Excerpt from an amazing book: _The Mating Season_

I started reading _The Mating Season_ by Alex Brunkhorst, this evening on the train. I’m almost finished, and I love it– it’s an amazing love story, with strange and lovely details about insects and small “creatures,” and a hidden architectural backstory.  But it feels dreamy, with cabochons of witty detail that take me by surprise.

This prologue is so beautiful, so fanciful and astonishing, that I immediately wanted to read it aloud, or photocopy it and share it with a friend via post.  Additionally, I’ll share it here:

“It was mating season, and Grasshopper was getting frisky.  At first I thought his abrupt change in behavior was the result of Daylight Savings Time, a twice-yearly ritual that temporarily wreacked havoc on the entire menagerie.  Each year, the sliding scale of the sun caused Butterfly to crash against the ceiling, as if suddenly forgetting the sky was no longer the limit.  Tadpole nearly drowned; I had to gently, then more forcibly, prod him onto his green, heart-shaped life raft.  Even Ant, my most resilient species, stumbled through October in desperate search for meaning.  He usually found it in mid-November, in time for the leftover turkey and mashed potatoes I fed him after Thanksgiving.

But it was now the hour before the Festival.  It was universally agreed that the Committee of Illumination–Hummingbird, Mockingbird, Bat, and Owl–had outdone itself this year.  Chandeliers had been dimmed in favor of white teardrop lights, seaweed candles floated in the saltwater pond, and my stars had congregated just shy of the glass ceiling.  It was said that Chairwoman Firefly, who had always been a micromanager of sorts, paid particular heed this year, and the house glistened with her touch.

Even more magnificent than the decor were my beloved creatures.  They were in deep and serious preparation, standing before vanities and performing last-minute adjustments before venturing into the dark night to the Meadows of Lophelia.  Rabbit and Catfish fought over the blue eyeliner, Mosquito practiced his strut, Daddy Long Legs assisted Tarantula in combing his radiant black coat.  Ladybug, traditionally one of my more insecure creatures, had chosen a pink floor-length gown that showed off her single black spot.  Bumblebee–Ladybug’s best friend and a fashion devotee–advised against the choice, arguing that pink clashed with deep red; but Ladybug had been steadfast, and now Bumblebee felt a bit envious watching her dress in front of the three-way mirror. Dove asked for Moth’s aid in hooking her top butterfly clasp; Jellyfish practiced his introduction (his date was known to be sea royalty); Peacock held a small bouquet of purple daisies that he would later present to his escort.  There was a little bickering, some chiding, and a lot of teasing, but such antics were not surprising for a family of 310.

There was music, too, a preamble to the twelve-piece orchestra that awaited at the Meadows of Lophelia.  Some of the melody came from my creatures themselves: the aggressive chirp of Cricket, the chatter of Woodpecker, the slow hum of Veery Bird.  Other harmonies gushed from my stars, a collective flicker of lights murmuring quietly.

Wings fluttered, antennae twitched, beady eyes looked at beady eyes.  My creatures lined up single file, jockeying to be the first to the Meadows.  The subtle notes of the cello, the throaty oboe, the whimsical flute; from acres away I could hear the symphonic beginnings of the Festival.  My creatures heard it, too.  Their laughter tickled the air.  The Committee of Music, satisfied with the beginnings of Chopin’s ‘Fantaisie in A Major,’ hovered near the front of the line.  The Committee of Illumination, still intent on their duties, extinguished the candles and unplugged the white lights.

It took less than three minutes for the greenhouse to dim and go black, and another six for my creatures to line up.  I looked at Millipede, the first creature in line, and opened the greenhouse door.”

I only have this book because Matt wanted to read a book by the same name by a writer with the surname Wodehouse; it’s apparently satire about finding a bride in English high society.  The library sent this _The Mating Season_ instead.  We only have this book because, as the book jacket tells, Ms. Brunkhorst originally wrote it “as a Christmas gift for a close friend.”  Serendipity times two.

Underselling one’s self

Last year, I co-founded a new academic journal; it has an online presence, as well as a “non peer reviewed” online section, with additional articles.  It’s done well; we did a good job fund-raising, hiring a staff, and collecting a board.  When I presented at a conference in the field last month, many people had already heard of it and been reading it.  The first issue had articles from four continents, and we’ve been picked up by the press in places like Egypt and Indonesia.  Initially, my co-founder, Josh, was in Israel, and we worked long distance.

