When I am not writing, it is hard for me to pray. Writing is connected with prayer in ways I don't understand. Why is it that when I shy away from the work of letting the words out and honing them on the page I find it hard to lift my voice to heaven? It's not the same thing, at least not always at the same time. Prayer is a matter of joy and obedience. Writing can easily be called a matter of joy, but what if it, too, requires obedience? It is hard to speak in this way, but I find no other way of describing my life.
Yesterday I said I am filled with words that must be let out. But why do I experience the world this way? I have friends who share my environment and academic lifestyle who take things in very differently. (One friend told me, "I think in paintings and emote in words.") I can only conclude that God made me this way. I believe he made me with the capacity - or even the need - to maintain a relationship with language.
If this is the case, when I choose not to commit to that relationship I am defying God. These sound like stark terms for addressing the need to create, or make art, which my surrounding culture often seems to see as elective. Everyone has certain basic challenges, of course: earning enough to cover one's expenses, finding meaningful connection with other human beings, dealing with hardship and mistakes. These are the "givens" for nearly everyone. In these terms the making of art is often labelled unnecessary, a luxury to be attained if possible that we will come to no harm for having to do without.
But if God made some of us as artists (as surely as He made some of us as mathematicians, athletes, and diplomats), are we not attempting to thwart His purpose for our characters if we refuse to make art? Of course I'm not saying that making art is the only thing He calls upon us to do. But if it is somehow basic to who we are, it seems reasonable to conclude that God had a reason for making us that way. If the circumstances of our lives give us any chance at all, we must make some attempt at our art, put some effort toward discovering the reason for our gifts. (The need to make art is the foundation of artistic gifting, it seems to me.)
Our gifts are for ourselves and for God first, before they can be shared with anyone else. When a painter takes a canvas into a field, honoring the meadowflowers God made by painting them and taking pleasure in the effort, it seems to me that God is pleased whether any other human being sees the painting or not. When a writer lays honest words on a page (or the metaphorical page, the screen) it seems to me God is pleased even if the piece is read by Him alone. Sometimes I even wonder whether the purpose of some works is simply to be written, and not to be read.
Perhaps this is why it is difficult to pray when I'm not writing. Perhaps the concentrated veiling of my heart that causes me to stop writing is also a kind of hiding from God. He calls me to the page to be vulnerable, to say out loud the things I'm frightened of, happy about, or angered by, so that He can answer me in His own way. He too has spoken in a book. He too has revealed Himself in writing.
21 April 2014
20 April 2014
Destiny and the Lonely Writer
I told myself I was going to hit "publish" on this post no matter what happened.
Here goes.
I am a writer who has gotten out of the habit of writing. You would be justified in asking (O mysterious reader) why I call myself a writer if I'm not, in fact, producing many words. Although I write something down nearly every day, it may just be a paragraph in a journal, something like, "I do not like the way this day is going. I wish the weather would clear up so I could see the sky. It feels as though the sky has gotten lower in my life too because of busyness." These little bursts are like the trickling of a water balloon with a leak. The words must get out. I'm filled with them.
To be Edith is to be a writer, the way for some to be Welsh is to be a singer. It was not a quality I chose for myself and it has not always felt welcome. When art becomes like a runner's addiction it can get painful. One almost wishes one hadn't built up the stamina so that one's legs needed the daily exercise. One cannot rid them of the energy except by running. I cannot rid myself of this poetic kind of energy except by writing.
Sometimes I have simply refused. I have told myself I had better things to do than write what I wanted, which was fiction. I have curled up inside and held myself tight, hiding from the need to face the page. But it never left. It only became cramped, sore, or worse, ingrown. And the blank page was always waiting for me somewhere.
I am facing the page now. I am tugging at myself, trying to let myself uncurl inside, to stretch and stand up straight, and there is pain in the process. There has been so much tension for so long that it could not have been painless to ease out of it. But it is the pain of healing. I hope I am becoming wise enough to know that the pain of healing, or the pain of facing the page, is better than the pain of denial.
So I will hit "publish" on this post. It helps me to know that my trickle of words doesn't flow out into a vacuum. You may be out there, somewhere, the nebulous "you," the representative of the world I am trying to reach with my writer's voice. And if you are there, you may be listening. It might help me to know; but whether or not I know I must keep writing, sending out my voice, as though you are there, as though it does matter, even if in the end the only answer I get is an echo. Myself is better company than none.
Here goes.
I am a writer who has gotten out of the habit of writing. You would be justified in asking (O mysterious reader) why I call myself a writer if I'm not, in fact, producing many words. Although I write something down nearly every day, it may just be a paragraph in a journal, something like, "I do not like the way this day is going. I wish the weather would clear up so I could see the sky. It feels as though the sky has gotten lower in my life too because of busyness." These little bursts are like the trickling of a water balloon with a leak. The words must get out. I'm filled with them.
