More on Augustine: This for "PDempsey"

My head is full of Augustine right now. And there's so much I want to talk about, but I am not sure how to organize my thoughts. But here's some of it:

The Confessions is interesting in that it's more about Augustine's intellectual and spiritual growth and less about the external events and trappings of his life. In this way, it rather reminds me of C.S. Lewis's Surprised by Joy, a book that always fascinates me. But how can one really retrace and recount for us his spiritual development. I mean, there seems to be something artificial or constructed about it, you know? I can barely remember what I was thinking last night. How can someone so clearly remember what he was believing and mulling over at a particular period in his life, a period maybe years in the past. I don't think that Augustine is making it up or anything; it just strikes me that he can never really get at the texture and sense and "quidity," to use a Lewisism, of his own mind at any particular time. Yet, I applaud the attempt and generally think that Augustine is successful. (Forgive me for comparing him over and over to Lewis. I suppose that for a variety of reasons, Lewis controls how I tend to think about the world, the mind, and literature specifically. This is sometimes troubling.)

I'm struggling to "get" Augustine's ideas about sin. Before I started reading, I would have been able to give a simple definition, maybe even an explanation, of A's theory of sin; that is sin as a falling short, but also as a kind of nothingness, something that does not exist because God has created all that does exist, yet God could not have created sin. Ok, ok don't jump all over me because that wasn't perfect--I'm just trying to get out the working definition I'd assumed when I began the Confessions. Yet there's something about it that just isn't adding up for me. And I don't know whether the intellectual and maybe imaginative shortcoming is in me or A. or both. But I want to understand. I'd like to better know what sin is (or isn't.) But I am just not getting it. I suppose I just need to keep reading. I'd like to believe that if I keep reading everything will be ok somehow.

I realize that this post isn't very coherent. I'm rather tired (what else is new?), and I'm mostly trying to frame questions. I'm not quite ready to work at answers yet. Maybe the questions are just as important as the answers anyway.

Where Does the Time Go?

I get frustrated often because there never seems to be the time for all the things I want to do, things that I think are important. There's so much I want to read and write about and talk about. But it seems as though my days are filled with meetings and phone calls that I let drag on for too long and doing nothing. Sometimes doing nothing is fine, but I'm talking about the doing nothing that isn't even enjoyable.

I mean, what I really want to do lately is read and take notes on what I'm reading and write about what I am reading. Augustine is calling me. But there are always papers to grade and bills to pay. It's not that I'm lazy or that I don't want to work. In fact, I am by nature, pretty highly motivated and disciplined. It's just that here it is, after 6:00, and what have I accomplished? Not all that much. I proctored two miderms: boring, but a necessary boring, I suppose. I went to a yoga class: three cheers for me, and boy does my back feel better. I had a doctor's appointment for my annual girl stuff: unpleasant, but again a necessary unpleasant made more barable by the fact that my doctor is wonderful. I came home and rested: rather a let down that I rested rather than doing productive things, but seemed needful. I cleaned and organized stuff around the place, athough you may not be able to tell by looking. I watched Dr Phil: this was highly unnecessary, and the silly part is that I watched it only because there was a dog in some of the footage that looked like Guinnie; couldn't miss seeing her again. But, really, where did my day go? And what beyond the work, yoga, and doctor was even meaningful or useful?

I want more time, not just to be lazy, but to pursue things that I believe are important to my intellectual and personal development. And here's my deep, dark secret: I want time to write, not just this silliness, but something meaningful. I think I need to pursue that for myself. But I don't; there's always a reason not to start, to put it off until another day.

I'm not upset. And I'm not being overly hard on myself. I am just baffled somehow.

NB: I realize that I've way overused the colon in this post. It may be my new favorite punctuation mark. The dash is my old favorite.

NB: I'm still avoiding writing about the things that matter to me most: love, pain, faith, doubt, people.

I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say. I'm here writing because of some silly rule, some New Year's Resolution, that I've imposed upon myself. But I don't know what to say. I woke up this morning, thought "I can do this," and got myself out of bed. And the day just was. It wasn't anything noteworthy. There were high points and low points. And yes, I cried but only a little.