Yesterday, he and I met in person for our first-ever yearly staff evaluations, of ourselves.  (We had done the staff members earlier this summer.)  One thing Josh brought up: I undersell myself.  He said I have a weird mixture of confidence and no confidence, and I don’t realize that I could be doing so much more.

He said a similar thing when he saw my CV.  In the PhD application process, my CV was a piece that I sent to every school.  In included information about my work on this journal, including some of the accolades we’ve gotten so far, and included the fact that I will be presenting this year at the AAR (American Academy of Religions) conference, the major professional association in my field.

Josh, for one, was stunned that I didn’t get in anywhere, and asked me to send him my CV.  And what he saw made him call me, direct from Jerusalem.  He said, “Do you mind hearing some really important, honest feedback?”  I said, “Of course not.”  He pointed out that, at least for the section of the CV describing my work with the journal, I undersold myself on every point.

Now, because he and I are co-founders and co-Editors-in-Chief, ostensibly our CV sections for work on the journal would be very similar; he knows exactly what I’ve done.  I was actually surprised: I worried that I put a little too much emphasis on my contributions.  He also noted that some people actually fluff up their CVs a bit– and if my “underfluffed” CV was in a stack of fluffed ones, my work would look even less.

We talked about this again in the evaluation.  We talked also about our management styles, our strengths, and how we want to use them in complementary ways as we continue to build our organization.  But another thread emerged: sometimes I am more passive, even when I’m in an area where I’m strong, or should be strong.

It’s so interesting to think about these issues.  For one, I think there’s a masculine/feminine thing at play– I know that I’ve been socialized to be humble, polite, and more likely to wait and demur.  Add to this a spirituality piece I have, where I believe it is more important to be humble than prideful–although my professors, even the priests, have worked to show me how this doesn’t apply to academia.  Add to this a sort of natural inclination to “wait and see” or “watch and learn” when I’m in unfamiliar territory.

You can see that in the world of academia, particularly if it is competitive, I might not be using my best skill set.  I’m comfortable stretching myself in my work on the journal, with our staff, and with outreach. I’m still unsure about applying again next year for a PhD- and I don’t know yet how to change what I did this year.

I’d love to hear from others how to be able to share my work with confidence.  What’s the difference between being cocky and vainglorious, and truthfully sharing one’s skills?  How can I practice finding the right way to talk about my strengths, and how will I know when I’m doing it well?

What we made in Sunday School today

We’ve been talking for the past month or so about the Holy Spirit, and about ways we have to try to capture in language and image the idea of it.  Flames, wind, breath, music, doves.  We talked about things we cannot see, but can feel, or know to be real.  

And since before Easter (since the Jesus in the curriculum grew up enough to be a young boy, and then an adult), we’ve talked about how Jesus used stories to tell us things, and to help us learn.  Recently, six-year-old Louisa has been growing adept at classifying things “fiction,” or “non-fiction.”  

Today we made little gardens of sand and play-doh, and talked about the story of the gardener, sowing seeds into soil that was rich and fertile, and soil that was too hard, had birds, or was full of weeds.  

“The soil is fiction,” Louisa asserted.

 ”Yeah,” I said, “I think he’s talking about our hearts, wanting our hearts to be rich where things can flourish.”  

“I have that kind of heart,” she said.

The craft for today was only tangentially related to either of those– while talking about Jesus and his stories (fiction), and the ways we try to understand the Holy Spirit, we made kaleidoscopes, following instructions from here.  It was cool to look through the tiny hole and see the colored light against the tinfoil, to see what had been merely sequins and glitter become wide shapes, colored and new.  

I tried making a pinhole, but Louisa grabbed a pencil and shoved it through the black construction paper, saying, “I can’t see enough; I want to _see_.”

Lewis, Felicity, and Perpetua

Yesterday, while working on our save-the-date cards for our wedding, we were looking through favorite quotes.  I came across this one from C.S. Lewis; I have loved it for many years.

 

“Miracles are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the whole world in letters to large for some of us to see.”

 

I think, in this case, he might be describing the “small” miracles that surprise our hearts, interrupt our days, and that we keep as markers of our humanity, community, and faith journeys.

This time reading it, though, I also thought about all the saints’ stories I know.  A favorite one came to mind: Felicity and Perpetua.  They were two women, sentenced to death by lions in the colosseum.  To display their heart-felt and true belief in God, and belief that death would merely deliver them into the morning of their lives in their Father’s kingdom, they held hands and sang, facing the lions.