To be Edith is to be a writer, the way for some to be Welsh is to be a singer. It was not a quality I chose for myself and it has not always felt welcome. When art becomes like a runner's addiction it can get painful. One almost wishes one hadn't built up the stamina so that one's legs needed the daily exercise. One cannot rid them of the energy except by running. I cannot rid myself of this poetic kind of energy except by writing.
Sometimes I have simply refused. I have told myself I had better things to do than write what I wanted, which was fiction. I have curled up inside and held myself tight, hiding from the need to face the page. But it never left. It only became cramped, sore, or worse, ingrown. And the blank page was always waiting for me somewhere.
I am facing the page now. I am tugging at myself, trying to let myself uncurl inside, to stretch and stand up straight, and there is pain in the process. There has been so much tension for so long that it could not have been painless to ease out of it. But it is the pain of healing. I hope I am becoming wise enough to know that the pain of healing, or the pain of facing the page, is better than the pain of denial.
So I will hit "publish" on this post. It helps me to know that my trickle of words doesn't flow out into a vacuum. You may be out there, somewhere, the nebulous "you," the representative of the world I am trying to reach with my writer's voice. And if you are there, you may be listening. It might help me to know; but whether or not I know I must keep writing, sending out my voice, as though you are there, as though it does matter, even if in the end the only answer I get is an echo. Myself is better company than none.
30 August 2013
Before the Silver Cord is Snapped
Perhaps too much has already been said about being young. It seems to have been considered from every possible angle: As unmitigated blessing, as inevitable struggle, as joyride, as travail, as triumphal emergence, as process of disillusionment. One might question how many universal statements can be made about it since its environment shapes it so deeply. Further, there is an apparent irony in studying it. Those who have a large enough perspective to grasp the vagaries and essences of youth are usually past it; they may have dimming memory of how it felt encountered firsthand. Those in the midst of youth have vivid, abundant experiences of it for data, but often lack the perspective to fit their experience into a large enough context.
It seems to me that a similar irony exists when the young examine any of life's "big issues." At the time of life most formative and most crucial in the examination of life's deep considerations, the young are often (due to their youth and lack of broad experience) ill-equipped to wrestle well with these very things. This seems proof enough that younger people need - not simply benefit from - the consistent involvement of caring older people in their lives, and I would hold tenaciously to this principle. But let me speak for a moment of how this irony affects me and, especially, this blog.
I am still in my youth (suffice it to say I'm college-age) and find in myself many of youth's limitations. Yet for years already I have found myself unsatisfied by investing my deepest thought or effort into anything shy of ultimate questions of reality and living. I have a philosophical bent (and always have), but I imagine many of my fellow young people, whether or not they enjoy academics per se, feel a similar urgency in grasping reality. I need to think through challenging questions, and having thought through them to the best of my present ability, to enter into conversation about them. But this puts me in a dilemma. I believe in - and feel - the human need for wise, tested, true answers to life's questions, yet I find in myself the desire to join the conversation before I can contribute much more than a few hard-won observations and numerous (possibly unoriginal) questions.
Youth is wisest when it is humble. I felt it was important to say these things before I plunged into topics that many older and wiser people have considered with more insight and grace than I can ever hope to muster at this stage in my life. It is only because I hope that someday I will be one of those older and wiser people that I offer these thoughts. Let me encourage my fellow young people to do the same: Join life's great conversation now, whether you have much, little, or even nothing to say. Come to listen and grow, to coordinate pieces of knowledge, and to appreciate the wisdom of those who have trekked these roads before us. Never give up the pursuit of truth; never allow realism to sour into cynicism; never let matters too light to build a life on rob you of a sure foundation. Strive to receive the mentoring of the wise so that someday you can be a wise mentor. If this doesn't seem to us to be living life to its fullest, we have not yet grasped the terrifying gravity of living.
It seems to me that a similar irony exists when the young examine any of life's "big issues." At the time of life most formative and most crucial in the examination of life's deep considerations, the young are often (due to their youth and lack of broad experience) ill-equipped to wrestle well with these very things. This seems proof enough that younger people need - not simply benefit from - the consistent involvement of caring older people in their lives, and I would hold tenaciously to this principle. But let me speak for a moment of how this irony affects me and, especially, this blog.
I am still in my youth (suffice it to say I'm college-age) and find in myself many of youth's limitations. Yet for years already I have found myself unsatisfied by investing my deepest thought or effort into anything shy of ultimate questions of reality and living. I have a philosophical bent (and always have), but I imagine many of my fellow young people, whether or not they enjoy academics per se, feel a similar urgency in grasping reality. I need to think through challenging questions, and having thought through them to the best of my present ability, to enter into conversation about them. But this puts me in a dilemma. I believe in - and feel - the human need for wise, tested, true answers to life's questions, yet I find in myself the desire to join the conversation before I can contribute much more than a few hard-won observations and numerous (possibly unoriginal) questions.