OK, I have decided that it's OK to cry. C. and I have been talking about this, and my mom and I have been talking about this, and I'm OK with crying. It doesn't mean anything is wrong with me or even that anything is wrong with my life. It could just mean that I'm tired and want a break. And I feel content and satisfied most of the time, so it's OK if I cry sometimes. I guess I have just decided to accpet that maybe this is normal for me. Or healthy for me. Or even if it isn't, it's who I am right now. And obsessing about it isn't going to make it any better or any different anyway, so I might as well just decide that it's fine. Maybe it's the whole 1-11 thing again; maybe I have those 1 moments each day, but it's OK because there are more and more 11 moments all the time.

What I do know is this: that even if I am crying a little each day (or most days, not every day), I am more satisfied and have more direction than I have for the past 2 1/2 years. That's not an exaggeration.

Tehanu

I've been reading Ursula LeGuin's Tehanu for a class. And there a just a couple of observations that I want to record, more for myself than anyone else.

LeGuin deals in this novel with the possibility and paradox of being two things at once--the old woman who is really a dragon, the abused child who really is powerful, and the woman who is both domestic and heroic. Tenar, a central character here, often reflects on her decision to pursue traditional, domestic female roles rather than learn to be a sorceress of some sort. And yet, we are never quite sure that she's made the best choice. It seems to me that Tenar can do both things, be a traditional female and be a radical female, maybe not at once but in one lifetime. Maybe this is what LeGuin is urging each of us to do.

I don't know; I'm still working through this.

"Evil But Not a Genius"

I have a brother J. who is 15. Some of you have known him since he was about 3. And if you know me or him at all, then you know that he tends to say really, really funny things. He also tends to do funny things. He has a way with words, sometimes a tendency to misuse words, that has been a source of amusement for me since he started talking. Here's an example:

About 4 years ago, when our niece E. was a baby, E. arrived at my parents' home wearing a winter time hat. It was a silly little hat, but she looked cute. And here was J.'s analysis. . .

"Hey, in that hat, don't you think like E. looks like she could be one of Santa's minions. You know, evil but not a genius."

Oddly, I think he's used the expression "Evil but not a genius" about my dog Guinevere.

Oh, And One More Thing (The Last For Today)

Also, I realize that I could do things that would maybe cause others to take me more seriously (e.g. not have a blog that screams "pink," not wear rainbow brite tee shirts, not wear a nose stud), but the truth is, generally silliness makes me happy. I don't want to be a pretentious academic who takes herself way too seriously, although I do take my field and my work seriously. I exult in colour (another British celebration) and popular culture and laughter and glitter and suffering and sadness. But I don't want to give up on those things. I want to be someone who can be comfortable wearing glittery make-up and still quote (or maybe misquote) Latin, you know? This is who I am, and I like this about me. Nolite te bastardes carborundorum.

Oh, One More Thing

I also realize that I at some point probably need to transcend the silly crushes on fictional characters that I seem to have developed recently. I get that. But really, I was only half serious in the first place.

A Sense of Direction

So earlier today, I wrote that the planets were in alignment for me. But that's not really it. All of a sudden, I have this renewed sense of purpose about my life. I know what it is that I need to do next, and I feel a committment to what I am doing. And I've been thinking about why this is. It seems strange to me that suddenly, I seem to have more direction about my life and myself and what I need and want to do. But I don't think it's as sudden as it seems. I think as with many things in life (this is one of the great lessons of getting a PhD and writing my dissertation), we work and work and work at something and don't necessarily see the results of our labours (I'm using the British "u" simply out of a feeling of joy about the world and all things British), although the results are there just below the surface. And the results accumulate and accumulate below the surface for a while until the results break through. It's like writing, or like my writing process anyway. I work and work and work and feel as though nothing is getting done, although I'm putting in the time and effort. And then all of a sudden one day *pouf* I have twenty pages written. So it's like that, only in my personal life and my emotional life and my spiritual life. I've written about it in my journal and talked about it with some of you and prayed for direction and wisdom. And now *pouf*: I know where I need to go from here, and I think I know how to get there.

SIDE NOTE: Although I pray for wisdom, I don't claim that I've acctually attained that yet.

Anyway, so what I need to do next is this (well, this is a partial list anyway): I want to start seriously looking for a house. At any rate, I really would like to move from this apartment. So I'm going to contact a realtor this week. I've been browsing online, and there's not a lot in my price range, but I'm going to pursue it. My dad, who is wonderful, is planning to visit in about a month, when I have spring break, to look with me. I'm overwhelmed by the whole process, and I am so thankful that I have a father who is kind, intelligent, financially savy, and generally wonderful.

