Applicable

I came across the following poem today, when I was looking though my poetry scrapbook for something else entirely:

A PRAYER

Lord, make my childish soul stand straight

To meet that kindly stranger, Fate;

Shake hands with elder brother, Doom,

Nor bawl and scurry from the room.

William Laird

It is a funny little poem, but perfectly encapsulates my current attitude towards the Will of God. I want to do it. I want it more than anything else in the world... but, golly, sometimes I feel that I just might bawl and scurry away if I find out what exactly His will for me is. I find it very encouraging that I am not the only one who reacts this way.

And the Word for Today Is...

.... Idiolect.

It is a handy word, that is, meaning a distinctive, individual form of speech. At least, I find it rather handy, but then, I am rather idiolectic in my speech. I commonly use obscure words, like bole for tree trunk, or ugsome for something horrible, or stravage for wandering about. I have picked up a fair number of Scottish or Irish phrases, words and pronunciations, which I use daily without realising that I do it. I have lived in California my whole life, and yet have an odd accent that is frequently taken for Canadian by Americans... and a Canadian I talked to once, was sure I was from Newfoundland. Add to all of this a tendency to quote from a wide variety of sources, ranging from Gilbert and Sullivan, to The Pirates of the Caribbean, and one could say that I have practically developed my own dialect. Fortunately for me, my family and friends share this tendency, so we understand each other perfectly.

Concerning Books

I came across the following quote from C. S. Lewis today:

"No book is really worth reading at the age of ten which is not equally – and often far more – worth reading at the age of fifty and beyond."

It makes a very good point. There are certain books that I enjoyed very much as a child, that I still take even greater pleasure in today. "The Hobbit" is one that springs readily to mind. I read it for the first time when I was very young, and enjoyed it hugely. I enjoy it even more now, because I can now appreciate Tolkien's singular style of writing, and his very droll sense of humour - two things that I did not appreciate when I first read it. However, I think one could expand upon this quote a bit: that the only really worthwhile books, are the ones that you can go back to again, and again, and that always have something to say to you. The best books are not the bestsellers, which tend to be wildly popular for a year or two, and then fall into oblivion. Nor are they those serious, self-conscious works of literature, which garner great acclaim when they are published, but tend to remain a bit obscure, and are read primarily by those who are serious and self-conscious. Nor again, are they necessarily the classics, though a good many classics will fall into the realm of worthwhile books. They are, after all, classics for a reason.

The best books, however, the ones that are worth reading, and re-reading, are the ones that speak to the soul. By that, I do not mean just those books that are beautifully written, or deal with great themes, though, of course, such books would be included. I mean books that are genuinely human, and deal with genuinely human things. They can be anything from "A Tale of Two Cities" to P. G. Wodehouse's Wooster and Jeeves books. They can be simple children's stories, such as the Redwall books, or they can be epics, like "The Lord of the Rings". They can be tales of adventure, such as "The 39 Steps" or can deal with ordinary, every day happenings, like D. E. Stevenson's "Mrs. Tim Christie". But one things they will all have in common. Namely, that they touch some part of whatever it is that makes you you. They might make you laugh, or cry, or thoughful, or just plain glad to be alive, but whatever it is, you will be better for having read it.

Scotland's Baseball Connection

What is that, you say? You were not aware that there was a Scottish baseball connection? Well, dear Reader, neither did I. My father however, and ardent Baseball affectionado, informed me today that Bobby Thomson, whose incredible home run against the Dodgers, in the bottom of the ninth inning, knocked the Giants in the 1951 World Series, was born in Glasgow, Scotland. Furthermore, the Edinburgh baseball team, the Diamond Devils have named their homefield after Bobby Thomson. (Wow. There is actually National League Baseball in Scotland. Who knew?)

(If you would like to see the play and the subsequent rejoicing, you can go here. )

Book Review

Not too long ago, I came across several quotes by the Catholic British author, Caryll Houselander. I had never heard of her before that, even though my taste in literature runs very much in that direction. The quotes made a big impression on me, and one in particular stuck firmly with me: “Reverence must be paid even to those sinners whose souls seem to be dead, because it is Christ, who is the life of the soul, who is dead in them; they are His tombs, and Christ in the tomb is potentially the risen Christ.” I work in a public library, and, during any given day, will come in contact with a variety of difficult, or downright nasty people, and I have been noticing lately, that I find it difficult to be truly charitable to people. Oh, I am nice enough, of course, and I am polite and helpful. It is not really charity, though. I am simply doing my job. I generally have quite a contemptuous view of mankind in general. However that particular quote inspired me, and since then, I have been trying hard to see Christ (or at least, the potentially risen Christ) in the people whom I work with each day.

