Understanding the Sacred

Three little recent events have synced in my mind now and formed an idea.

1. Many political people said that the Capitol building was "desecrated" during the Jan. 6 riot.

2. A friend, who posts stunning sunrise photos, asked if an unimpressive sunrise was any less holy than a glowing, orange one.

3. The daughter of the maker of the Lombardi trophy (Super Bowl) is upset that Tom Brady lightly tossed the trophy from his boat to another boat (quite close by), to his tight end. She wants an apology for the distress Brady caused by not properly respecting the trophy.

We long for sacred things in our lives -- a building, a sunrise, a trophy. What does "sacred" mean? Technically, it means the same as "holy" -- a term for something set apart for God, for use in His worship, His purpose, His will. Only something that is first set apart for God -- consecrated to Him -- can then be desecrated.

We can disagree about what is sacred, but not about what "sacred" means. It doesn't mean "beautiful," so my sunrise-photo friend can safely say that an unimpressive sunrise (is there such?) is as holy as the most beautiful one. In the Old Testament system, only the most pure, unblemished, perfectly-made things were dedicated to God's use -- kind of. God chose Israel, of all nations the most difficult, rebellious, complaining, and disobedient -- very imperfect. So He described them. In the end, it seems nothing is truly worthy of the term "sacred" except Jesus Christ Himself, and even He was humbled and made very low, given a fallen human body, before His sacrifice of Himself. He is holy. He was dedicated to God, and also perfectly pure.

We are told to be holy as He is. I struggle to wrap my mind around that.

Every time someone said that the Capitol building was desecrated, I twitched a little in discomfort. I agree wholeheartedly that we should treat such a building with deep respect and protection. But I don't believe it's sacred. It is set apart for a special use, yes, but not a spiritual one. The Capitol is for temporal, political use, not eternal, spiritual use. The same would go for the trophy, of course. Just because we greatly value something doesn't make it sacred, not even "sacred to me." There is no such thing. By definition, things are sacred to God.

The sunrises, however, I'm willing to consider as sacred, made by God, delighted in by Him, and used for His purposes. I wouldn't argue with that one.

Perhaps one of our greatest struggles now is misapplying that term, slapping "sacred" on anything we value. Forgetting God. Forgetting that we are asked to dedicate things to Him, in life -- taking something we value and cherish, and handing it over to Him for His use. If we consider something sacred, we must sacrifice it. Instead, we've generally twisted that idea, loving something and dedicating it to ourselves (as if we were God), and jealously attacking anybody who dares to lay a finger on it. I consider this kind of thinking as blasphemy.

I have decided on this position as I'm typing, which is rather scary. But I think it's true. I need to ask myself: When's the last time I took something I loved and said to God, "Here. This is for You. Not for me. Do with it as you wish; it's dedicated to You and no one else. I take my hands off."?

Which is, of course, what we are supposed to do with ourselves, with our lives. Maybe that's what Jesus meant when He said, "Be holy as I am holy." 

My Go-Home To-Do List:

Being away from home has put a bee in my bonnet to accomplish some long-overdue tasks when I do return home. To hold myself accountable, I'm making a list! Here it is, thus far:

Improve the silverware drawers

Refinish the little bathroom table

Paint the kitchen ceiling on the edges

Clean up the front porch -- this is several days' worth of work

New curtains for the dining room

Hem the dining room sheer

New blinds for the bedroom

Get rid of the bed frame

Clean off back porch near doorway

Price a new mini-dryer

Paint my studio

Paint the shutters (I'm scared of this one.)

Find a new headboard for our bed

I'll make a youtube video also, so I can tell myself, in no uncertain terms, to get after it! When I'm home, I sit around looking at the tasks to be done, and struggle to motivate myself. But away from home? I have all the motivation in the world! 

What has inspired me? Stephanie Jarvis, at Chateau de Lalande in France. She has a youtube channel (a sheer delight!) called Chateau Diaries. I'll put one video below for anyone who might be interested. If she can restore an entire chateau the size of a small village, I can certainly make a few needed improvements to my tiny house!

I'll be adding to my list ... I think ... as I remember other jobs that need doing. Y'all -- keep my nose to the grind stone!

Early Morning in Mississippi

 Good morning. I'm still in Mississippi. Little Ellie Kate had a harder time than we expected, and she's up in Memphis at a NICU in a children's hospital for a bit. She has fluctuating bilirubin, and the doctors are evaluating that. 

Having a sick baby is very hard on parents. Anna was our sick baby, and the stress puts you "through the roof" in a way that other worries just don't. So these young parents are juggling lots of things right now, and Nana is still here to help. I'm holding down the fort with Isaac and enjoying that so much! I didn't expect to have this much time with him by myself, but it's delightful to start building that grandbaby/grandmother bond.