Youth is wisest when it is humble. I felt it was important to say these things before I plunged into topics that many older and wiser people have considered with more insight and grace than I can ever hope to muster at this stage in my life. It is only because I hope that someday I will be one of those older and wiser people that I offer these thoughts. Let me encourage my fellow young people to do the same: Join life's great conversation now, whether you have much, little, or even nothing to say. Come to listen and grow, to coordinate pieces of knowledge, and to appreciate the wisdom of those who have trekked these roads before us. Never give up the pursuit of truth; never allow realism to sour into cynicism; never let matters too light to build a life on rob you of a sure foundation. Strive to receive the mentoring of the wise so that someday you can be a wise mentor. If this doesn't seem to us to be living life to its fullest, we have not yet grasped the terrifying gravity of living.
"Remember also your Creator in the days of your youth,
before the evil days come and the years draw near of which you will say,
'I have no pleasure in them;' before the sun and the light
and the moon and the stars are darkened and the clouds
return after the rain, in the day when the keepers of the house tremble,
and the strong men are bent, and the grinders cease
because they are few, and those who look through the windows
are dimmed, and the doors on the street are shut -
when the sound of the grinding is low, and one rises up
at the sound of a bird, and all the daughters of song are brought low -
they are afraid also of what is high, and terrors are in the way;
the almond tree blossoms, the grasshopper drags itself along,
and desire fails, because man is going to his eternal home,
and the mourners to about the streets -
before the silver cord is snapped, or the golden bowl
is broken, or the pitcher is shattered at the fountain,
or the wheel broken at the cistern, and the dust returns
to the earth as it was, and the spirit returns to God who gave it.*
Solomon, c. 10th Century BC
*Ecclesiastes 12:1-7 ESV
11 August 2013
Color Wheel: Behind the Scenes
Note 11 August 2013: I wrote this over a year ago, and since I plan to finish the Color Wheel series of posts, I thought it might as well see the light of day. Note the intensive screentime I mentioned in my last post...
I thought I'd spend just a moment going behind the scenes with the Color Wheel series of posts. Each one in the series is intentionally wordless, so the pictures will be the sole focus. But that approach leaves me no room to comment on particular photos that caught my eye or share what crossed my mind as I was digging in Wikimedia Commons. Hence this post.
Making connections by color is an unorthodox way of finding connections in the world. Firetrucks and toadstools having nothing in common but red - except perhaps their mutual presence in children's literature, another surprising connection. It's my hope that the juxtapositions startle and spark interest. To satisfy curiosity, I link each photo to a Wikipedia article highlighting the item's history, uses, or significance. (I really, really hope someone discovered that. Maybe you did? Did you click through and read something? Did you encounter the brilliant but fragile achievement of Richard Champion and William Cookworthy or find out that the Papahānaumokuākea Marine National Monument was established in 2006? If you want to figure out which pictures I'm referring to, you're going to have to hunt. Hint: neither of them is green.)
As you might imagine, it takes quite a bit of work to construct a post with so many photos. (Anyone who's tried to drag multiple photos around in a blogger post can relate.) The first post (The Gamut of Green) took hours to put together. By now I've streamlined the process, and it goes something like this.
1) Search Wikimedia Commons for the photos. If you've ever wondered why the photos have no attribution, this is why: they're all in the public domain or covered by the GNU Creative License. The hardest part about the initial search is thinking of things that are distinct to each color. It's not too hard to come up with a green basket, but there's no special reason most baskets should be green. I don't mind including a few items like this, but most should be things whose identities are tied to their color.
2) As I find photos, I insert them into the blogger post and size them small.
3) After all the photos are collected and sized to preference, the somewhat surprising step comes. I copy the HTML for the post and paste it into Notepad ++ (wonderful computer/internet language editor). Then I organize all the photos by height, so the rows won't be ragged, decide what goes with what, and place everything in the correct divs (sorry, non-geeks. It is rather technical).
4) Finally, I copy and past the new HTML back into the post, correct any glitches, and publish. It always comes with a feeling of relief!
Resurfacing
Hello. I still live. The student life is a busy one (to use the closest excuse to hand). More than that I have come to see a kind of contrariness in a blog of this nature: It claims to be about engagement with the world, yet necessitates long sessions in front of a screen. Inconsistency, although a sometimes amusing fault, is no good for living.
I have considered making an end of this endeavor. Its previous attempts to get off the ground have ended nose-down in a metaphorical dune. But I have decided to make another attempt, because I'm a writer and that's what writers do; we write or we perish. Verbiage will out.
No promises as to what will go up here or when. But if anyone is still listening, please know you have my thanks for your patience and I'll try to come up with something of value to say to you soon.
30 November 2012
20 November 2012
Mindful Moment No. 2.
