Library Love

Usually when we move to a new place, getting a library card is high on my list of priorities, along with getting a driver's license.  Last year, when we moved to North Carolina, we discovered that getting our driver's license would take much more effort than in any other location we had ever lived; I had a hint of that when I went online to make an appointment to avoid lines, and the nearest appointment was 5 months away.

So, I barely got my driver's license in time, and since I thought I'd be living in D.C. for the next several years, I didn't prioritize my library card.  But I've been yearning to read some books that I don't own, both light reading and some climate change texts, and the local library has them.  Yesterday I needed to escape some of the deconstruction noise at the house, so off I went to the nearest branch of the Buncombe county library.

Almost always, entering a library feels like coming home.  My earliest memories are of going to the library, and libraries haven't changed radically in appearance in my lifetime, so it makes sense.  Libraries have more stuff now--computers, meeting rooms, non-book media/items--but libraries still have books, shelves and shelves and shelves of books.

I got my card with no trouble, since I now have a North Carolina driver's license.  The librarian asked me if I'd ever had a Buncombe county library card before, and I said no.  Suddenly I realized that I've had a library card in almost every state south of the Mason-Dixon line and east of the Mississippi River.  I have no particular desire to live in the missing states (Mississippi, for example), so this might be the end of my run.

I spent some time in the stacks, wondering what I'd like to read.  Yes, I keep a list, but that list is in a box somewhere.  I ended up with Living Resistance by Kaitlin B. Curtice and Sue Monk Kidd's The Book of Longings--not the light and fluffy reading I wanted, but maybe they'll hit the spot.  I came home and went online to request the climate change books I wanted--they are at a library far away, and I'm happy to wait for them to be delivered to the branch nearer to me.

One of the cool elements of this library system is that I have borrowing privileges at many other North Carolina counties.  It's hard to imagine that I'll get to many of them, but I do live just one mile away from Henderson county.  There are no overdue fees, but after 30 days, the item will be charged to the card.  But if you bring the item back, you're good; I know this, because I heard it explained to the young child and his dad who had brought items back.  If you're charged, and you bring a new copy of the book that you got from somewhere else, you don't have to pay what the library will charge you to replace that book.  Once I lost a book from the Broward county (FL) system, and not only had to pay an exorbitant cost to replace it, but also a service fee; I ended up paying almost $50.00 for a paperback that was widely available for a few dollars elsewhere.

One feature of this library card is that I can get Zoom passes, which gets me and my group admission into a variety of educational spaces (the NC Arboretum!  the WNC Nature Center!  the Asheville Art Museum!), with one pass per place per month.  Wow.  It requires some thinking ahead because I have to get the pass at the library, but I'm fine with that.

On my way home, I heard that Cormac McCarthy died; I was surprised that he was as old as he was when he died.  I only read The Road, which had some of the most gorgeous language I've ever read, which is particularly unusual in a dystopian novel.  My reading life is short, and I'm unlikely to read more of his work, although this appreciation made me want to read more.  NPR commentator Wade Goodwyn recorded it just before he died of cancer--he died in his 60's, much younger than anyone should.

I did not waste time with news coverage of the Trump appearance at a federal court room yesterday.  This story will drag on and on and on.  In some ways, it's much like a kitchen remodel.  I did get kitchen counters ordered yesterday.  

It will take 3-7 weeks for them to be made and installed.  Sigh.  

But at least the process is underway.  I also got the tin for the backsplash ordered; happily American Tin still had some of our old pattern in stock, which we're getting in hopes of duplicating what we've had before.

In the meantime, we have a temporary sink, and we'll keep making due.  Earlier this week, standing on the deck in the morning dark, looking through the sliding glass doors, I thought, if this was a picture that I saw in a magazine, I'd want to live here--even if the kitchen doesn't have counters yet.

The Sorting of the Books

I spent the better part of yesterday sorting books.  It is clear to me that we are moving into a phase of life with more moves and less book shelf space, so it’s time.  I started the day feeling a powerful sense of catharsis as I sorted through books, and I ended the day in tears and exhaustion. It's a strange process the sorting of books. Let me record a few reflections.

