Hummings from the Beehive: There is a balm in Gilead

Thoughts sundry, scrambled, and sometimes silly.

*

1. Love. Don't stop. Keep going. Love especially in the small, small ways. Mother Teresa says, “we can do no great things, only small things with great love.” The temptation to curl up into a ball, to put up a hard, crustaceous exterior, may be great – but don't give in. Let love flow forth. The love that passes through and out of your heart at this time, of all times, will be the richest and most precious love you have given yet.

Blood flows most freely and wildly from a broken vessel.

A constant current will both bless those around you, and wash your heart of all the sickness within. Urge others to be gentle with you – but accept love, too. And, most importantly, open yourself up to the hands of your Creator, as he tenderly tinkers with the pieces of the wondrous organ that he himself first fashioned. Know that his sorrow for this brokenness is the greatest, greater even than yours, and that he mourns the wounds dealt to his beautiful handiwork, which he created out of pure Love. Remember that He suffered and died not just to redeem our souls, but to redeem the entire human experience – even suffering itself. We are no longer helpless victims of the evils of this world; we do not have to numbly accept suffering as some sort of meaningless, frightening ordeal. His sufferings have given our sufferings meaning and purpose – we can unite all our hardships to the Passion of our King at Calvary for the sake of eternal life. We can be soldiers, we can be warriors, we can be princes and princesses. We can set this world on fire.

2. Beauty. Sense it, seek it, hunt it out. Or sit back and let it romance you. Or do both, in turns. Strive to know it with the three cardinal virtues: have faith in it, hope in it, love it. Love in and through it. To me, Beauty is what constantly and eternally whispers, “it is going to be alright. And in the end, it is going to be glorious.” Beauty allows me to laugh in the face of my fears. If Nikolai Berdyaev is right, if Beauty will, indeed, “save the world,” then it can, beyond all doubt, save the broken heart.

3. Time.

But we all knew that already.

*

Image: "Hope" by George Frederic Watts.

He's alone, he's blindfolded, he's slumped over in weariness...but that doesn't keep him from making beautiful music on his harp.

Hummings from the Beehive: On Faces

Thoughts sundry, scrambled, and sometimes silly.

*

Upon getting to the campus chapel for 10:30 Mass the other morning, I realized that I had left my mantilla in my room. I wound up just draping my long pashmina scarf over my head and laying it over my shoulder instead. As I sat in the pew, waiting for Mass to begin, it occurred to me that anyone sitting behind me would be clueless as to who I was, since the scarf completely concealed my hair. (According to my friends, my most distinguishing feature is my hair, which is dark, very curly, and can easily be spotted from across a room.) Someone would have had to have been very familiar with my form, gestures, etc., in order to recognize me from behind. And not only that – I could pull the scarf forward far enough to block out my peripheral vision. That way, I didn't have to distract other people, and other people didn't have to distract me (said the timid, antisocial homebody within).

I realized how comfortable I was, curled up in this little shell of anonymity. I began to wonder why I don't wear a scarf during Mass more often. Thoughts began to run through my imagination: what would life be like if we all wore big helmet-mask things when we went out - gear that completely obscured the head and face? Or even if I was the only one wearing a helmet-mask-thing? So concealed, I'd be able to get away with all sorts of things. Maybe. I imagined myself going out into the center of the busy cafeteria and breaking out into ridiculous dance moves, or whistling at cute boys in passing, or watching silly Asian dramas on the internet in public. And best of all, I wouldn't have to worry about eye contact with strangers – all those moments which are sometimes exciting, sometimes scary, sometimes both. I could people-watch without shame in public places! It would be awesome! I would be free. I would be safe.

And...I would be pretty lonely, because no one would really know me. After a while, perhaps I would not even know myself.

[and I would look pretty silly, but this is not the point.]

I'm very much an introvert. A crowd of strangers often has the same effect on me that a tiny closet does on the claustrophobe. But I'm always hesitant to call myself “shy”: it's more like I can be super bashful because I generally think other people are amazing, and I'm afraid of disappointing them. A pretty universal fear, although no doubt different personality types respond to it in different ways. But regardless of individual social habits, haven't we all, at one time or another, experienced the urge to cover our faces and run away, whether it be from one “other”, or from a whole sea of “others”?