I was at a conference once (concerning women in Orthodoxy), and spent a great deal of time gazing upon an icon of the two of them (they are always, inevitably, pictured together) during the more boring paper deliveries.  I tried to imagine the scene, the sounds and the smells.  Were people shouting at them? Could they hear the lions?  Did they know immediately which hymn it would be?

Then, of course, my mind wants to construct the rest of their story.  One was first the servant-girl of the other, but in Christianity, they were sisters.  How did they get in so much trouble?  What were their daily lives like?  Who did they leave behind?  Was one stronger, more headstrong and willful? Did one hearten the other, sharing her bravery?

Here are two common icons of them.  In the first, they are pictured as European ladies.  In the second (the type with which I am more familiar), they are correctly Northern African, and clasping each other close.

 

What’s going on in this picture?

 

I found this photograph a few days ago on Jezebel.  I’ve been thinking about it lately, and looking at it, and admiring the beauty, the light, and the composition.  And I can’t ignore the fact that this just happened a few days ago, and the people in it are living, and living through whatever comes next.

Some things I love about the Middle West

(image from swisscan on flickr)

1.  The smell of cut grass.  Even though it’s 102 degrees here, I went for a walk, and had a wonderful time– everyone had mowed their lawn over the weekend, I think, and every time I turned a corner I smelled cut grass.  Even the heat was scented with grass.

2.  The Dairy Queen.  The DQ was the only restaurant we had in town, besides a few local diners (where only men and old people went.)  I didn’t go to a Burger King, for instance, until I was in college.  The high school had an open campus, except for the athletes, who had to eat in the cafeteria so the coach could make sure they were eating good things.  My parents gave me two dollars every day for lunch; when the bell rang, it seemed like everyone walked up the street and across the town square to the DQ.

The DQ also figured prominently for us as teenagers.  Because there was no where to go, no movie theaters or malls, we “made laps” once we had cars, or friends with cars.  The circuit went out on the highway to Pat’s (aforementioned diner), through the empty parking lot (older kids often parked to talk in the parking lot), back up the main drag and around the square. We’d go through the drive through at the DQ, and hang out in the parking lot when it closed. I grew up in a dry county, so we really were only driving, talking, parking, and drinking Mr. Mistys.

3.  Little neighborhoods where all the streets have ladies’ names.  I once lived on Annalee, which was in the same neighborhood as streets named “Eulalie,” “Rosalie,” “Florence,” “Anna,” and “Madge.”  I heard that when the city planners were creating those streets in the 1950s, they all named a street after their wives.  The neighborhood I’m staying in now, with friends, has streets named, “Fayette,” “Lucia,” “Kit,” “Coral,” “Darlene,” and “Daisy.”  I like the idea of people naming streets after other people–but first names, more quaint and less austere, and I like these 1950s names.

4.  Chatty people.  I am a chatty person, I think, and I forget that not everyone in the city wants advice, a conversation, or details.  Sometimes someone will ask me a curt question on a train, or in a shop, and I’ll be ready for a full explanation, with what I think, what might be possible, and other details.  In the Midwest, in my experience, people are warmer and more likely to join in a conversation, or enjoy one.

Pieces removed, aspects reconsidered

I love it when I discover that someone I care about has a blog.  I recently found my friend Derrick’s blog; we were floormates for two years and he is an amazing writer, pastor, speaker, scholar, and singer.  Some of my best memories from commencement this year are of hearing his voice stream through various hymns, prayers, and songs.

Given that I’ve been thinking about marriage rights lately, I was really interested to read some of his thoughts– you can read them on his blog, Touched Enough to Speak, in a post entitled, “Answer to: ‘Why do They Want to Marry?’”

In part, he describes how LGBTQ life can be a matter of losing “proscribed ideals,” and needing to re-form identity.  I particularly like the way he imagines the loss, the refashioning, and the way one lives in that process: 

“In LGBTQ identity formation, those building blocks that are cultural, familial, and societal are the hardest to reframe because our input on their importance in our lives has been so limited. It is like the game Jenga-trying to build an identity while with each round of life you realize the pieces of your identity that culture and society takes away from your foundation.”

He continues, writing:

“I think marriage represents much of this foundational identity formation. Now that there is even the remotest of possibilities of putting this foundational piece of identity formation back in place, people are reclaiming the piece.”

I’m not sure what to add to this, except to say that I’ve been thinking about these ideas a lot since I first read them.  I think one of the reasons it speaks to me, and maybe everyone, is that one part of being human is dealing with loss, especially of “pieces”– even large blocks–parts of our life that we expected, or took for granted, or thought would happen.  A piece gets removed, and we have to continue to grow, live, and rebuild on a shifted foundation.