The other general thing I want to do is this: simply take better care of myself day to day. I'm eating healthier foods; I'm practicing yoga and meditation regularly; I'm praying more regularly; I'm reading my Bible and other devotional kinds of materials. I'm doing it, and the results are nearly immediate.

The third general goal I have is that I want to develop more satisfying personal relationships. This, for me, may be the more difficult of my goals, but it's something that I want to work at. And I do have a partial plan; I need to plan more fully.

I suppose that most of you are not really interested in all this, but I feel so joyful and peaceful and purposeful that I want to share it with the world. Wow! I'm becoming increasingly corny in my old age, and that's fine with me.

I just wanted to say quickly that metaphorically, the planets seem to be in alignment. That is to say, that suddenly and, I think, for a variety of reasons, I am happier than I've been in a long, long time. Maybe it's the whole 1-11 thing (for those of you who don't know, I'll explain later): I cry often, but I'm jubilant, joyful, happy each day.

Ursula LeGuin

I'm taking a break from Augustine (I've read about 1/3 of his Confessions) to reread Ursula LeGuin's Tehanu. I read The Tombs of Atuan last week. I want to say that I think LeGuin is a master stylist, and her Earthsea series, of which these two are a part, is wonderful is this respect. I like The Tombs of Atuan and the other books in the Earthsea cycle, but I love Tehanu. As I've been preparing to teach it this week, all the things I loved about it first time around seem even more significant and meaningful. I suppose that has something to do with who I am this time around.

LeGuin deals with the complications created by relationships between men and women. I'd say that she so much has a grasp on what it means to be female, how it feels to be female, without slipping into stereotype. The way men and women (mis)communicate, how it feels for a woman to age, what it means for a woman to embrace traditional domestic roles: all of these LeGuin deals with skillfully, artfully, and interestingly.

There's so much more I want to say, but I don't know how. (SIDE NOTE: I've noticed recently that I avoid writing about the things that are most meaningful, and therefore most intimate, to me--my faith, for example.) It's hard to find words for these things that seem to get at the essence of who we are.

If anyone is interested in fantasy, I'd certainly recommend the Earthsea cycle.

Another Fictional Character With Whom I Am Infatuated. . .

This is Albert Campion, as played by Peter Davison. In addition to Inspector Morse and Dr. Shepherd, I suspect that I could possibly be infatuated with Albert Campion. Like Morse, Campion is some Brit who solved mysteries. This may demonstrate that I simply watch too many BBC / A&E murder mysteries.

Why is Drennan into these fictional characters, you may ask. Well, as my mother pointed out, they don't leave dirty laundry lying about, they are there when you need them, you turn them off when you don't want them, and you assume that you at least know their character flaws. We pretend that what we see is what we get with these characters. But that's rarely true in real life, she observed. I'm not sure whether I agree or not.

It really is a sad state of things that I am so disillusioned with relationships that I prefer Campion and Morse and Shepherd to many, although not all, of the actual men I encounter. But Campion is intelligent, witty, and dashing. What's not to like?

Dolce Carina, I've though about it, and I have to say that I think Campion kicks Hugh Laurie's butt.

"Balancing Laura Ingalls and Paris Hilton"

This morning, I was sitting in church during the prelude, and in the announcements, there was a handout about an upcoming young people's conference to be held at Covenant. The handout gave brief overviews of some of the activities and lectures, including a lecture titled "Balancing Laura Ingalls and Paris Hilton." This particular talk for females promises to deal with whether we can be modest and godly, yet trendy and stylish at the same time. OK, I'm going to be real honest here; I think this is a worthwhile topic. However, I suspect that dealing with it in this way is not the best way to go about it. Anyway, as the pianist plays away before the service, B. the pastor's wife leans towards me, points at Paris Hilton's name, and says, "Who is this? I don't even know who this is." So, imagine me trying to briefly yet tastefully sum up the significance of Paris Hilton before church. (As a side note, I think that her not knowing who Paris Hilton is speaks highly of B.) So I'm trying to be tactful yet clear, and really, I'm not the queen of tact and discretion.