Here, C. S. Lewis' great allegorical novel, Till We Have Faces, inevitably comes to my mind. In this retelling of the ancient Greek myth of Cupid and Psyche, our narrator is Orual, Psyche's unattractive older sister. Throughout the near-entirety of the book, she utters grumbling accusations against 'the gods'; “especially the god who lives on the Grey Mountain”, who has spirited away her beloved Psyche in order to make her his bride. At the climax of the story, when Orual at last stands before the court of the gods to read her little book of complaints, it is as if she is truly hearing herself for the first time:

“The complaint was the answer. To have heard myself making it was to be answered.”... “When the time comes to you at which you will be forced at last to utter the speech which has lain at the center of your soul for years, which you have, idiot-like, been saying over and over, you'll not talk about joy of words. I saw well why the gods do not speak to us openly, nor let us answer. Till that word can be dug out of us, why should they hear the babble that we think we mean? How can they meet us face to face till we have faces?”

Ultimately, Lewis uses the motif of the face to represent a means of focused and mature communication – and, when it comes to the Divine, the means of any communication, period. Knowledge of self is necessary before knowledge of other can be possible. Only when one hunkers down and gets serious about his identity can sincere and meaningful communication with the other begin.

To reference one of the best animated features to ever come out of Disney: Nala certainly enjoys running around with Simba in the jungle and playing around in the water with him, etc., but she is also confused and frustrated by how he has changed. “Why can't he be the king I know he is, the king I see inside?” Since Simba has totally rejected his true identity as king, his methods of communicating with the girl (lioness?) he loves are limited to flirtation and physical affection. When she challenges his decision to run away from himself and his responsibilities, he reacts with childish defensiveness.

But ok, I'm done analyzing children's cartoons.

Now consider this: if I do not accept my true identity, as well as (a) the responsibility that comes with living it, and (b) the vulnerability that comes with revealing it to others, then I am safe; but I am also essentially powerless, for, ultimately, I cannot love properly. If I hide my face behind a mask, and choose to identify myself with it – whether out of self-loathing, the desire to please others, the desire to conform, or whatever else - then I cannot love; I can only lie. I can only engage in empty, twisted actions. The human person was created to love. But before he can do what he was made to do, he must be who he was made to be. I think of (oops, not really done with children's cartoons) the eerie spirit called “No-Face” in Hayao Miyazaki's Spirited Away: without the anchor of identity, he's aimless, reckless, gluttonous, deceptive – and, as he says to Chihiro: “I'm lonely, I'm lonely!”

Now, to be completely honest, neither ancient Greek gods nor anthropomorphic lions nor masked Japanese spirits play a substantial role in my day-to-day life. How can all this be applied to me, along with any other socially awkward girl out there?

Like this: by always striving for wonder, gratitude and sincerity in our interactions with other people. In the end, I'm thankful for the thrill of intimacy that comes with the glance of every stranger, even when it is accompanied by awkwardness or self-consciousness. I'm glad for the gift of the other, as strange as he or she always is, even after years of familiarity: always strange, but always beautiful. Most of all, I am thankful to have been given a face – a part of my identity through which the microcosm of my soul can bridge the gap into your own. Who can quite explain the magic magnetism of eye contact? It is the simultaneous consciousness of two people that “I am looking into his eyes, he is looking into mine, we both know it, and we both know that the other knows.” What happens when we dare to really look? Every time is an opportunity precious as gold: the human face unfolds to reveal what lies beyond. Let's take every opportunity. Let's dare to look. Let's resolve to live out the common human vocation to know the other, and to be likewise known by him.