Seersucker

 

Although the weather hasn’t felt like it yet, it must be summer.  I saw four very different people wearing the same blue seersucker print this afternoon.

First, I saw the photographer we share a suite with in the hallway.  Very dapper, seersucker slacks.  Then, my co-worker Amy came in, in a perfect slip of a dress–the exact same pattern.  I wanted to take a photo of them together, with lemonade.

On my way out of the library, a bedraggled man with paper bags full of books was wearing seersucker shorts, knee-length.

Finally, as soon as I stepped on the train, I saw another man, young but portly, with a seersucker jacket.  All four wore the same classic blue and white striped.  As the train pulled away and I settled into my seat, I started to think about the kind of long short story that would wind around all four characters–four different ethnicities, different ages, different levels of scruff and dirt, doing different things.  Carrying different things, with different expressions.  Clearly, the cover of the book would be that distinctive pattern.  I’m not sure about a title for it yet…

I want a little pleated seersucker skirt, with a matching scarf for my hair.  With a canvas bag, the kind with large wooden hoop handles.  And a dachshund, on a navy blue lead.

I’m back, with bells on

 

Ahh, Internet.  It was actually nice to not have it at home, for a while.  Just reading, or listening to music, or looking at cookbooks.  I did miss my favorite blogs, and news pages, and Etsy, none of which I look at while at work.  Here, for the curious, are the four blogs I opened as soon as I was back online:

Grammar Piano.  And was treated to a very excellent poem, which I keep going back to read.

Leaf-Stitch-Word.  Consistently great writing, interesting topics, cool photos, and ideas that I keep thinking about on my own.

The House of Nana.  One of my favorite artists, wonderful spirit about that blog.

Scented Glossy Magazines.  I haven’t ever seen any of the shows she recaps, but her writing is so funny–it doesn’t even matter if I don’t know the characters she’s writing about, I always laugh out loud.

Add Jezebel, LiveJournal, Luckybeans, and A Mom and Her Camera for more great photos, and a little evening of checking in on my favorite spots is complete.

To my surprise, The House of Nana had tagged me for a me-meme.  Perfect for coming back from a blogging hiatus.  Here we go:

What is your current obsession?

Finding small, old books in a variety of muted colors.  They’ll be part of the centerpieces at my wedding this winter, and the favors as well.  I also love the way they smell, and the marbled endpaper, and the occasional inscriptions.

What is your weirdest obsession?

Old photographs– when I studied the Victorians, I spent a lot of time reading about and thinking about how people thought about photography, and having a permanent record of an ephemeral moment.  I think about this idea frequently.

What’s for dinner?

I don’t know yet– we eat at church on Sunday evenings, so it’s whatever the chef is cooking.  His last name is “Church,” so his name is actually “Chef Church,” which I like.

What would you eat for your last meal?

Butter, cheeses, bread, figs wrapped in bacon, sweet corn on the cob, asparagus marinated in soy sauce and grilled, red wine, hush puppies with ketchup, watermelon, a bison burger…  it seems like what I would want is a very, very fancy picnic.

What’s the last thing you bought?

Shhh… something from LuluSplendor for a friend’s birthday.

What are you listening to right now?

The box fan blowing in cool air from the bedroom.

If you could have a house totally paid for, fully furnished anywhere in the world, where would it be?

I actually think St. Louis, my hometown of sorts.  I miss it, and would like to settle there.  But I’d consider one of those pastry colored houses around the town square in Prague, a little A-frame in Laurel Canyon, or a little farmhouse in my real hometown.  But I’d want to keep my own furniture.

If you could go anywhere in the world for the next hour, where would it be?

Wow, only an hour?  I’m tempted to spend time with friends.  Also by something monumental like the Louvre– I like the idea of rushing through there with time to see properly only five or twelve things.  I did that once before and don’t remember anything but the wild rush.

Which language do you want to learn?

I’ll be lucky to keep the ones I’ve got.  But I’m trying to decide between Coptic and Syriac for the next one.

What’s your favorite quote (for now)?

Here’s one from Dickens: “Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts.”

What is your favorite piece of clothing in your wardrobe?

My ball gown.  It’s fabulous. It’s a deep red color, and has a full skirt, and is very, very v-necked.  (As in, needing special, er, underpinning planning to wear it.)  So my skin looks perfectly pale just as it is, and it feels amazingly comfortable on, and I can hear the skirts rustle around me when I walk.  

