would be me in twenty or thirty years, taking the train alone early on a Sunday morning for a few hours' participation in family life before returning home, alone, to habitual solitude.
Wednesday, April 23
lessons from trivialities
Although it shames me to confess this, confess it I will: rather than write these last few pages of my dissertation (and really, it is only a few pages), I have been engaged in a nearly non-stop Bones marathon. So many hours spent watching a hyper-rational forensic anthropologist solve murders by examining skeletal remains. (So many hours of inactivity; so many hours watching a fictional character living more intensely than I. So much shame!)
What has surprised me is the pity I feel for many of the bad guys, for the ones who didn't intend murder. The desperation they convey is understandable. That they respond by inflicting harm out of proportion to the situation is also understandable and so human. That they give reasonable-sounding arguments for their actions is both touching and horrifying; like a small child explaining that she hit her brother because he made a mean face at her doll, cause and effect, perceived harm, and the desire for something like justice (restitution and retribution do sound unfortunately similar, no?) are all clearly at play. They try to reason while under pressure and they fail utterly and tragically.
And it seems it must be so (too) easy to fail tragically. How sad it is that one can cause irreparable damage without being conscious of any desire for destruction.
----
When I catch myself engaged in such reflection, I do laugh at myself. I worry that once I finish this degree, I may never be able to do philosophical work ever again. Perhaps I could worry instead that I will never let go of thinking philosophically. Perhaps, if I must worry, it would do me more good to worry that I am limiting myself to overthinking trivialities in order to avoid failures of thought about things of greater importance.
What has surprised me is the pity I feel for many of the bad guys, for the ones who didn't intend murder. The desperation they convey is understandable. That they respond by inflicting harm out of proportion to the situation is also understandable and so human. That they give reasonable-sounding arguments for their actions is both touching and horrifying; like a small child explaining that she hit her brother because he made a mean face at her doll, cause and effect, perceived harm, and the desire for something like justice (restitution and retribution do sound unfortunately similar, no?) are all clearly at play. They try to reason while under pressure and they fail utterly and tragically.
And it seems it must be so (too) easy to fail tragically. How sad it is that one can cause irreparable damage without being conscious of any desire for destruction.
----
When I catch myself engaged in such reflection, I do laugh at myself. I worry that once I finish this degree, I may never be able to do philosophical work ever again. Perhaps I could worry instead that I will never let go of thinking philosophically. Perhaps, if I must worry, it would do me more good to worry that I am limiting myself to overthinking trivialities in order to avoid failures of thought about things of greater importance.
Monday, April 21
"Kindness...can be as light as speech or as inivisible as inaction."*
Sometimes while cleaning house--usually while scrubbing the floors--I sing, but not on purpose. I often don't realize I've started singing until a word or a phrase or a note trips me up. Usually what I sing are old hymns like Amazing Grace, How Great Thou Art, and It Is Well with My Soul. Whatever my position has been on belief or unbelief, these are the songs I cannot help but sing when I clean my house. These are the songs I forget I know until I hear them from my own mouth. I could sing them half asleep. I could sing them far away from anyone or anything. I have them by heart.
Often while walking in my neighborhood, no matter what else I have had on my mind, I hear in my head the beginning of the final Amen from Handel's Messiah. The "Amen" has, somehow, and for no reason I can discern, become my most familiar walking song. I don't have it by heart; it all falls apart in the middle. But the pieces are with me often.
When I visit the Art Institute, I tend to visit the same galleries over and over. I notice when my ladies (Jean Bellegambe's St. Catherine and St. Barbara) are away or repositioned. I keep forgetting to look up all the ladies in the triptych depicting the Virgin and Child with Saints. I haven't got them by heart, either; I can call up the mood of each painting at will, but I cannot call up the details.
I want to fill my mind, my mouth, and my eyes with such images and words and ideas that will be with me always so that when I am alone or lonely or badly provisioned, I will have within myself beautiful things to sustain me. I want to practice kindness and honor so frequently that when the stakes are high, it still does not occur to me to waver.
*title taken from Casey N. Cep's "Your Kindness is Good for You"
Often while walking in my neighborhood, no matter what else I have had on my mind, I hear in my head the beginning of the final Amen from Handel's Messiah. The "Amen" has, somehow, and for no reason I can discern, become my most familiar walking song. I don't have it by heart; it all falls apart in the middle. But the pieces are with me often.