We listen to a lot of classical music. He especially likes live performances where he can watch the conductor waving his arms and the players with their fascinating instruments. We go on walks every day that the weather allows. It's so cold and wet right now! We play with toys and do tickle games, bath time, lots of yummy meals, and reading with Teddy, his favorite friend. We watch little videos of Mommy and Daddy with Ellie Kate, so he knows her when she comes home.

We spend so much of life feeling torn between two things. Between this person and that person, this side and that side, home and work, youth and age -- the list goes on. I love time with Isaac, but I long to be home. That's part of living, and having two places that you love so much is a blessing, is it not? 

I've been a grandmother for a while now, but I've never felt so much like a grandmother as I do now. It feels right: the achy back, the wrinkly skin, the old hands, the sleeping in a strange twin bed in a baby's room. It's all part of it, and I feel so privileged that God has given me this. 

Blessings to all of you out there in blogland!

He loves popcorn! Yay!

Far Away From Home

 I'm over here, a stone's throw from the Mississippi River. Mississippi feels vaguely familiar still - a memory of a home -- but it's not home anymore. Still, I'm enjoying my time here so much. The pandemic makes it so that I pretty much stay in the house, a comfortable place for us introverts. 

On my way to Mississippi, I stopped in Tennessee to see another sweet grandbaby boy who I had not yet seen (because of the pandemic). I spent a whole DAY with him myself, and what a dear, precious blessing he is. This is John:

He is just as sweet and even-tempered as he can be. Don't you love that little shirt they bought for him? (MELT....)

Anna had her baby this weekend, little Ellie Kate. We are all pleased as punch! She has a head full of very dark brown hair like her mommy did all those years ago. She needed a little extra time in the nursery at first, but is coming along nicely. Right now I'm at home with Isaac by myself because Gramm is not allowed to go in-and-out at the hospital, of course. Covid makes everything just that little bit more difficult!

I've been cooking like mad, and I'll throw those photos in here somewhere. I spend hours playing with Isaac, or watching him entertain himself with his toys, which he is masterful at. He's a good sleeper, a good eater, a good player, a generally happy little boy -- just like John! I'm so thankful to have this time with them, real one-on-one time. They won't remember this particular visit, but it still goes into the whole pot of soup that will be our relationship. They will remember me each time they sees me, and at some point they won't remember life without me. Isn't it supposed to be thus, with a grandmother?

We've gone on several walks with Isaac. (I walk; he's in the stroller.) That always calms him down. He loves the outdoors. He loves objects, handling them, figuring out how they work. He concentrates well. 

I've cooked: beef stew, chicken and dumplings, spaghetti, chicken and rice (twice), Clementine Chicken, chocolate chip cookies, and peanut butter cookies. 

And lest I forget, Anna and Gramm have a gorgeous rag doll cat, Chauncey.

I don't know when I'll go back home. Nanas stay where they are needed 😀 Blessings to all you dear friends out in blog land. Keep heart! Stay safe and keep hope in your hearts.

I Keep Forgetting About Those Youtube Videos ....

 I was wondering why my youtube view numbers were down a bit, and then I remembered: "I haven't shared them with my blog friends!" Duh! 😀

So here are some of the more recent videos from my channel, if you're interested. Don't forget to click on the big red "Subscribe" button, if you want to find my channel more easily:

Spending some lovely time outside:

A little crochet project:

A little road trip to see the water near our house:

I finally finish the Advent Calendar and show how to knit a little baby doll:

A little review of our Christmas and presents:

I knitted a hat! It looks better on Julia though:

Thoughts on Frost, and Being an Ear-Reader

 I've always loved Robert Frost's poems, and feel that anyone who thinks them simplistic hasn't studied them well. For many years I always had my students read them aloud. Somehow his poems (especially his long, narrative ones), like Shakespeare's work, must be read aloud. Now I know why.

Frost is all about the sounds of words and sentences - their tones and rhythms, what he calls "sound posturing." He says the best readers are the slow ones who sound out everything on the page to hear -- really, I think, to taste with the mind's ear -- the lusciousness, the flavors of the words. Just as flavors are spicy, sharp, creamy, sweet, bitter, so are words. Frost knew this deeply. It bothered him that most writers had little understanding of the importance of sound; they wrote for grammar and technical meaning. He calls this the "distinction between the grammatical sentence and the vital sentence." The real life of the sentence is in its sound.