I ordered it online, and when I picked up the package from outside my door, my then roommate Jodut and I were on our way to Starbucks at 5 AM before going to school to teach.  I was so excited, that I had to open it right then, in the Starbucks bathroom, at five o’clock in the morning.  And it was perfect.  Now, if only I had more reasons to wear it…

What is your dream job?

Running my own school for kids.  

What’s your favorite magazine?

I’m not sure.  I like to pick up the fancy low-tech poetry magazines at bookstores, and also either The Paris Review or The New England Review, but I generally read those online.  I also like that cooking magazine without photographs–everything is the hand-drawn drawings of the food and implements.

If you had 100 pound right now, how would you spend it?

I’d buy the fanciest, plushest, most soft and luxurious bathrobe in the world for Matt’s birthday.

Describe your personal style.

Um– I like to wear skirts, I have heaps of jewelry, I like to wear more than one of something at  a time, I make things to wear myself out of ribbons, I like colored tights (especially when I’m teaching; nothing says “Adverb Day” like hot-pink tights), and I always say, “More is more.”  I like feathers.  Lace.  Mirrors and buttons.  I like it when things don’t match, and many patterns at once.

What are you going to do after this?

I’ll wash my half of the dishes, then get ready to go to church to teach Sunday school.  On the way, we’ll stop to buy fancy olives and balsamic vinegar.  I’m reading a good mystery and look forward to getting on the train so I can keep reading it.

What are your favorite films?

The Royal Tanenbaums, Chocolate, Corrina, Corrina, The Big Sleep, Pride and Prejudice (the BBC six-hour version), Bridget Jones’s Diary, the Horatio Hornblower series, Water…

What’s your favorite fruit?

Watermelon.

What inspires you?

The way people love stories, the way people say, “You have to read this,” when people memorize poems they love, ladies who read the Bible on the train, trying again, monumental architecture, places that make me realize the world is old and I am young, old people singing with solemnity…

Do you collect anything?

Old pictures, Super 8 and other old cameras, sugar and creamer sets, bits of paper from gifts or art projects. Ribbon, broken bits of glass and china.

Any advice that comes from bitter experience?

If you have to choose between the truth or a lie, choose the truth.  Even if it seems more painful.

What plant makes you happy?

Peonies.  Overblown roses.  Little perky aloe plants.

 

This was a long one.  I’d like to hear answers from A Voice from the Chorus, Red Bay Dreamer, and my friend Amy.

Thinking about marriage

(cross posted with my wedding blog, because it’s a propos)

(Photo by Justin Sullivan, from Jezebel.)

Yesterday, as the courts in California were making and announcing their decision, I was reflecting on my own engagement and wedding plans.

There are two parts of the upcoming marriage that I love and look forward to: the first is all the pomp and decoration, whimsy and glamour.  I love dinner parties, fresh flowers, old pewter, dresses with bustles, big hair, yards of ribbon, candlelight, and gathering my loved ones… I love these things on a daily basis.  A wedding celebration is the perfect opportunity to celebrate with all of that and more.

I also love the Book of Common Prayer, and the liturgical ceremony that surrounds the formal ceremony.  The BCP means much to me, again on a daily basis, and I look forward to marking this milestone in the relationship between Matt and me, and in our families and communities, with a ceremony rich in history and language.

But.  It’s such a privilege that Matt and I get to be celebrated with tradition and history, and others aren’t.  In fact, others in our families, in the bridal party, in the groom’s party, in the choir that will sing at the church, in those planning the wedding with us… our lives are deeply connected with loved ones who cannot have the same rights as we have.

And.  Last night, I was comparing this to earlier civil rights struggles.  (I do see this as a civil rights struggle.)  What if I were living and planning my wedding in a time where black couples were not allowed to legally marry.  Oh, they might be able and encouraged to have a private party, to have a non-sanctioned person bless their marriage, but they wouldn’t have the same rights and privileges as I have.  Would I plan the wedding I’m planning?  No.  If my black classmates and floormates and colleagues could not marry, I would not want to exercise that privilege– I would see it as a gross flexing of rights in the face of injustice.

And isn’t that what I’m doing while continuing to peruse tulle and cake, when I am unfairly privileged to do so by unjust laws?  What if we gave all of our wedding budget to the HRC?

If you haven’t seen it yet, watch the “Fidelity” video.  And add your name to the list.

And if your state has a “Defense of Marriage Act,” find your representative and send them an e-mail.