Last night a friend of mine decided to crash on the floor of my room to finish a paper, which was due at 8am today. (She got it in, thankfully.) It was for a systematic theology class and she was writing about the Trinity. We had talked about it before - had pondered the impossibility of trying to explain a three-personed, one-natured God - and she was a little frustrated by it all. But long after the point when I would have began yanking at my hair, she still had a fresh stream of wonder flowing through her thoughts. Just think, she exclaimed at one point, that because of Jesus Christ's work on the cross God has invited us into the eternal love and completely fulfilled community that the three persons of the Godhead shared from time before time. Although we have nothing to offer Him, no basis upon which to stand before Him, He decided to send His only Son for us - a member of the Trinity submissive to death so that we finite creatures could live with Him and in Him. As she went on, she began to grow inarticulate with astonishment, and ended with "Oh! oh!" as though words had become inadequate to express the magnitude of the thought. And in that moment I was struck by the realization that in the wonder and joy of those wordless syllables there was more wisdom - and more knowledge of reality - than in any amount of vain droning from an unbelieving philosophy.
17 November 2012
11 November 2012
Mindful Moment No. 1.
We often chart life in terms of its large phases or landmarks, but just as single bricks make up the building I live in, single moments make the life I'm living through.
It has always been a conundrum to me why some students here describe our library as a pit of despair. (The larger floor is in the basement.) While I understand that desperate late-night sessions drafting papers on issues in theology can taint a space with misery, I have always found myself guarded by my abiding love of libraries in general. Unlike my unfortunate fellow students, I associate libraries with light and life, not with drudgery and distress.
Part of the magic of the C. Library, to use its initial, is its media room. I suppose when you see those words, dear reader, you think of a space full of computers, possibly with a mediocre CD and DVD collection stockpiled against one wall. Not so this media room. The first layer is CDs and DVDs, yes, but probe a little further and you'll find - gasp - cassette tapes and VHS tapes. The adjoining room even has equipment to play them. But venture all the way to the back wall, past the music scores and the study recordings, and you'll find a true treasure: a whole row's worth of vinyl records.
I had discovered this very early on - when I visited the school. But I had been keeping it tucked away in the back of my mind, in a sort of vault of Special Things to Treat Myself With. The other day, with the stress of a midnight deadline before me, I decided to bring the knowledge out of the vault. I wound my way toward the media room with a strange lightheartedness, despite my deadline, and established myself by a venerable stack of old Denon stereo equipment with a turntable perched on top. I scurried to the records and surveyed the shelves with something of the sense of a child at the Thanksgiving table. Finally I pulled out a record that said OCKEGHEM on the spine. Good old early music composer, Ockeghem, about whom I knew nothing. Perfect place to start.
It took me several minutes to figure out the turntable. Remarkably, I had used one before, since my parents used to have one hanging around the house, but it had been years since I'd learned to use it. I turned on all the power, channeled the sound to the right pair of headphones, and slipped the record out of its sleeve. It hung from my hand, glossy black and refreshingly tangible, perhaps untouched for years until this moment. I placed it carefully onto the turntable, used the Lift button to raise the needle, started it spinning, and hit the Lift button again to drop the needle.
I watched it descend, lightly hit the grooves in the vinyl, and begin its labyrinthine journey. A moment's silence - and then a voice, clarion and supple, bloomed into my headphones out of the past, and my heart filled with awe.
15 September 2012
Interview with Gwen {author of the blog Alberta Girl}
This past August I took part in a blog button swap hosted by Bree at Tea & Bree. My buddy Gwen and I have been taking our own sweet time about completing our posts to exchange, but hey, why not? I was interviewed over on Gwen's lovely blog Alberta Girl a few days ago, and here I'm pleased to present my interview with Gwen (who also goes by the dashing pseudonym Ivania Navarro). I've truly enjoyed getting to know her.
Salutations! Let's begin with the basics: What is the first thing you share with a person you're just meeting?
Hello there! Hm. I don't actually meet new people too often, but usually I tell them the usual. Age, name, favorite book or movie or song, something along those lines.
The title of your blog intrigued me immediately. What is a life like in southern Alberta?
The biggest thing that makes Alberta stand out is the weather. It's completely unpredictable. In the morning it could be sunny and bright, and in the evening we could be drowning in rain. It's not uncommon to get one or two snowstorms in July either! The other thing about the weather is the seasons. The lucky places have spring, summer, fall and winter. Here, we get winter for about half the year, muck and wetness for a few weeks, summer for about three months, two weeks of fall and then BOOM it's winter again.
What I love about Alberta though, is the friendliness of it. There aren't too many big cities here, and almost everyone is really, really nice. We've got a thriving economy, beautiful scenery (we're an hour's drive from the Rocky Mountains) and lovely communities. I just realized I sound like a commercial, but oh well!
Happy residents are a region's best adervertising, one might say! Now tell us something about your identity as a Canadian. Unfortunately, I think many Americans know Canadians mostly through stereotypes...
As a start, I solemnly swear that I almost never say "eh!" Interestingly, the only person I've met who said eh on a regular basis was American.
For me, being Canadian means living in a lovely (if somewhat thinly populated) country under the reign of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II (I had to include that, since a lot of people don't know the Queen is our Queen too!).