*

Image: "The Baleful Head" from Edward Burne-Jones' Perseus Cycle. Interesting note from commentary I once read on the painting: Perseus is showing Andromeda Medusa's reflection in the (pool? birdbath's?) surface, because obviously, Medusa is so ugly that she'll turn ya to stone if you look at her directly, even when she's dead. Also obvious is the fact that Perseus is checking out the object of his budding affections to see how impressed she is. But if you look into the water's surface and follow Andromeda's eyes, you'll see that she's not looking at Medusa at all. She's just as engrossed in Perseus as he is in her. GAH SO MANY FACES AND EYES AND GLANCES AND MEANINGS.

and FEELINGS, for this Pre-Raphaelite-obsessed girl.

Thanks for reading, all.

The Artist's Explanation

Now look here:
I don't want to shock anyone,
truly.

That's not what I'm about.

Electrification is, beyond doubt,
a sensational way of catching attention,
but, in the end, it numbs the senses.
The body is dulled,
damaged.
Over time, degraded.

No, if I am to surprise you,
it will be with the surprise of revelation.
I generally don't create stirs
for the sake of stirs;
if that which needs to be said will cause
a stir, then there we go.
But these are rich stirs,
ones that spin us back into new life,
old love.
Ones that shake us awake.

And it will be a rich pang,
if I must hurt you with my art,
like that of a gilded arrow
straight through the pounding heart.
It will rush you back to reality,
back to beauty.

I just want to show you something
that's good and sweet,
something that's worth living for.
Something that's bigger than
either of us.

I go by way of
the well-brewed cup of tea.
The handmade coat you've worn
since age twelve.
The way your mother
dresses her hair every morning.

Simple. Steady.
Overlooked. Old.

Made new, because
here we are, doing it all over again.

We're drawing back the curtain once more.
The room beyond this hidden door
grows in beauty with a second glance,
I promise.

So, I'm not here to shock.

Well, I'm not here to play games, either.

There's no time.

I'm here to stretch out both my hands
upon the table, palms-up,
my sleeves pulled back,
my wrists pale and fragile.

I'm here to show you
how wildly I can speak,
and how much I can mean it.

How solemn I can be,
how solemn joy can be.

So, try me.

Come a little closer.

Sit down.

You look at me,
and no doubt see a small, tired
pilgrim whose words are not nearly as
exciting as whatever it is
they're chanting outside the window.

Only, know that this is the
path that I have freely chosen,
and that, as yet, I have no regrets.

Please, just give me your ear,
give me a chance.

Listen to my whispers, and
let the feathers of the firebird
fan the flames bright within your ribcage.

Listen, and let your blood turn to liquid gold.

Your daily dose of beauty

Lovely music! enjoy!

Lanterns On The Lake - "Keep On Trying" from stereogum on Vimeo.

Young artist spotlight: Andrew Manning

I'd like to draw your attention to the work of a very talented young artist, Andrew Manning. Andrew is one of my parents' AP Drawing students, and he's started a blog in order to document his artistic growth throughout this past school year.

I found his artwork very dynamic and exciting, especially that of his concentration portfolio - each piece features the human body in action, and interacting with its environment.

Thank you, Andrew, for sharing beauty with the world!

Check out his work here.

P. S. this guy currently lives in Amman, Jordan. How cool is that??

Hickory House excerpt

My original goal for the summer was to release my first work of fiction, a novella entitled Hickory House. I don't know if that plan is really feasible at this point, but at any rate, here's an excerpt to get you excited :)

***

Jane stared at the door for a while, as she knelt on the bed. Then she eased one of her legs out from under her, and let it slide over the edge of the mattress - she glanced down. Ok, she was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. She wouldn’t mind being seen in these clothes. But she was barefoot…she swung her other leg around, and her toes touched the wooliness of the rug. She looked down.

Two olive-green, velvety-looking moccasin slippers stood pertly beside one another to her right. They glowed against the earthy red of the rug. They smiled at her - winked? - they seemed ready to accommodate. Jane smiled back, slowly.

An invitation. Another invitation.

She stood up fully, and shuffled over to the expectant shoes. She tip-toed inside. Her feet eased smoothly into the soles.

“Oh -” Jane cried.

She stood in a bed of bright-red tulips.

