It Works, but Not Immediately--and this is what so often keeps me from thoroughly enjoying poetry (and philosophy too, for that matter)

I am astonished this morning. I plan to respond more to James Sires book, How to Read Slowly, more later, but this morning I cannot hold back and wait to say this.

I read a poem this morning, a poem by Gerard Manly Hopkins this morning, and got it, at least a little bit, understood it in some sense. I read it twice last night, and it was nothing to me but a jumble of words and sounds, but this morning, even though I had forgotten all about it in the night, this morning it suddenly and unexpectedly made sense to me. I knew how to read it this time, even though I didn't know how to read it before.

Can I reprint it here, or must I satisfy myself with providing a link?

Hurrahing in Harvest

I don't do a lot of poetic analysis if I can help it, so I cannot tell you what I got from the poem, and don't really wish to, but what astounds me is that I read these words last night and didn't understand the rhythm of them, and when I read them again this morning, all of a sudden I did.

I want to understand and appreciate poetry, I really do, but I do tend to be like the tourist that Sire describes in his book, moving too quickly to really see what I am looking at. We do this in life too, you know.

And what I realize just now is that part of the Hopkins poem is the gazing, not any kind of sleazy voyeurism, but the taking time to see what's there. The Carolyn Weber book, Surprised by Oxford, is about this in some sense too.

I am one who wants to see. There is enough of the mystic in me for that. But I don't always see. I don't always see.

Read the poem, if you wish to, and if you don't understand it, read it again. And then read it again. And then don't read it for a while, and then read it again. This is one of the ways that poetry works. How easily I forget that.

Seasons...perhaps we anticipate a season of travel without quite realizing we are doing so...

This is a blog post, not a Facebook update. I realized it three sentences in. I don't always catch it.

I always said that Tuscaloosa was a nice place to live so long as you didn't have to stay here all the time. My family used to go away for whole summers at a time, and Daddy always took his sabbatical year in another place. I've been in Tuscaloosa far too long.

It's been what? Twenty years since I lived anywhere else? I had no idea it had been so long. I've never taken the time to tote it up before. The rest of the family spent a year in New York while I was in college, New York which is beautiful when the snow falls, but can also be bleak when the leaves are off the trees. They were at West Point. I visited them twice.

Since then it has been nothing but Tuscaloosa all the time, except for the occasional week-long excursion. A family took me with them to Gatlinburg once. Daddy took me with him to Mexico City on a trip with the Evangelicals to the Universidad there. We drove as a family cross-country to attend a campus ministry training seminar in Colorado once. We've been to Alabama's beaches more than once, and my husband's family lives in Huntsville.

But now I'm getting the traveling bug. He (my husband) prefers not to travel merely for the sake of traveling, but I begin to think we need the experience now of being forced to interact with unfamiliar people, unfamiliar cultures even within our own citizenship, though I lack the skill. I feel we need to scope out this country we live in, trying on new geography until we find the place that fits. But I'm not sure how we'd do it, and we'd miss our beds back home.

And with the University here, of course, the world comes to us.

But I hope perhaps this is a preparing. Maybe we are to be called away soon, and this longing to move (move freely, I mean, not necessarily in terms of a moving van-type move) comes on full-force so that we will be ready to answer the call. Maybe. Maybe we were tied here before in ways I could not perceive, but maybe change is coming and God is protecting me, preparing me for change. Maybe. Sometimes I think speculation is vain, and other times I think the speculation is the Holy Spirit sending messages to God's children. I couldn't tell you which this one is. It's certainly hard to distinguish between the two.

All I know is that all of this, this discomfort, this emerging need, must be building trust and faith. I think these past two years must be important, as hard as they've been, though others may say, "Aw, you've had it easy." Though sometimes I accuse God of torturing me, I also know anything He does is good, and for our good because He is Good.

This is where I metaphorically stand, watching the bamboo of my yard sway in the breeze.

I wonder if Christmas is about newness in a different way than the New Year is about newness, or Spring is about newness. I wonder.

The Problem with Memoir is...

You know what the problem with reading spiritual memoirs is, don't you? By the time you reach the end of the book you feel like you know the author, but you really don't. You can't pick up the phone and call them, say hey, I know we haven't talked in a while, but remember me? How's your week been?

Well, I suppose you could, maybe, but you'd probably come across as a lunatic.