--I used to keep books thinking that I would reread them, but it's become clear to me that I usually check out new books from the library rather than read my old books.  I used to think that I would have complete collections of authors’ books, and in my 20s that seemed perfectly reasonable. Now that plan will require a lot of bookshelf space. All of this to say, I've been hanging on to a lot of books that I no longer need to hang on to.  Getting rid of those was the easy part.

--Lots of books have sentimental value for lots of reasons, and I tried to sort out the reasons as I sorted books. I kept a few of them, a representative from each of my major life phases. I was able to get rid of a lot of them.

--I have hung on to lots of books for the teaching career that it is now clear I am not going to have. I am not going to be teaching in an MFA program, so I don't need various works that once seemed cutting edge. I don't really need all of these books of literary criticism to teach literature. I am not going to be reworking my dissertation into an academic book. A lot of those books are headed off to live with someone else.

--I am now comfortable getting rid of books even though I once spent lots of money on all these books. I supported individual artists by buying the books, but it doesn't mean I need to hang on to them forever.

--Along the way there were sadnesses as I looked at inscriptions and thought about the people who once bought me books as presents. I tried to feel gratitude for all the people who have loved me in this way while also letting those books go.

--Every so often I saw the handwriting of people who had borrowed my books, people who had permission to write in them. One of my best friends, who has since died, borrowed my Norton anthologies when she returned to school to finish her BA, and her writing is all over the books. Those are tougher to let go.

--A lot of these books represent hopes and dreams, even though I've moved on to different hopes and dreams. There's a sadness to seeing them, even though I'm fairly satisfied with how my life is turning out. Those books are going away. Perhaps they will help someone else who has those hopes and dreams of my younger self.

--I had a small crying jag meltdown when my spouse held a battered recipe box with recipes that I had copied from my mother's recipe box and said that he didn't know why I wanted to keep either the box or the recipes. In a way he's right--we don't cook those things much. But I thought of my 21 year old self copying those recipes imagining what adult life would look like and the thought of just trashing them made me sad. It's a small box, and I'll likely be keeping it.

 --Part of what makes letting go of books so hard is wondering what will happen to them. I'll take them to the local library where they will probably end up in a friends of the library sale. I want to believe that readers will find them. I wish the library would keep them but I know that they don't really have room for the resources that they have right now, and the move is on to more electronic resources and less paper.

--It’s the largest sadness: realizing that we are not part of a culture that values books very much and an even larger sadness in realizing how little we value ideas, book length ideas.

 

Comparing Translations

This morning, as I read the morning office as Phyllis Tickle presents the liturgy in The Divine Hours, I was struck by this passage:

Why should I be afraid in evil days, when the wickedness of those at my heels surrounds me,
The wickedness of those who put their trust in their goods, and boast of their good riches?

It's from Psalm 49.  I started trying to find the verse so that I wouldn't have to type it, and I was struck by the difference in translations.  For example, here's the New International Version:

Why should I fear when evil days come, when wicked deceivers surround me—

6 those who trust in their wealth and boast of their great riches?

                        
And here's the Revised Standard Version:

Why should I fear in times of trouble,
   when the iniquity of my persecutors surrounds me,
⁶ those who trust in their wealth
   and boast of the abundance of their riches?

And since the King James version is the version of my childhood, here's that one:

Wherefore should I fear in the days of evil, when the iniquity of my heels shall compass me about?
⁶They that trust in their wealth, and boast themselves in the multitude of their riches;

I am often amazed by how Eugene Peterson's The Message makes me take notice in ways that I haven't always before:

So why should I fear in bad times,
    hemmed in by enemy malice,
Shoved around by bullies,
    demeaned by the arrogant rich?

I like the second part of this version, but I prefer evil days to bad times.  I do like the idea of enemy malice.

I find the use of evil days to be much more powerful than times of trouble.  Times of trouble could be any number of random events:  a hurricane, a spell of depression, an illness.  Evil days implies a will that is behind the trouble.  If we would all behave in better ways, we might always avoid evil days.  We can't avoid times of trouble.