It was on the weight, primarily, of that one quote, that I decided to read some more by Caryll Houselander. I had looked her up upon reading those quotes, and was not quite sure what to think of her. She was almost always described as a 'mystic' and that particular word generally sends off warning signals for me, since these days, it is almost always used in context with new-agey spirituality. The little bits and pieces of her writing that I came across, however, seemed very orthodox, so I decided to try one of her books. I elected for one called, "This War is the Passion" which was written in London, during WWII.

I am glad I did, for it is a very good book indeed. Caryll uses the War as a sort of backdrop to the spiritual life, and though this occasionally makes the book feel a bit dated, in general, it works brilliantly as a way of casting Christian spirituality into the realm of daily life. She begins by pointing out that suffering is actually a blessing in disguise. Suffering (at least to some degree) is unavoidable, but to Christians, and particularly to Catholics, who are trying to live a truly spiritual life, suffering is not wasted. We are all bound together by the life of Christ within us, so that the sufferings of each one of us is of merit, not only to ourselves, but to the whole of the Church - and by extension, the World. She points out that all men are made in the image and likeness of God, and reminds us of Christ's words, that whatever we do to the least of our fellow men, we do to Him... and she does it in such a way that you realise, all at once that the ordinary, daily encounters with other people (which you will have to make anyway) are actually opportunities to put that teaching into practice. She has an uncanny ability to take a concept that we are all familiar with - that Christ was true Man as well as true God, for example - and by the freshness of her writing, suddenly make it suddenly seem something staggeringly new and fantastic. She does not sugar-coat anything. She is able to make us see the ineffable sweetness of God's love for us, and the value He places on our love for Him - all out of proportion to its worth. But she also makes it very clear that so great a love will mean great sacrifices - on both parts.

"This War is the Passion" is not a very long, and could be read in a single evening. It is very full of ideas, though, and is well worth taking the time to read slowly, and, indeed, to re-read. Caryll's writing is clear and deceptively simple. She goes naturally from point to point, building each chapter off the one proceeding. She has a knack for being able to use the perfect word, or phrase, or metaphor, but, like all good writers, knows to use this talent sparingly, and so, to good effect. It is a practical book, but full of poetry. It is inspirational, but not sweet, or sentimental, and for all the focus on suffering and sacrifice, it is ultimately a tremendously encouraging book. I recommend it highly.

A Little Bit Broque

I had quite a nice time this evening. I went to the Boathouse at Valhalla to see Dream Spirit play. The Boathouse is a lovely setting to watch music in. It was originally exactly what its name implies: the boathouse to one of the stately old summer homes around the lake. I has been converted into a theatre, with a great big window behind the stage that looks out over the lake and the mountains. Most the summer concerts start around 7 pm or there abouts, so in addition to music, the audience is treated to a really splendid view of the sunset.

Dream Spirit Baroque Band is a local group - a quartet, featuring primarily hammer dulcimer, guitar, cello and violin/fiddle, with the occasional bit of hand drum thrown in, and some recorders too. The mainstay of their repertoire is baroque and Celtic music, but they incorporate a wide and eclectic range of music into their sound. Tonight there was a Finnish tune, some Eastern tunes, a number of popular tunes from the Beatles and Simon and Garfunkel, and a Japanese tune called Sakura, which was probably my favourite thing they did all evening. The music is all played in a chamber music setting, making for a pleasant, uncomplicated, all together charming sound. This appears to be the only video of them on youtube. The first tune is a slip jig called the Red Admiral Butterfly, and I have no idea what the second tune is called.