After discussion Paris briefly, I took another look at the handout, and here's what really gets to me about the whole thing. The woman slated to give this talk on "Balancing Laura Ingalls and Paris Hilton" is named Mary Jo Frump! What could be better? I know that maybe I shouldn't laugh at her last name, although I'm the first to laugh at my own last name. But really, couldn't this be a Saturday Night Live skit?

Abbey Road

I was feeling rather out of sorts, but my solution is to listen to Abbey Road over and over. There's something about the Beatles. And Abbey Road is maybe my favorite, although I also love Rubber Soul. I've loved the Beatles literally for as long as I can remember. When I was a child, I remember Rubber Soul being one of the few cassette tapes that my parents owned, and I would listen to it over and over. John Lennon's death is one of my earliest vivid memories; I was 5 years old.

But Abbey Road is comforting. It's not just that I like the music; it means something to me. But when things are that touching, they defy words. That is, I don't know how to describe how it is that I feel, except to say that I feel better than I did before I let it play over and over.

Augustine: Confessions, chapter 1 and miscellaneous

Since "p dempsey" is kind enough to be interested, here's what I'm thinking about Augustine so far:

I am certainly not an expert on Augustine; however, I suspect that for a variety of reasons, I probably know more than the average "area man." I spent much of this morning so far reading the first chapter of Confessions, in which A. discusses his childhood. And there are several things that occurred to me. I should say first that so far, I'm finding A. appealing on many different levels, and it seems odd that I've never read this work before because it does, in fact, speak to a variety of seemingly divergent interests that I have.

First, A's style very much reminds me of the late medieval English devotional writers. I'm thinking specifically of Julian of Norwich. Like Julian, Augustine uses a discursive, meditative style. He tends to mull over questions and possibly answers rather than expositing a particular argument. But more than that, it seems to me, at least right now, that A, like Julian, tends to say the same thing or ask the same question over and over using different rhetorical approaches, different wording. I suppose some readers find this tedious; I know that in my experience undergrads don't seem to respond to Julian enthusiastically for this reason. But I find this devotional, meditative style effective and even comforting somehow. I realize that A. is trained in rhetoric and spent much of his pre-converion adulthood as a master rhetorician. I realize that he's drawing on this Classical tradition, an academic tradition. Yet something about it strikes me as very natural.

Second, I find it interesting that in this early section, A. presents a particular construction of childhood, one that sees childhood, even infancy, as sinful. I suppose that "construction" is maybe the wrong word, as Augustine would tell us that he's presenting something objective, not constructed. Academically, I'm fascinated by the variety of ways childhood has been constructed and represented in the literary tradition. And I'm finding that A's discussion seems to be deepening my understanding. For many years, critics have argued that childhood was invented after the medieval period (I could give a big academic explanation, but it seem unnecessary here), yet Augustine seems to challenge this assertion in that he does write childhood as unique from adulthood, although it is clearly not an Enlightenment idea of childhood that he's writing.

Third, A. challenges the once commonplace observation by literary historians that the "self" and "interiority" were "discovered" in the 12th century. In grad school I always found this (now mostly outdated) argument silly. Augustine clearly allows for and even embraces the concept of an interior existence that is somewhat separate from one's external physical life. Isn't this really the essence of the Confessions? the idea that one's interior life is meaningful?

Fourth and probably most important, Augustine writes in a way that I'm finding convicting and encouraging in terms of my own spiritual life. (Doesn't spirituality necessarily imply interiority???) It's as though he's aware of my own sin--my pride, my tendency to be overly enamored with literature, my distraction from spiritual things--but also aware of the solution to my spiritual shortcomings. In this early section, A seems to imply that sin is at the root of our unhappiness. I know this is not some big, earthshattering observation that I'm making. And yet, to read A writing about his own experiences is edifying.

I guess that so far, this is just the sort of text I love: one that is intellectually challenging yet spiritually and emotionally nurturing at the same time.

I was just talking to C. on the phone about this. I hope this doesn't make me too neurotic.

Why is it easier to be in love with fictional characters than the real people that we meet? No, really. Am I the only one who feel this way? I decide that I theoretically could be all in love with this or that character that I see on TV or read about in a book. And really, it's the character, not the actor, that I'm all into.