We are at the time of various anniversaries:  today is the 19th anniversary of the Columbine shooting, yesterday was the 23rd anniversary of the Oklahoma City bombings.  I often feel uneasy during these days in April.  It's good to be reminded that I have nothing to fear.

The Birth of Less Formal Writing

Today is the birthday of Michel de Montaigne. Many literary historians credit Montaigne with creating and perfecting the art of the personal essay--although many of Montaigne's contemporaries found his digressions distracting.

I first started teaching the British Literature Survey class in 1991. I taught British Lit from the beginning to 1789, a dizzying task. I remember talking about Montaigne and the personal essay and seeing blank looks. Students could understand the road from the Mystery plays to Shakespeare to 18th century farces to the movies they loved. They understood how poetry had evolved. But essays? They hadn't really read essays and couldn't be convinced that essays, particularly personal essays, were important. Who cared what one individual guy thought about things?

My how life has changed. Now I have many students who want to refuse to read anything that isn't based in fact. They feel that a true story has more validity. They scoff at writers who "just make stuff up," as if it's somehow easier and therefore more dismissible.

I used to refuse to read memoirs, just generally, on principle, unless the author had actually done something interesting--and going down into a self-destructive spiral was not how I defined interesting. I loved to read memoirs by writers and collections of interviews with writers and other artists.

I still do, but now I'm watching those memoirs unspool in real time by reading their blogs and seeing Facebook posts. I love hearing a poet talk about assembling a manuscript and then hearing that the manuscript will be published. I love seeing those steps: choosing a cover, assembling a book tour, planning individual readings. I have learned so much.

It's the same way with theologians and other people who explore spirituality.  I like seeing people puzzle out theology tangles.  I like watching people solve various issues in their churches.  I cannot count the number of good ideas I've adapted, ideas I might never have encountered had I not been noodling across the Internet.

So, thank you Montaigne. Thank you for thinking that a regular person's insights were important enough to capture, that we didn't have to be a queen or a king to be worthy. Thank you for writing down your thoughts. Thank you for publishing them. Thank you for hacking out the trail that would be traversed by so many important people--and people who may never be important in the ways we usually define history, but are important nonetheless.

Poetry Friday: Rust, Dust, Construction, Resurrection

On Monday night before Ash Wednesday, I had such plans.  My spouse would be out late teaching his Philosophy class.  I wanted to make some headway with the short story I'd been writing and maybe do some grading.  But the story stalled, and I felt grouchy--I try not to grade when I'm grouchy.  I thought I might just go to bed early, but then the phone rang, and I couldn't fall back asleep.  There was nothing good on TV.

As often, I got myself back into a good mood by reading.  I picked up The Fellowship:  the Literary Lives of the Inklings  by Carol Zaleski and Philip Zaleski.  This book explores both the artistic and spiritual lives of C.S. Lewis, J. R. R. Tolkien, and the literary circle that they formed in Oxford in the earlier part of the 20th century.  Based on the 50 pages that I read Monday evening, this book will be a treat.

I went to my computer to check on e-mail, and I read a friend's Facebook post that noted the anniversary of John Carpenter’s “The Fog,” with its plot of ghosts of shipwrecked lepers and Dave Bonta's description of construction cranes around London, and I came up with the poem that you can find here and pasted below.

But let me also post some background and pictures that will give present readers (and future scholars?) some insight into my writing process. 

The parking lot of my school is now a building site.  It began with the parking garage that we now use.  It was fascinating to see the way that buildings are created now, with huge slabs of concrete that are shaped elsewhere and trucked to the site.  Huge cranes, guided by humans, hoist the slabs into place, and thus, the walls come into being.

Last night as I left that parking garage for Ash Wednesday service, I caught sight of the sunset to the west.  I took a few minutes to capture some pictures. 

It seemed a perfect metaphor for Ash Wednesday:  a parking lot becomes a building, and we all know that the buildings that were here 10-20 years ago have vanished for many of these new buildings.