When I visit the Art Institute, I tend to visit the same galleries over and over. I notice when my ladies (Jean Bellegambe's St. Catherine and St. Barbara) are away or repositioned. I keep forgetting to look up all the ladies in the triptych depicting the Virgin and Child with Saints. I haven't got them by heart, either; I can call up the mood of each painting at will, but I cannot call up the details.
I want to fill my mind, my mouth, and my eyes with such images and words and ideas that will be with me always so that when I am alone or lonely or badly provisioned, I will have within myself beautiful things to sustain me. I want to practice kindness and honor so frequently that when the stakes are high, it still does not occur to me to waver.
*title taken from Casey N. Cep's "Your Kindness is Good for You"
Friday, April 18
when someone is kind
This is what it feels like when someone is kind or generous toward me: Imagine someone you respect and admire very much. It could be a good friend or a mentor or a relative. This is a good person, a real mensch. Someone who embodies qualities you hope to develop one day. Now imagine encountering that person on a day on which he or she is wearing a unique and precious heirloom. A watch, maybe, or a bracelet. Or a gossamer merino scarf in rich colors. Something beautiful and absolutely one-of-a-kind. Irreplaceable, and replete with stories and heritage. You see your cherished friend and she is wearing her lovely scarf and you tell her, "That is such a lovely scarf!" She smiles and then takes off her scarf and winds it around your neck and tells you, happily, that she wants you to have it.
Do you feel the dread, the panic, the sense of heartbreak and loss? You want to stop her, to tell her "No! Please. This is not mine and I can't possibly wear this beautiful thing. I didn't mean for you to give it to me. I simply wanted to admire it on you--" But how can you say that? How can you meet such generosity with ingratitude? "You misunderstood me," you want to say. "I wasn't asking for anything." But you can't say that either because you have always admired her style and judgment. Which is more/less bearable, to think she misunderstood and misjudged or to think that she truly means to give a gift the worth of which you cannot fully comprehend?
Do you feel your own stinginess and poverty as you know yourself to be unable to give comparable gifts? Are you afraid she will regret the loss of something so beautiful and so rare? Are you worried that the scarf, the watch, the kindness will not fit with your typical style? If it doesn't fit, what will you do? Will you shove it to the back of your closet or deep inside a drawer you rarely open so that you can try to forget about it? Will you clasp the beautiful thing around your wrist or wind it around your throat even though your own wardrobe looks shabbier next to your friend's generous gift? Or will you have to change everything even though it costs more than you have?
Do you feel the dread, the panic, the sense of heartbreak and loss? You want to stop her, to tell her "No! Please. This is not mine and I can't possibly wear this beautiful thing. I didn't mean for you to give it to me. I simply wanted to admire it on you--" But how can you say that? How can you meet such generosity with ingratitude? "You misunderstood me," you want to say. "I wasn't asking for anything." But you can't say that either because you have always admired her style and judgment. Which is more/less bearable, to think she misunderstood and misjudged or to think that she truly means to give a gift the worth of which you cannot fully comprehend?
Do you feel your own stinginess and poverty as you know yourself to be unable to give comparable gifts? Are you afraid she will regret the loss of something so beautiful and so rare? Are you worried that the scarf, the watch, the kindness will not fit with your typical style? If it doesn't fit, what will you do? Will you shove it to the back of your closet or deep inside a drawer you rarely open so that you can try to forget about it? Will you clasp the beautiful thing around your wrist or wind it around your throat even though your own wardrobe looks shabbier next to your friend's generous gift? Or will you have to change everything even though it costs more than you have?
Wednesday, April 16
afraid of silence
I am learning a lesson in humility I did not expect. Graduate work tends to be filled with such lessons, often arriving in the form of impostor syndrome and all its symptoms and manifestations. But this is a little heartbreaking and very personal as it touches my project specifically. My project is an argument for the moral and professional necessity of understanding the role of silence in moral life. We create silences and encounter silences all the time but we rarely learn to see or respect them, and we rarely learn to understand them without breaking them open or filling them up.