Take Inspector Morse, for instance. I know that he's a fictional character, and I know that he's too old for me, and I know that he's possibly a borderline alcoholic. So he's not really relationship material. But still, I think I could possibly be in love with Inspector Morse. He's smart, well read, into opera, knows a good beer, does cross word puzzles. What's not to like. And he's always looking for women to become involved with and to save from themselves or something. Sadly, the women tend to end up getting killed or, worse, being guilty of murder. And so, of course, we feel sorry for Morse. OK, the more I write, the more I realize how crazy this sounds.


Or then, there's Patrick Dempsey's character, Dr. Shepherd, on Grey's Anatomy. I remember Patrick Dempsey being kinda nerdy in Can't Buy Me Love, which I really liked when I was about 15. So when did he grow up? And his character is totally cool in this unreal, I-wouldn't-really-dig-him-in-real-life kind of way, you know? And he makes being a surgeon seem so exciting. But then I realize that surgeons have to actually touch lungs and kidneys and things, and I realize that I could never do that. But he's hip, he's witty, he pursues the girl. Why don't I meet men like this in real life? And when I do, why aren't they into me? Again, I realize this sounds neurotic. But maybe the best we can do is simply embrace our neuroses. I'm not sure.

What I do know is that imagined relationships seem to be simpler than real ones. Go figure.

Friday I'm In Love

I heart Fridays.

If I were the type to extensively quote song lyrics in my blog, I'd quote that Cure song right now.

For the past two hours or so, I've been at home grading essays. And I just need a break. At least most of the essays, while not brilliant, are fairly interesting. It's mostly a good class. But I'm here writing because I feel as though I need to be connected to the world in some way. Some days it seems as though all I do is sit and read and think about ideas and talk about words. And all of that is fine, but there are days when it seems empty somehow. I don't want my entire life to be just about books; I want there to be more. Right now, I'm not sure that there is much more.

This week, I've been doing kinda a lot of Yoga and Pilates, which is mostly a good thing. On Tuesday, I started a new Yoga class, and so far, it's really wonderful. I'm sure that I mentioned it before, but it's right in the middle of the day on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and it seems like this great relaxing, energizing, centering kind of break. And the instructor seems really good. And Pilates is a good thing too. I don't know; I'm feeling better physically, you know? It's like the kinks and tightness in my muscles are getting worked out or something. It's been too cold to walk lately, which is too bad. But at least I'm doing something. Some people say that it doesn't matter what you do for exercise as long as you do something. I guess that right now my something is Yoga. Maybe those of you who are Yoga practitioners understand, but there's something almost magical about experiencing and really paying attention to one's breathing. "Magical" is the word for it. It is like taking in the positive energy of the universe and relating to it in some way. Maybe it is a way of being connected to something larger; I'm not sure.

Anyway, I suppose I should finish grading that set of essays--only four more to go!

Ok, Just One More of Tombstones

These were from this cool cemetary in Charleston, SC, a fascinating city to visit. I was there last April, when I also went to Savannah.

I especially like this style of tombstone, with the angely / children's faces and the wings.

I know it sounds strange, but cemetary pics make me feel peaceful.

One of the best things about moving to New England has been the cemetaries. There are all these quaint, interesting, old cemetaries around nearly every corner. And they are so unlike the cemetaries in California. In California, it's like all the graves were laid out on a perfect grid. There's this haphazard, overgrown quality about many of the cemetaries here. And they are old, so old.

One of my Favorites

So, while I'm on the subject of cemetary photos, this is one of my favorites. I took it in September 2004 at a local cemetary. What I really love it is the juxtaposition of the toombstones, some of them crumbling, with the blooming tree. I'm pretty sure it's wisteria, but I could be wrong about that.

I find the contrast between plant life and human death interesting.

This is one of my favorite, favorite photos, and it hangs on my wall so I can look at it everyday.

Picture for the Day. . .

Those of you who know me well know that I'm interested in photography and that I like visiting cemetaries. It's nothing morbid. I find cemetaries relaxing, contemplative kinds of places. They are like restful parks without high-strung children. This is a picture that I took last April at the Bonaventure Cemetary in Savannah, Georgia. If you've read Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, a fascinating book, you'll remember the Bonaventure.

Something about this picture captures how I feel right now.

Will the rest of you think it too morbid if I start posting all kinds of pictures of cemetaries and tombstones? I don't think it morbid at all.