As I was writing the poem, I thought of those paper cranes that are a peace symbol.  I thought of our church a few years ago, with its dramatic Lenten chancel.

For Easter, we transformed this starkness by hanging paper cranes on the branches.  I tried to make a few, but my cranes looked crippled and deformed.  Happily, we had a teenager who was up to the task:

They transformed the trees:

I had these cranes on the brain too, as I wrote the poem below.  I like how the poem holds the tension of Ash Wednesday and Mardi Gras, of dust and resurrection within its lines, but doesn't resolve it.

 

Cranes

Who will live in these shipwrecked leper
colonies? The cranes, the workhorse
of the Industrial Revolution, crank
away without ceasing, heaving future walls
into place. Pre-fab has such a different
meaning now, as big trucks rumble
the concrete slabs across a nation.

In my office, I fold paper cranes
the way I learned long ago, at a justice
rally on the 40th anniversary of the Hiroshima
explosion or maybe for an installation art
piece made of stripped branches.

I write lines from poems on the paper
before I make the creases. I tuck these cranes
into the corners of my office building
and the chain link fence around the construction
site. I imagine them coming to life
at night, a constellation made of cranes
in a starless sky, a navigation
device that no one will need or notice.

What We Talk About When We Talk to Nathan Englander

This week, I heard an interview on NPR's Fresh Air that I liked so much I listened to it twice.  Terry Gross and the writer Nathan Englander cover a wide range of topics, and many of them circle back to issues of religion.

Englander was brought up by Orthodox Jews, and he even lived in Israel--he's got credibility:  "As someone who spent a lot of years living in Jerusalem, one of the great perks was that when you come back and you get into these Israel arguments in your American-Jewish clan, you can really just silence them by saying, I lived there. So we used it like a bludgeon. You know, when people would say, like, you know, I'm APAC, I'm this, move that, move the, you know. The embassy needs to be there. The embassy should have a Starbucks and be on the Temple Mount. Whatever. You know, people would do that, you'd say I lived there. And that was how we kept everybody quiet."

He was raised in a community that truly expected the Holocaust to happen again at any moment, and he describes a game (except they were deadly serious about it) that his family played:  "Anyway, we really were raised with this idea of a looming second Holocaust and we would play this game. You know, that threat is always in the air. You know what I'm saying? People were comfortable in Berlin. It could happen at any time.  And we would play this game, you know, wondering who would hide us. And this is - this story I've been carrying in my head from 20 years ago. It must have been 20 years ago, but I remember what my sister said about a couple we knew. She said, he would hide us and she would turn us in."

Somewhere along the way, he became a non-observant Jew, but that hasn't prevented him from writing/translating a Hagaddah (the Passover Seder service).  He has fascinating insights about word choice:  "I think maybe the most dangerous choice in the whole book was God of us instead of our God because we say our God, our God. It's not our God that we own like our God, our TiVo, or our lunchbox. You know what I'm saying? God, it's, you know, it's our God means the God over us and I really thought about that a ton, and I think that's, you know, I'll see how people respond. But to me, I wanted people to be thinking about what they're saying."


The conversation made me wish that I could hear a conversation between him and Eugene Peterson (translator of The Message version of the Bible).

Englander talks about his new short story collection too.  I have fallen in love with the title, with its allusion to Raymond Carver:  What We Talk About When We Talk About Anne Frank.  It's on my list of books to read soon.

The interview is a delight, and if you want to listen to it or read it, go here.

G.K. Chesterton and the Move Towards Orthodoxy

Today is the birthday of G. K. Chesterton, a thinker gone from the consciousness of most of us.  He was a prolific British writer throughout his life (1874-1936), writing not only works that considered Christianity, but poetry, plays, art criticism, well, really just about everything.

Two things intrigue me most about him.  The first is his switch from Anglicanism to Catholicism.  Yes, I know, it's not an extreme switch.  It's not as if he became a Muslim.  Now, that would be a change.