As for the other myths...we don't ride sleds to school being pulled by huskies, we don't ride beavers, our government is not composed of moose, and the entire country is not covered in snow. ;)
Far from it! From what I've heard, Canada is beautiful in the summer. Do you like to travel, or are you more of a homebody?
I like traveling, unfortunately, I don't get to do it very often. I've only been out of the country once, and that was when I was a baby. I'm hoping to become a flight attendant in a few years, because I really want to travel.
Turning to your blogging career now: How long have you been blogging?
Roughly around three years. I've deleted my first few blog posts, so I can't tell you the exact date I joined.
Why did you start?
I originally started because I'd read an article on this website called Feelin' Feminine, where it challenged young ladies to try out wearing skirts for a week, and blogging about it. I didn't have a blog when I first read it, but I decided to get one. The first few weeks were pretty embarrassing, as I had no idea what I had been doing!
I'll send back a great question you gave me: If you could choose three words to sum up your blog, what would they be, and why?
Oh...hm. Harum-scarum (is that a word? I saw it in a book once), opinionated, lazy. I think that sounds just like my blog. x)
Haha, well, I would never have guessed. : ) I enjoy the diversity of topics you blog about. Do you have a favorite subject for posts?
I'm not sure. I'd wanted to try to stick to a particular topic (femininity is a big one for me) but I have no imagination, and was unable to come up with enough to write about in just one topic. So I write whatever's on my mind. Big issues, little issues, thoughts, ponderings. I like to write whatever comes into my head, especially questions. Or ask myself questions and then answer them in a post. Like, why don't I believe in soul-mates? The other thing I do is write little...almost sermons for myself. Why I should stop complaining. Or worrying about how I look. Things like that.
Your blog has a great aesthetic. Did you do your own design?
Yes! I run a little blog design called Prim and Proper Designs, but I'm considering shutting it down. My partner has abandoned me (although my new one has been such a help) and with school starting, I just don't have time.
We have a shared passion for old typewriters. How did you come to love them so much?
I'm not sure. I like writing a lot. Short stories especially. But when I'm on the computer, I get distracted so easily. Some people suggest turning off the internet, but that doesn't work if I need to look up names or places or dates or definitions. And when I do that, I usually get distracted by something else. A typewriter seemed a logical solution, but I didn't want one of those ugly plastic ones. I wanted a real, vintage typewriter. It was something of a daydream, I'd been picturing myself in a floral 50's dress with my hair all teased with orange light coming through my bedroom window, possibly smoking a cigarette because that's what everyone did back then.
I think typewriters are loveable as much for the image they project as for their usefulness. What do you use your lovely old typewriter for now?
Right now, nothing. It needs some work, and I have to look into costs. But once it's fixed, I'll definitely be using it to write my stories, and probably letters too!
Okay, the impossible question - allow me to apologize ahead of time: Favorite book.
How evil of you. At first I had an answer, but then I started thinking about it, and now I've got about ten books listed in my head. Can I put two? The Mysterious Benedict Society by Trenton Lee Stewart, and Little Women by Louisa May Alcott. They are both what I call my "comfort books." I read them to cheer myself up.
I can never answer that question with one book either. What kind of music do you like?
I like a wide variety of music, but I'm not a huge fan of rap or rock. Anything else, sure. I've recently re-discovered my love of Owl City, since I just bought his new CD, The Midsummer Station. And I love it.
What's the most satisfying way to spend a rainy afternoon?
I'm going to be super unoriginal here and say curled up in a blanket with some tea and a book.
Thank you for hosting me!
Thanks for chatting with me, Gwen! And you, lovely readers, make sure to come back for Gwen's guest post later on. Cheers!
--------------------------------------------------
Postscript. There's a little story relating to the button swap that I thought might amuse you...
Those of us who participated in it were randomly paired up with the blogger we were to swap with. When I had just found out I was going to be paired up with Gwen, I was browsing her blog and reading back a few posts when I came on one about her recent acquisition of an antique typewriter. At this, a spot in my heart felt sore, because I have longed for a typewriter ever since my mother's electric one finally joined the ranks of the mastodons and brachiosaurs. I admired Gwen's photographs of her new old teal-enamelled Royal, sighed a little sigh to myself, and went about my day.
Several weeks later I happened to be thrifting. (Not an infrequent occurence.) I was poking through some office items when an oddly-shaped brown case on the bottom shelf attracted my attention. "That looks like a..." I said to myself, hardly daring to finish the sentence. Gingerly, I lifted the lid. It was! A beautiful old manual typewriter! In good condition! As soon as I had hit some keys and made sure it was operational I formed a resolution to take it home with me. As it happened, a very kind relative I was with offered to buy it for me as a gift.
So there you have it. I am the contented owner of a Smith-Corona Galaxie XII. Next Great American Novel, here I come.
Salutations! Let's begin with the basics: What is the first thing you share with a person you're just meeting?
Hello there! Hm. I don't actually meet new people too often, but usually I tell them the usual. Age, name, favorite book or movie or song, something along those lines.