When I devised the project, I became quite quickly smitten with silence as a given, as a part of reality and also with silence as a goal, as an intentional construction that preserves something beautiful, good, or right. Moreover, I thought of myself as well-suited to silence. I live alone and I have taken not a little pride in my self-sufficiency. I live alone and have long preferred quiet in my personal space. I live alone and find it very difficult to confide in others or to open myself up to real intimacy.
But now I seem to be afraid of real solitude and afraid to sit in silence by/with myself. Mere months ago I would have felt morally superior to anyone who admitted to a fear of solitude or of silence. Now I can say I would feel compassion instead. Eventually I will be grateful for this lesson.
When I devised the project, I became quite quickly smitten with silence as a given, as a part of reality and also with silence as a goal, as an intentional construction that preserves something beautiful, good, or right. Moreover, I thought of myself as well-suited to silence. I live alone and I have taken not a little pride in my self-sufficiency. I live alone and have long preferred quiet in my personal space. I live alone and find it very difficult to confide in others or to open myself up to real intimacy.
But now I seem to be afraid of real solitude and afraid to sit in silence by/with myself. Mere months ago I would have felt morally superior to anyone who admitted to a fear of solitude or of silence. Now I can say I would feel compassion instead. Eventually I will be grateful for this lesson.
Monday, April 14
teach us to sit still
Prayer is properly not petition, but simply attention to God, which is a form of love. —Iris Murdoch, "On 'God' and 'Good'"
Consequently, prayer is a matter of love. —Archimandrite Zacharias, The Hidden Man of the Heart
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still.
Consequently, prayer is a matter of love. —Archimandrite Zacharias, The Hidden Man of the Heart
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still.
Monday, April 7
spinster woes
I have lived alone in my current apartment for nine years. I had a roommate for the year before that, but the three years prior to that, I lived alone. So for 12 of the past 13 years, I have lived alone. I like living alone. Yes, I am responsible for all the chores all the time. On the other hand, the only messes I have to clean up are those I make. I don't have to worry about privacy or about anyone eating the best leftovers. I never have to wait for the bathroom. I can sleep when I want and where I want. If I want to stack these mugs in this way (but never, ever stack those mugs in any way), that's okay. In short, I have a lot of freedom and I am very accustomed to it.
Sometimes, of course, when I am feeling lonely or overwhelmed, I wish there was someone to make me a plate of eggs. Eggs are simple and fast and require very little work to prepare or clean up. But that's not quite the point. Sometimes everything is just exhausting and even though you can in fact (and will, in fact) do everything for yourself (not least because it must be done and there is no one else to do it), it would just be nice to have someone take care of you a little bit, for just a little while. So you could feel relieved and grateful. So you could feel a little of that half-anxiety where you feel guilty for letting someone take care of you when your limbs are whole, your health is fine, and no one has died--guilty but also thankful and loved and lucky. I am thankful and loved and lucky, and I feel those things frequently. But I have to go and make my own plate of eggs now. I have to do the dishes, wash the counters, clear off the table, and then cook the eggs, scoop them on a plate, and serve them to myself. And it's not the same. Not the same at all.
Sometimes, of course, when I am feeling lonely or overwhelmed, I wish there was someone to make me a plate of eggs. Eggs are simple and fast and require very little work to prepare or clean up. But that's not quite the point. Sometimes everything is just exhausting and even though you can in fact (and will, in fact) do everything for yourself (not least because it must be done and there is no one else to do it), it would just be nice to have someone take care of you a little bit, for just a little while. So you could feel relieved and grateful. So you could feel a little of that half-anxiety where you feel guilty for letting someone take care of you when your limbs are whole, your health is fine, and no one has died--guilty but also thankful and loved and lucky. I am thankful and loved and lucky, and I feel those things frequently. But I have to go and make my own plate of eggs now. I have to do the dishes, wash the counters, clear off the table, and then cook the eggs, scoop them on a plate, and serve them to myself. And it's not the same. Not the same at all.
Friday, April 4
the familiar vs. the unknown
Stacy over at chaplainjesuslady knocked it out of the park today. "Do you want to be made well?"--that is a question I've been asking myself lately as I have been moping and stalling and pushing off graduation, pushing away opportunities for friendship and (real) recreation. I've resisted things I enjoy, like going to see plays, reading gorgeous novels, taking walks, or visiting the Art Institute, and have been filling my time with low-quality television, endless blog scrolling, sleeping to the point of headaches. Because I have been avoiding my dissertation, it is becoming very likely that I may have to pay extra fees. I've been disgusted with myself, and primarily because I saw myself doing and not doing all these things and I still preferred being lazy, unmotivated, understimulated, and anxiety-laden.
