Enchanted Bluffs

This afternoon as I was grading papers, one of the maintenance guys came in to clean my classroom. If we see each other I practice my Spanish and he practices his English. Usually the conversations are brief and full of confused laughter. But we communicated somewhat clearly between a mixture of Spanish and English.

It's amazing how much of a blessing these small encounters between other people can be. I have been amazed at God's faithfulness to put people in my life here in Panama who have made this place seem like home already.

Of course, I miss my friends in little Cedarville and Tennessee, too. I am teaching Cather's "The Enchanted Bluff" tomorrow in my American Literature class and was reminded of the sweet memories friends share and of hopes and dreams.

This summer, my friend Katy and I spent many nights on the roof, our feet resting on the sun-baked roof still warm from the afternoon. We talked about our hopes and dreams. Of teaching, of living in Seattle someday, of following God with all of our hearts. In a way, that little roof on Main Street became my Enchanted Bluff, where I dreamed idealistically about the future. Often, those dreams did not match up with God's, but as I learn to guide my heart towards His, I hope that soon my dreams will coincide with His plan for my life. Not because I want all my dreams to come true, but because I desire my heart to grow closer to God's so that my true dreams are in step with His plan.

Some Mornings

 Some mornings I wake up and think, “I live in Panama!” And then I think how crazy this is and how surreal. But most days it seems pretty normal. I live, work, and hang out with people just like I did in the States. The culture is different of course, and everyone speaks Spanish. Instead of saying “hello,” we say “buenas” to people we pass in the hallways and in the streets. The traffic is very intense. Panamanians are usually laid back about time except when they get in a car. Suddenly everyone is in a huge hurry to reach their destination.

The little subdivision I live in called Clayton or the “Ciudad de Sabes” (City of Knowledge) is green and lush with palm trees and tropical plants. It rains almost every afternoon around three – just in time for school to let out. The birds that I hear each morning as I get ready for school sing different songs than the ones that sang outside my bedroom window in Ohio. Small animals called “Nueches” that look like a cross between a rat and a rabbit run around our little neighborhood. I think they look as bizarre as a platypus.

The school is much like schools in the States, except of course, the students are bilingual and it is normal to hear conversations in Spanish before class begins and in the hallways. I teach English 9, World Literature, American Literature, and Creative Writing at CCA, and I love it. I love the mix of cultures, interacting with teachers and families who are some of the most loving people I have ever met.

I could go on about life in Panama, about the trip to the beach, shopping, food, and little accidental escapades, but I’ll save those for another entry.

As my students say: Yolo – You only live once. Make the most of it.

Sense of Change

A few days ago I was reading an essay by E.B. White that I had read for a class in college a few semesters ago. White writes,

"The only sense that is common, in the long run, is the sense of change - and we all instinctively avoid it, and object to the passage of time, and would rather have none of it."

I dislike change, and I found my heart agreeing with White. This summer has been a summer of change, but it has been good change. I graduated from college in May and am embarking on my first teaching job as I write from the Atlanta airport. I'm flying to Panama City to teach literature and language arts at an international school.

I told myself I did not want to teach overseas again after Vietnam, yet, here I am. Clearly His plans are not my plans. I should have learned by now not to plan out my life, but I do it anyway. But He is faithful and I am excited for this new part of my life to begin.

Here's to travel and to hard work!

Lovely Things.

Over spring break I read poetry. I pulled my mom's anthologies off the shelf and sprawled on my bed in the afternoon sun and read. I read Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, a little Poe, some Wordsworth, and Carl Sanburg. As I was flipping through the pages a little blue paper fell out with Sara Teasdale's "Barter" written in swirling cursive. My high school English teacher my senior year had written out this poem, made copies and given it to us near the end of school one spring day. I remember she talked a bit about it, reminding us to hold onto beauty, to hold onto beauty even when life grows difficult and taints or perspective of beauty and truth. Lying on my bed in the sunshine, safe at home, away from work, it was easy to see the lovely things in life -- sleeping late and drinking coffee, afternoon trail runs, evenings with friends, mom's homemade meals. But coming back to school and student teaching days, working most evenings, has made it difficult to remember Sara Teasdale's words that "life has lovliness to sell." This week as the days grow longer and people spend more time outdoors, I've tried to remember to look for and appreciate the lovliness. Lovliness like driving down winding highway 60 to have pizza with a friend, running through town as the sun begins to set, seeing the trees grow a deeper and deeper green, and watching the fog burn away as  I drive to school each morning. These small moments remind me to give all I am "for one white singing hour of peace."