The title of your blog intrigued me immediately. What is a life like in southern Alberta?
The biggest thing that makes Alberta stand out is the weather. It's completely unpredictable. In the morning it could be sunny and bright, and in the evening we could be drowning in rain. It's not uncommon to get one or two snowstorms in July either! The other thing about the weather is the seasons. The lucky places have spring, summer, fall and winter. Here, we get winter for about half the year, muck and wetness for a few weeks, summer for about three months, two weeks of fall and then BOOM it's winter again.
What I love about Alberta though, is the friendliness of it. There aren't too many big cities here, and almost everyone is really, really nice. We've got a thriving economy, beautiful scenery (we're an hour's drive from the Rocky Mountains) and lovely communities. I just realized I sound like a commercial, but oh well!
Happy residents are a region's best adervertising, one might say! Now tell us something about your identity as a Canadian. Unfortunately, I think many Americans know Canadians mostly through stereotypes...
As a start, I solemnly swear that I almost never say "eh!" Interestingly, the only person I've met who said eh on a regular basis was American.
For me, being Canadian means living in a lovely (if somewhat thinly populated) country under the reign of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II (I had to include that, since a lot of people don't know the Queen is our Queen too!).
As for the other myths...we don't ride sleds to school being pulled by huskies, we don't ride beavers, our government is not composed of moose, and the entire country is not covered in snow. ;)
Far from it! From what I've heard, Canada is beautiful in the summer. Do you like to travel, or are you more of a homebody?
I like traveling, unfortunately, I don't get to do it very often. I've only been out of the country once, and that was when I was a baby. I'm hoping to become a flight attendant in a few years, because I really want to travel.
Turning to your blogging career now: How long have you been blogging?
Roughly around three years. I've deleted my first few blog posts, so I can't tell you the exact date I joined.
Why did you start?
I originally started because I'd read an article on this website called Feelin' Feminine, where it challenged young ladies to try out wearing skirts for a week, and blogging about it. I didn't have a blog when I first read it, but I decided to get one. The first few weeks were pretty embarrassing, as I had no idea what I had been doing!
I'll send back a great question you gave me: If you could choose three words to sum up your blog, what would they be, and why?
Oh...hm. Harum-scarum (is that a word? I saw it in a book once), opinionated, lazy. I think that sounds just like my blog. x)
Haha, well, I would never have guessed. : ) I enjoy the diversity of topics you blog about. Do you have a favorite subject for posts?
I'm not sure. I'd wanted to try to stick to a particular topic (femininity is a big one for me) but I have no imagination, and was unable to come up with enough to write about in just one topic. So I write whatever's on my mind. Big issues, little issues, thoughts, ponderings. I like to write whatever comes into my head, especially questions. Or ask myself questions and then answer them in a post. Like, why don't I believe in soul-mates? The other thing I do is write little...almost sermons for myself. Why I should stop complaining. Or worrying about how I look. Things like that.
Your blog has a great aesthetic. Did you do your own design?
Yes! I run a little blog design called Prim and Proper Designs, but I'm considering shutting it down. My partner has abandoned me (although my new one has been such a help) and with school starting, I just don't have time.
We have a shared passion for old typewriters. How did you come to love them so much?
I'm not sure. I like writing a lot. Short stories especially. But when I'm on the computer, I get distracted so easily. Some people suggest turning off the internet, but that doesn't work if I need to look up names or places or dates or definitions. And when I do that, I usually get distracted by something else. A typewriter seemed a logical solution, but I didn't want one of those ugly plastic ones. I wanted a real, vintage typewriter. It was something of a daydream, I'd been picturing myself in a floral 50's dress with my hair all teased with orange light coming through my bedroom window, possibly smoking a cigarette because that's what everyone did back then.
I think typewriters are loveable as much for the image they project as for their usefulness. What do you use your lovely old typewriter for now?
Right now, nothing. It needs some work, and I have to look into costs. But once it's fixed, I'll definitely be using it to write my stories, and probably letters too!
Okay, the impossible question - allow me to apologize ahead of time: Favorite book.
How evil of you. At first I had an answer, but then I started thinking about it, and now I've got about ten books listed in my head. Can I put two? The Mysterious Benedict Society by Trenton Lee Stewart, and Little Women by Louisa May Alcott. They are both what I call my "comfort books." I read them to cheer myself up.
I can never answer that question with one book either. What kind of music do you like?
I like a wide variety of music, but I'm not a huge fan of rap or rock. Anything else, sure. I've recently re-discovered my love of Owl City, since I just bought his new CD, The Midsummer Station. And I love it.
What's the most satisfying way to spend a rainy afternoon?
I'm going to be super unoriginal here and say curled up in a blanket with some tea and a book.
Thank you for hosting me!
Thanks for chatting with me, Gwen! And you, lovely readers, make sure to come back for Gwen's guest post later on. Cheers!
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Postscript. There's a little story relating to the button swap that I thought might amuse you...