"Do you want to be made well?" No. No I did not. And that answer is and was distasteful to me, so I brushed it aside. I didn't want to be made well, and I also didn't want to have to think about what that could mean long term.
Stacy the chaplain reframes the choice in that question as one between the known and the unknown. Sickness of any kind, whether physical, psychological, emotional, or spiritual, can become the safe though unfortunate known. Leaving sickness for the unknown path to wellness--sounds like an obvious choice in the abstract, of course. But letting go of those little pockets of "that's not so bad" that count as pleasures and comforts for the future possibility of fabled "real" pleasures you can't even begin to imagine is genuinely difficult.
I can't say I want to be made well. It doesn't feel that way. Remembering that I am resisting the unknown for no other reason than that it is unknown to me makes it easier to take little steps that carry me away from the comfort I cling to only because I know it.
"Do you want to be made well?" No. No I did not. And that answer is and was distasteful to me, so I brushed it aside. I didn't want to be made well, and I also didn't want to have to think about what that could mean long term.
Stacy the chaplain reframes the choice in that question as one between the known and the unknown. Sickness of any kind, whether physical, psychological, emotional, or spiritual, can become the safe though unfortunate known. Leaving sickness for the unknown path to wellness--sounds like an obvious choice in the abstract, of course. But letting go of those little pockets of "that's not so bad" that count as pleasures and comforts for the future possibility of fabled "real" pleasures you can't even begin to imagine is genuinely difficult.
I can't say I want to be made well. It doesn't feel that way. Remembering that I am resisting the unknown for no other reason than that it is unknown to me makes it easier to take little steps that carry me away from the comfort I cling to only because I know it.
Wednesday, April 2
A Jonah Season
Poor Anne (of Avonlea) had a Jonah day once. It started with a toothache-induced sleepless night that left her sour and humorless. It included exploding fireworks, a mouse in her desk, and having to violate her principle of kindness and non-violence with her students, rapping the most incorrigible offender on the knuckles with her pointer. What makes it a Jonah and not a Job day is that (a) she really did bring it on herself; and (b) she was unexpectedly and incomprehensibly effective. Jonah runs into his string of bad luck because he runs away from his duty and then, after he finally does what is required of him, meeting with extraordinary success, he sits and sulks. Anne didn't quite run away from duty to such a degree, and she didn't really sulk so much as sob and feel very disappointed in herself, but then, we should know to expect this of her.
I am having a more Jonah-ish season than did Anne. I am running away from my dissertation and degree, avoiding it, trying to find a good reason why I should give up. I am in fact avoiding everything good: exercise, real and regular housekeeping, reading real things. And knowing myself, should I finally complete the dissertation, and should it be decent, I'll be even more sour than I would had it failed--as peevish as Jonah witnessing Ninevah's repentance.
The only silver lining I can find is this: hopefully it will be a Jonah season indeed. With luck, I will succeed enough to start a new stage of my life and will be able to grow into a more graceful way of behaving after this Jonah peevishness. I can be as angry, bitchy, crabby, sour as I want so long as I do what must be done. It would be nice to be more cheerful, positive, and graceful. But the feelings need to become less important than doing the work. Okay whale, cough me up. I'll do it.
I am having a more Jonah-ish season than did Anne. I am running away from my dissertation and degree, avoiding it, trying to find a good reason why I should give up. I am in fact avoiding everything good: exercise, real and regular housekeeping, reading real things. And knowing myself, should I finally complete the dissertation, and should it be decent, I'll be even more sour than I would had it failed--as peevish as Jonah witnessing Ninevah's repentance.
The only silver lining I can find is this: hopefully it will be a Jonah season indeed. With luck, I will succeed enough to start a new stage of my life and will be able to grow into a more graceful way of behaving after this Jonah peevishness. I can be as angry, bitchy, crabby, sour as I want so long as I do what must be done. It would be nice to be more cheerful, positive, and graceful. But the feelings need to become less important than doing the work. Okay whale, cough me up. I'll do it.
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