If you want to read more of Frost's thoughts on this wonderful, freeing, enlivening idea, here is a link:
Robert Frost on the 'Sound of Sense' 

This piece was written by Dr. Karl Maurer, I think, of University of Dallas. If you don't want to read the entire 19 pages, here's an excerpt from a letter Frost wrote:

"It is so [by listening to sentence-sounds] and not otherwise that we get the variety that makes it fun to write and read. The ear does it. The ear is the only true writer and the only true reader. I have known people who could read without hearing the sentence sounds and they were the fastest readers. Eye readers we call them. They can get the meaning by glances. But they are bad readers because they miss the best part of what a good writer puts into his work.

 "Remember that the sentence sound often says more than the words. It may even as in irony convey a meaning opposite to the words.

 "I wouldn’t be writing all this if I didn’t think it the most important thing I know. I write it partly for my own benefit, to clarify my ideas for an essay or two I am going to write some fine day (not far distant.) 

"To judge a poem or piece of prose you go the same way to work—apply the one test—greatest test. You listen for the sentence sounds. If you find some of those not bookish, caught fresh from the mouths of people, some of them striking, all of them definite and recognizable, so recognizable that with a little trouble you can place them and even name them, you know you have found a writer."

This concept rang true like a clarion bell the instant I read it! I am not a bad reader because I sound the sentences out in my head. Rolling them around on my tongue and appreciating the voice of the writer is not a waste of time. Frost would say that's what reading is all about -- I am extracting additional meaning from the sentences that other people are sadly missing. What a thought! 

All the writers I dearly love, I love for their voices. I hardly care what they write about. They can write about their potatoes in the garden, or a murder most grisly. Only give me their voice. What irony happens when a writer with gorgeous sounds describes a horrific scene? Faulkner shows us this in all his glory! What does that depth of irony in his novels tell us about the world he's painting for us?

Think of the times that language is stripped of its technical, grammatical meaning, and you are left only with sound: listening to a foreign language spoken, or listening to a nonsense story or poem. (Go read "Ladle Rat Rotten Hut," for instance - it's hilarious!) The words themselves give no meaning at all. All meaning must come from the sound ... and not just inflection. We humans communicate so much meaning by that "sound posturing."

I don't know if I have any good poems left in me; I may have aged out of the poem-writing years. But if I do, I hope they will be gleaned from sounds. As Frost says of writing poems, "And unless we are in an imaginative mood, it is no use trying to make them, they will not rise." Perhaps I should start listening.

For more of Frost's lovely poetry, click here.

Is It a Story Worth Dying For?

 I'm now reading books #5 and #6 in my "Literary Life Reading Challenge" for this year. I tend to read books in pairs in case I get bored with one; I can switch to the other.

In the Literary Life group, there's a little saying: "Stories will save the world!" The members of this group believe this, and they share accounts that they think demonstrate the salvific nature of stories. I'm inclined to agree with them.

Take a few minutes to read this article, if you like: "What Neil Gaiman and My Secret Agent Grandmother Taught Me." In the article, the writer reminds us that books and stories can inspire both noble goodness and horrific evil. He suggests, when you've finished reading a book, "take a moment to consider what that story means, what larger narratives it fits into. Is it something you would die for? Is it something you would die to prevent? Who might suffer, and who might be empowered, if it were to come true?"

I cast my mind back to the four books I've finished:

Knock at a Star

84 Charing Cross Road

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Pie Peel Society

Antigone

What deep life truths are those authors speaking to? Are they truths that resonate with my soul? Do I think people should die for them? Would I die for them?

Knock at a Star is a book of widely varying poems for children (and adults). I feel strongly about the power of poetry, about its significance in human history and its unique power to convey story. I need to ponder how those questions apply to this book.

84 Charing Cross Road is about the power of book-loving to connect people who never meet each other except through the written word, and how much love can be conveyed in that way. Is that type of communication worth dying for? How important is it?

Guernsey is precisely about this very topic: the power of stories to save people's lives, to save their inner world in the middle of crushing German occupation in WW2. The members of that literary society would die for each other. Books united them and saved them not only from their misery but for each other.

And Antigone. Oh, how I love that story! I think I could read it each year, and I don't feel that way about any other story. Antigone dies for what she believes, for fidelity to her brother and to her religious beliefs. She defies the king (her uncle) and the laws. I love Antigone's courage, her unyielding adherence to her highest ideals, her devotion to her brother.

Perhaps that's one definition of courage: knowing what you will die for, and doing it if push comes to shove. 

Now I've moved on to Alice's Adventures Under Ground by Lewis Carroll (which I never finished before, really never began) and The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins. I wonder if those books will present any deep thoughts along these lines? I'll get back to you on that.