Those of us who participated in it were randomly paired up with the blogger we were to swap with. When I had just found out I was going to be paired up with Gwen, I was browsing her blog and reading back a few posts when I came on one about her recent acquisition of an antique typewriter. At this, a spot in my heart felt sore, because I have longed for a typewriter ever since my mother's electric one finally joined the ranks of the mastodons and brachiosaurs. I admired Gwen's photographs of her new old teal-enamelled Royal, sighed a little sigh to myself, and went about my day.
Several weeks later I happened to be thrifting. (Not an infrequent occurence.) I was poking through some office items when an oddly-shaped brown case on the bottom shelf attracted my attention. "That looks like a..." I said to myself, hardly daring to finish the sentence. Gingerly, I lifted the lid. It was! A beautiful old manual typewriter! In good condition! As soon as I had hit some keys and made sure it was operational I formed a resolution to take it home with me. As it happened, a very kind relative I was with offered to buy it for me as a gift.
So there you have it. I am the contented owner of a Smith-Corona Galaxie XII. Next Great American Novel, here I come.
07 August 2012
A Timely Word.
I ran across this word in a book about writing fiction.
I think it's one of my new favorites.
Are you ready?
28 July 2012
08 July 2012
Books With a Past
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| The bookplate in my copy of The Great Good Thing by Roderick Townley (recommended). |
But times have changed. I'm in college, and have found that sometimes one serves the spirit of a book best and learns from it most thoroughly when one marks it up. I underline in my books now and scribble notes in the margins. I haven't persuaded myself to highlight yet, but the day may come. I also write my name in any book I don't think I'll want to sell to a grateful underclassman. (I say that with no condescension; I was that grateful underclassman myself.) I've considered getting bookplates, but in the end concluded that my handwritten name was better - partly because I've become fond of the inscriptions and labels in used books I've bought. They hint at the life the book had before it came to me.
In the upstairs bookcase there's an old, old book of American poetry that's been in the family for years, in which my great-grandfather scribbled notes enough to cover the back endpapers. There's the name and address from a nearby town in the book of English poetry I bought in a thrift store. The single name "Nolan" is scribbled in my copy of Goops and How to Be Them by Gelett Burgess. There are stamps and card pockets in discarded library books, sometimes from another state. There's the note on the front endpapers of Gulliver's Travels (which I've yet to read!): "To John - Happy Birthday! Lots of good wishes and lots of good reading. Love, Aunt Lois & Uncle Lewis." All these books had lives before I picked them up; other readers laughed at them, gawked at them, frowned at them, contemplated them. These inscriptions remind me that my experience of a book is something to be enriched, not interrupted, by others' thoughts. They remind me that reading at its best is a dialogue, not a one-way street. They remind me that I don't read alone.
In the past, I would reach the blank last page of my "clean copies" of books and find I had a swelling tide of questions, comments, and arguments, which I expended on my family and wished I could share with a wider circle of readers. The history of my books urges me to find these other readers, book in hand, and ask them, "What did YOU think?" And maybe, someday, I'll pass on my books with an added inscription of my own, vaguely linking my reading with the next reader's, and somehow, anonymously, linking our two lives.
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It turns out I'm not the only one interested in book inscriptions from people I've never met. See this blog, Lonesome Books, for a wide variety of inscriptions. I was also interested in this New York Times article, which tells the story of a man who reconnected with an old friend through finding some old books that had his name in them.
Also, if you're looking for a rationale for marking the text of your books, I recommend "How to Mark a Book" by Mortimer J. Adler - it's the essay that persuaded me.
07 July 2012
Exoplanets {from XKCD}
Once upon a time, I wanted to be an astronomer. Now I'm glad at least I know enough to read the news with some intelligence. Things like this make me open my eyes wide and grin.
29 June 2012
Minnesota is Epic (Expanded Version)
From the 16th to the 23rd of the month I visited a dear friend from my college at her home near Minneapolis, MN. It was the first time I had spent much time in Minnesota; my experience of Minneapolis was limited to the airport and the train station. I had no idea what a treat I was in for.
Here are some highlights of my trip (and, by way of implication, places you should visit if given the chance!).
The hardest part of a trip to describe is the just hanging around, enjoying the area, not particularly sightseeing. I enjoyed that as much as "seeing things." Minneapolis-Saint Paul seems to be a great area to hang around in. The cities are clean and situated beautifully. Check it out!
Here are some highlights of my trip (and, by way of implication, places you should visit if given the chance!).
Park Rapids, MN & Itasca State Park
We visited a relative of my friend's who lives in Park Rapids, MN, about three hours north of Minneapolis-Saint Paul. The downtown has some of the usual boutique-type stores, but also a unique dollar store (a Ben Franklin) and grocery store which seem to indicate there's more to the community than the summer crowd.
This old Chevy truck (left), stunningly maintained, was parked in front of a café. As we enjoyed our drinks in the sunroom, we noticed the driver get in with two large poodles, one white and one black.