And yet, I really do like the genre. I'm reminded of a quotation from Wayne Boothe that I used to use as the tag line under my email signature: "In life we never know anyone but ourselves by thoroughly reliable internal signs, and most of us achieve an all too partial view even of ourselves (The Rhetoric of Fiction, 3). Even though we know that the author has used their creative and selective vision to tie their personal story together, we still come away knowing something about them that we otherwise wouldn't discover from reading their profile off a fly leaf. I like knowing something about what another person, different from me, has experienced, mediated though it is, and must be.

My favorite memoirs:

• Most any nonfiction written by Madeleine L'Engle, as her writing style is largely memoir-esque, even outside of her published journals.
• Girl Meets God by Lauren Winner
• An American Childhood by Annie Dillard
• Surprised by Joy by C.S. Lewis
• most recently, Surprised by Oxford by Carolyn Weber

There's a whole world of memoir I have yet to discover. Name your favorites?

"The worst is my being alone...," Don Chaffer, album: "You were at the Time for Love"

I feel comfortable coming out of nowhere with an idea on Facebook, but somehow blogging seems so much more formal, as though anything published here ought to be finished and complete, properly set, and ended. Publishing here is different from publishing there, and it trips me.

So now for the set-up.

I'm reading this book my Carolyn Weber, Surprised by Oxford. I saw it on the new releases shelf in the library at least half a year ago, and was drawn by the title, but didn't pick it up then. Later, through Goodreads perhaps, it emerged into my consciousness again, as the reviews led me to believe that despite my caution at approaching another spiritual memoir, one evoking my favorite author, no less, it would be a book worth reading.

It's a good book, but something about it scares me.

It isn't an alarming book, by any means, and it doesn't bring up any entirely new ideas that I have not considered before, but I am unsettled by it, unsettled being quite the appropriate word.

Is Oxford really like what she describes? Are there people in the world like what she describes, not just at Oxford?

I take back what I said about being unsettled by Weber's book. I was already unsettled before reading it.

And now I'm probably going to cry. Self-pity, you know. Or maybe you don't. Or maybe it isn't even self-pity.

What I came on here to say was this:

She makes me wonder if this part of the South, the part I live in, is a particularly uncomfortable place to be an introvert.

Among other, weightier things, and this is only a minor detail in a book about something else entirely, she mentions this man, this man who became so important in her life, his discomfort with small talk, and how he entered into deep conversation with her sister upon first meeting. It's like they recognized one another immediately.

For you this comes out of nowhere. For me it comes after many a conversation that has made me wonder about my geographical place in the world.

What scares me about this book is that Weber makes me want to escape to a place like Oxford, England. Not because it is a perfect place. No place is perfect. No people are perfect. There must be harshness and cruelty there just as there is here, in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. There must be apathy there, just as there is here. There really is no reason to think that I might be nurtured there anymore than I am here in Tuscaloosa, Alabama.

What scares me about this book is that it makes me want to hope for something I must be completely naive to hope for. Of course the problem I have must be me and not my surroundings, right? Community is there for the joining, is it not? If I'm lacking in community, in intellectual nurturing here, in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, it must be my own fault, right, because I haven't adapted properly, wanted it enough, etc. Because I'm too intimidated by those I must approach.

If I feel isolated it is because of me, not you. At least that's what I've believed for a long, long time. Or else not believed it, and therein lies the problem.

Does any of this make sense?

My internal dialog says, "Buck up, girl. Your geographical location has nothing to do with it. There's something wrong with you, not the topography." I don't trust that internal dialog, any more than I trust in some kind of utopian, pie-in-the-sky dream.

This is raw and exposed and it's the only way I know to write. Someday I hope to grow up out of it.

I think I need some British friends.

By the way, Carolyn Weber's book isn't about this, but it is making me think new thoughts.

Things I am Grateful for...

It hasn't been working, this whole blogging thing, and that's okay. Things I am happy about this morning:

• That my sister-in-law collects handkerchiefs, carries one, and gave me some to bring home with me.
• A fire in the firepit on a cold day; candles in the house.
• Shopping at Publix, where the staff is usually friendly, they give your children free cookies so that they want to shop with you, and the customer is not treated like an inconvenience. They don't shame you for using WIC either.
• The discovery that long nightgowns can be warm without also being frumpy.
• Using handmade soap in my bathroom.
• My friend Amy, who puts table cloths on her table at meal time everyday, to signal to her children that something important is happening.
• Changing the way I think about groceries.
• Books like chocolates, even the difficult ones.