But as I get older, I notice more and more people moving towards orthodoxy.  And it's interesting to see that this phenomenon has been going on for longer than my lifetime.

If I made the switch, I'd go towards Eastern Orthodoxy.  But it's hard to imagine changing as there are so many elements of Lutheranism that appeal to me that aren't found in most other stripes of Christianity.

I'm also intrigued by the fact that Chesterton gets credit for the conversion of C. S. Lewis, and in that way, Chesterton has probably had a much wider influence than most of us realize.  I would argue that Lewis is one of the most important theologians of the twentieth century, one of the writers that has won over more of us than any other, whether it be by way of The Screwtape Letters, or his writing on loss, or his Narnia books, or the fact that he began life as a doubter.  And we might have had none of that, if we had had no G. K. Chesterton.

So, today, as we head to our churches, as we head towards Ascension and Pentecost, we might also think about that move towards Orthodoxy.  Are we content to continue to swim in the waters we're in?  Or might we find ourselves crossing some unforeseen river, the Tiber to Rome or some river in Asia that might take us back to the Byzantine?  We might think of the appeal of more rigid orthodoxies, whether Christian, Muslim, or other.  We might wonder if reintroducing some of that firmness might lead our churches out of the wildernesses in which we wander.

Or maybe we can just enjoy the beauty of a Sunday morning, which would also be a great way of celebrating Chesterton, a man who sometimes got so lost in the present moment that he forgot where he was supposed to be.

Of Slumps and Theological Reading

Over at my creativity blog, I wrote a post about my teenage reading self and my attempts to catch up with the reading that I thought other high schoolers were doing in their much better high schools. I felt real panic at the thought of arriving at college unprepared. In hind sight, of course, I see that I was much better prepared than most students. I had good reading habits, and I knew how to write an essay. Those skills have taken me far. I'm organized and efficient--those skills may have taken me even further.

As I was writing, I thought about not just my teenage reading self, but my theological reading self. Until 1999, I read very little theology. I started reading theology for a piece of literary criticism about Octavia Butler that I was writing. From that section of the library, I wandered over to Henri Nouwen and Kathleen Norris. I was part of a church that left me hungry for more intellectual depth, and I read more and more to get that nourishment that was lacking--much the way that I devoured classic literature in high school.

The danger of education is that you may find you've educated yourself out of certain circles. I've been dismayed to realize that I've read more theology than many people with a seminary education. Of course, I haven't had the benefit of a teacher to guide me, to talk to me, to listen to the ideas that my reading has inspired and to help me see where the reading is true and where the reading may be heading off towards heresy. Luckily, my liberal arts education has left me fairly well equipped to read critically, and my knowledge of church history has also helped me to understand where writers may be headed off to brave, new territory. I'm part of a church tradition that doesn't damn people for reading heretical ideas, so no worries there.

Lately, I'm not reading as much theology as I once did. To be fair, I'm not reading as much of anything as I once did. When I was teaching, I had more time for reading. Now that my job is an administrative job that requires me to be in the office for at least 40 hours a week, I'm reading fewer books, more online materials. Sure, I could bring a book to the office, but I've noticed that if I'm reading a computer screen, people assume I'm hard at work. Bring books to the office, and I quickly get a reputation for being a slacker.

I wonder too if I'm reading less theology because I'm going to a church that offers more spiritual nourishment. My current pastor's sermons have depth and heft. He's only 10 years out of seminary, unlike most of the other pastors in my orbit, and in the intervening years, he got a D.Min. degree. It's a nice change.

I'm also probably suffering from having read so widely in the last 10 years. I've gotten to the point where I pick up a new book, and it feels familiar. I'm underlining less. I'm surprised less and less. These experiences make me less likely to feel that old joy in reading.

Or maybe I'm just in some kind of slump. I go through these periodically, when it's hard to pray and hard to make myself go to church and hard to read the Bible. Maybe my theological reading slump is a manifestation of that.

Likely, I just need a break. My teenage reading self knew that: for every 2 trashy books, one book with heft, that was my rule. Perhaps my mid-life reading self could learn from her.