Within a shortish drive of Park Rapids is Itasca State Park, where the headwaters of the Mississippi River flow through notable stands of red and white pine; they were saved from lumber interests at the turn of the 20th Century by the courageous actions of the first Park Commissioners. (One interim commissioner, Mary Gibbs, stood up to lumbermen with guns who had refused to open a dam that was causing the shoreline to flood.)
The Mississippi River originates in Lake Itasca.
The rocks in the lower part of the picture (above) form a stepping-stone path across the creek that flows out of the lake, which is the start of the Mississippi. It's not more than thirty feet wide. Lake Itasca also has a swimming area; it was lovely on the day we went, with a gusting breeze rippling the water. (Right, the marker at the lake.)
Itasca State Park has many other smaller bodies of water and the famous pine forests. We drove around the 5 mile one-way loop that gives an excellent view of the park's beauty and opportunities to stop for the state's largest white pine, the (former) largest red pine (until it was damaged in a windstorm), and a very tall lookout tower. Along the road we were delighted to spot a cluster of Showy Lady Slippers, the Minnesota state flower (below).
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| (Pardon me for a moment while I dance in honor of the bokeh I miraculously got.) |
Como Park, Zoo, & Conservatory in Saint Paul, MN
While I was growing up I spent a considerable amount of time wandering around zoos and museums with family and friends. I harbor much nostalgia for both, and have by no means outgrown a child's excitement about them. Consequently, when my Minnesotan friend asked me if I had any requests of things to do during my visit, one of my items was visiting a zoo. (The other was swimming in a lake, which we did at Itasca State Park.)I couldn't have asked for a nicer little zoo than the Como Zoo in St. Paul. (Left, a view of the conservatory, which we didn't have time to visit. I hope I can make it back, because things of that kind are another especial delight of mine.) I was astonished at the friendliness of the animals. They had no hesitation in coming up to their glass barriers or staring back at the people staring at them, sometimes with insolence. One of these snow leopards, below, stared at me for almost ten minutes. I don't know why. Old jokes would suggest maybe I looked delicious but I kind of doubt that. Maybe it was the gray velour sweatshirt I was wearing; probably looked a little like moleskin.
(The streaks are from the glass I was photographing through) 
Some of the animals wanted to show off (Mr. Sea Lion, I'm looking at you) but others were more interested in having a quiet day (Mr. Land Lion, right). Some merely seemed content to go about their daily business in the public eye, like the orangutan mother spoiling her baby with some affectionate roughhousing - right next to the glass. One of my most exciting encounters was with that illustrious creature, the Tufted Puffin. I never did quite figure out to what purpose this noble bird was going through his antics - I suppose it was his bath, though that seems paradoxical in the case of a waterbird - but I certainly enjoyed watching.
The seahorses seemed merely bewildered (left).One of the other joys of visiting zoos is watching the humans who come to see them. It was raining on and off during our visit. During one heavy shower, we took cover under an overhang not far from an umbrella-sheltered table where a few families with small children had parked. One family had all the children in shades of yellow, wonderful for regathering them when they scattered. They were all running about getting soaked, jumping in puddles, dancing through the raindrops. I watched the little girl's unaffected, somehow both graceful and clumsy movements, and wished I could still dance with that much unselfconsciousness. A few minutes later we passed the same family on the way out and I noticed all their shoes had disappeared.
The Lego Store, Mall of America, Minneapolis, MN
Let me be honest and tell you right now that I'm not a big fan of malls. However, I wanted to see Mall of America because the descriptions of its size were bogglingly large (78 football fields?) and it seemed a curiosity. I did enjoy seeing it (and being treated to socks at Little MissMatched, thank you, kind friend), and yes, it was bogglingly large.
Although I am not a big fan of malls, I am a big fan of Lego. Consequently this view caused me to stop and stare a bit.
The blue legs you can barely see behind the bridge belong to a fearsome sort of machine, right. If you love Lego, you ought visit this store (or the one at Water Tower Place in Chicago, which I've heard is comparable). They have kits for sale from most of their major lines: Technics, City, Star Wars, Architecture. Yes, if you were wondering, I bought one. I waffled between Anakin Skywalker's pod and Luke Skywalker's vehicle that floats (can't remember the name) and finally settled on a real-world mining truck. With a boulder and gold crystals. And a Lego guy with a plaid shirt and a beard! Does it get better than that? I gave the kit to a sibling of mine as a gift. However, if I'd been a child visiting this store, I think I'd probably have wanted handfuls and handfuls from this wall of bricks.
They didn't have this many colors when I was little. Pout.
The hardest part of a trip to describe is the just hanging around, enjoying the area, not particularly sightseeing. I enjoyed that as much as "seeing things." Minneapolis-Saint Paul seems to be a great area to hang around in. The cities are clean and situated beautifully. Check it out!
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| View of Minneapolis over Lake Calhoun |
Are you taking a trip this summer? I'd love to hear about it!
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NB: All photos in this post are by me and belong to me. You're welcome to pin them but please no copying. : )
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