She was on a lawn of some sort - no, no - it was a garden. Dewy grass spread all around; there were no walls, only trees full of fruit that rose about her; it was nighttime, for the moon cast its silvery enchantment upon everything in sight. It was quite warm, and she could feel raindrops on her face - she heard distant thunder. There were the airy, echoing chirps of very-early-morning birds, and she was dazzled as several small, brightly-colored forms flitted before her eyes, dipping in and out of the milky shadows. They had strange, extravagant plumage, the likes of which Jane had never seen before. Two more birds, of scarlet and deep cerulean, swooped out of a tree that stood where the bookcase had been. As Jane peered into the branches, she realized that what seemed to be hundreds of birds perched amongst the dripping leaves, shaking out their feathers and chattering to one another.

Jane’s head spun. She gazed over her shoulder. A bubbling spring had taken the place of the bureau, and the brook that flowed from it ran through the garden and out under the door. The stuffed rabbit from the upholstered chair was rolling around in the grass and nibbling on a few strands. The man - considerably larger than in the print, and seemingly oblivious to Jane’s presence - pressed his lips to his beloved’s cheek, completing the kiss. The woman’s arms glimmered gold as they slid around his neck, and the blue-and-white blossoms in her auburn hair glowed like stars.

And the scent - the scent of it all! The rain, the grass, the flowers - it was more than Jane could bear. She thought that if only she could bottle it, somehow - the sweetness, the beauty - and release it upon the world…oh, it would be enough to turn bad people good.

But it would refuse to be bottled…just like Ralph would make an awful model. These things seem to hate to be contained.

The solution presented itself to her promptly and neatly: then you give yourself up to it. Let it take hold of your heart; let it change you - and so take it with you. Let your life do the talking. Let your living change the world…

The door flew open once again, and Ralph stood at the threshold, his curls getting caught in the vines that hung down from the doorjamb. His eyes seemed to have reached a new level of shining, unearthly wideness, and a solemn smile was set upon his lips.

“Jane,” he said, extending his hand backwards, as if he meant for her to take it and run with him. “Come quickly. We need you.”


Copyright © 2011 by Olivia Meldrum

Fever

I want to put myself to sleep,
and you, and the rest of the world, as well -
all at once.
[I think it is part of the sickness within me.]

I writhe about in the sheets -
[oh my dear, don't listen to a word I say] -

My eyes no longer see straight.
They have become pupils of coal,
irises of flame.

There is fire in my throat,
and fire in my head,
it crackles away at my thoughts,
and lights up my whole bed -

Now, all light comes from ME!

[Please promise me you'll be steady.
Please, please promise you'll be stronger than I am.
I don't understand any of it, and I don't mean a word I say,
I tell you.]

I want to put out the moon!
I want to put out the stars!
I'd sink down into this blazing river,
were it not for your grip on my arm -

Now I howl and claw at your hands
[You'll always have scars, you know -
oh, my sweet sweet darling] -

[please please please
my heart my honey my gold
believe me when I say this, only this:
I am not myself]

Oh, what has become of your dear one?
She is demon
monster
werewolf
whisperer of siren songs and
raving somnambulist

***

Will you make me to swallow ice water?
Will you take my temperature throughout
the night,
and lay cool cloths across my forehead?
Will you trust me
when I tell you that you must not trust me?

If so, I warn you -
you will have to reach beyond reason
(I went there long ago).

Oh, how can I ask you to accompany me in this descent?
How can I subject you, too, to the inferno of my mind?

Can you survive it?
Will you?

Your tears are cool upon my face.

I try to remember how, hours ago,
when the delirium first struck,
you found me crawling out of the window -
tip-toeing along the ridge and towards the gable -
I believed that I was walking into the
white-hot flames of the moon.

You stumbled after me.
You caught me into your arms
in the nick of time;
you
saved
me
from
the
fall.

You carried me inside.

It won't be much longer now -
It can't be -
It mustn't -

Please, just hold my hand.
Kiss me -
it keeps the fire at bay.

At dawn,
once the fever has broken,
and when I have awoken,
where will the two of us stand?

Will you have grown tired and frightened?
Will you have fled in the night?

Or will you be asleep in the chair,
thermometer in hand?


Copyright © 2011 by Olivia Meldrum