Roy Campbell

HORSES ON THE CAMARGUE


In the grey wastes of dread,
The haunt of shattered gulls where nothing moves
But in a shroud of silence like the dead,
I heard a sudden harmony of hooves,
And, turning, saw afar
A hundred snowy horses unconfined,
The silver runaways of Neptune's car
Racing, spray-curled, like waves before the wind.
Sons of the Mistral, fleet
As him with whose strong gusts they love to flee,
Who shod the flying thunders on their feet
And plumed them with the snortings of the sea;
Theirs is no earthly breed
Who only haunts the verges of the earth
And only on the sea's salt herbage feed-
Surely the great white breakers gave them birth.
For when for years a slave,
A horse of the Camargue, in alien lands,
Should catch some far-off fragrance of the wave
Carried far inland from this native sands,
Many have told the tale
Of how in fury, foaming at the rein,
He hurls his rider; and with lifted tail,
With coal-red eyes and cataracting mane,
Heading his course for home,
Though sixty foreign leagues before him sweep,
Will never rest until he breathes the foam
And hears the native thunder of the deep.
And when the great gusts rise
And lash their anger on these arid coasts,
When the scared gulls career with mournful cries
And whirl across the waste like driven ghosts;
When hail and fire converge,
The only souls to which they strike no pain
Are the white crested fillies of the surge
And the white horses of the windy plain.
Then in their strength and pride
The stallions of the wilderness rejoice;
They feel their Master's trident in their side,
And high and shrill they answer to his voice.
With white tails smoking free,
Long streaming manes, and arching necks, they show
Their kinship to their sisters of the sea-
And forward hurl their thunderbolts of snow.
Still out of hardship bred,
Spirits of power and beauty and delight
Have ever on such frugal pasture fed
And loved to course with tempests through the night.

I was delighted to come across this poem today. It is by the South African poet, Roy Campbell, who just happens to be my favourite modern poet (in fact, just about the only truly modern poet whom I read) and I had never come across it before. It is typically Roy Campbell, full of such stunningly vivid imagery, that the poem seems to flame into living colour before your very eyes. It is one of his trademarks, as is his brilliant, unexpected use of very precise words. His poems are very strong and rich and warm: a pure distillation of language, smooth and potent as whisky.

Roy Campbell was an intriguing - if somewhat mercurial individual, passionate, whole-hearted alive. He led a vigourous and adventurous life. He was a fisherman, a horseman, was fluent is Zulu, a bull fighter, and fought in both wars. His long poem, The Flaming Terrapin was published in 1924, to critical acclaim, and earned him a reputation as a rising talent. Indeed, in the ordinary course of events, he would have been remembered as one of the great poets of the 20th century. However, he was the sort of person who prides himself in being politically incorrect. He loathed the literary intelligentsia of the time. He knew most of them personally, and wrote a scathing satirical poem, The Georgiad, which blasted them for their snobbery, their immoral behaviour, and their anti-Christian bias. Needless to say, it was not well received.

Perhaps, if he had merely insulted Virginia Wolfe, Vita Sackville-West, and others of that strip, his reputation would have survived intact. As it was, he was also a vocal anti-Communist, and supported Franco during the Spanish Civil War. He was branded a Fascist and his fate was sealed. (The label dogs him to this day. Regardless of his impressive talent, he is unjustly neglected.) He was living in Spain during the Civil War, newly converted to the Catholic faith. He supported Franco because Franco stood for the Faith and Spain, and against the violent Communism that was sweeping the country. Churches were burned, religious murdered in the streets, monasteries sacked and their libraries were destroyed. He was no Facist, however. He dismissed Hitler with the words, "Good gracious, this man won't do - he's a teetotalitarian vegetarian!" And though he was too old for active duty, he managed to get himself enlisted in the military during WWII. He served until an injury to his hip resulted in his being given a medical discharge, and sent back to England.

J. R. R. Tolkien met him about this time. He wrote an account of this meeting in a letter to his son, Christopher. Tolkien was in his favourite pub with a few of his friends, notably C. S. Lewis, when, as he writes, "I noticed a strange tall gaunt man half in khaki half in mufti with a large wide-awake hat, bright eyes and a hooked nose sitting in the corner. The others had their backs to him, but I could see in his eye that he was taking an interest in the conversation quite unlike the ordinary pained astonishment of the British (and American) public at the presence of the Lewises (and myself) in a pub. It was rather like Trotters at the Prancing Pony, in fact v. like." For those who do not know, Trotters was a early incarnation of Aragorn in "The Lord of the Rings" I like the idea of Roy Campbell influencing Tolkien's later developement of Aragorn.