"Barter"

Life has loveliness to sell,


All beautiful and splendid things,

Blue waves whitened on a cliff,

Soaring fire that sways and sings,

And children's faces looking up,

Holding wonder like a cup.



Life has loveliness to sell,

Music like the curve of gold,

Scent of pine trees in the rain,

Eyes that love you, arms that hold,

And for your spirit's still delight,

Holy thoughts that star the night.



Spend all you have for loveliness,

Buy it and never count the cost;

For one white singing hour of peace

Count many a year of strife well lost,

And for a breath of ecstasy

Give all you have been, or could be.

-Sara Teasdale

Spring.

(This really won't be a proper blog post because I'm too busy living and don't want to be on here long. But I thought I should update).

I'm knee deep in spring break and loving each minute.

Today I did a little lesson planning and a little reading of poetry, and will leave you with this:

"There are lives I can imagine without children but none of them have the same laughter & noise."

All about (or a little) Hippos.

This week was only four days long because Monday was President's Day, and I was grateful for a short week. My teacher, Mrs. J- was out all week because of the flu, and so I became responsible for all the little things I never realized she did for me. I took attendance and learned how to send the sheet to the office. I learned to write many many lists of students who needed to complete make-up homework, students who were tardy, students who needed work to do during in-school, students who needed extra help, students who needed to spend time in the guidance counselor's room...and on and on.

And I took calm breathes and plunged in the days, hoping I was doing something correct.

Currently, my students are finishing up their research unit, and yesterday I brought home a large and (I'll admit slightly depressing) stack of papers to grade.

I had my students write their reports in little blue paper books so at the end of this project they can take home a book all about the animal they researched.

One of my students cover reads, "All about Hippos" by H-.
The pages are set up carefully:
Page 1 : Introduction
Pages 2-4 : three main points and supporting details (each point goes on a separate page)
Page 5 : Conclusion
Page 6 : Works Cited.

It sounds simple, but it's been a long and tiring process for all of us,  I think.
I only have one week left at the Middle School, and I will miss these children and the teachers. It has been a wonderful experience.

But I'm glad it's the weekend.

I did laundry, went for a run and made these breakfast bars this morning....happy Saturday!

Breakfast Bars
(adapted from a recipe on Pinterest)

1.5 cups oats
2-3 ripe bananas
1 cup applesauce
A handful of raisins
About 1/2 a tsp. of cinnamon
A handful of cinnamon chips (optional)

Bake for 350 degrees for 30-35 min.

Next time I'm going to add nuts and and maybe coconut.

Old and New

Valentine's Day has come and gone in the 6th grade hall at the middle school, and I am left with many Valentines and candies on my desk.
I remember Valentine's day being a big day during school, even in High School, and Tuesday was the same for my students. They dressed in red and pink and had an excuse to eat way too much sugar...and the cafeteria ladies made chocolate cookies with pink M&M's peeking through.

But I celebrated Valentine's that evening with friends (old and new) eating authentic Indian food with our fingers (it's cultural apparently) and baking double chocolate fudge brownies.

I'm thankful for reasons to get together with friends. I hope your Thursday has been wonderful and full of ordinary beauty.

Demonstrations.

Today my 6th graders demonstrated how to do "something" for 4-H. Some demonstrated how to use chopsticks, some how to build a birdhouse, some how to play the guitar, and most demonstrated how to bake brownies, cookies, and my favorite chocolate crackers.

My student, K-, handed out little bags of crackers to me, my teacher, and the 4-H lady. I broke off a corner while the 4-H lady told my class about 4-H camp this summer and ate it. Chocolate saltiness exploded in my mouth and I quickly broke off another piece. By the end of the day my bag of crackers was empty, and when I got home from school I looked up the recipe. I plan to make these very soon.

Saltine Chocolate Crackers

Ingredients

• 4 ounces saltine crackers
• 1 cup butter
• 1 cup dark brown sugar
• 2 cups semisweet chocolate chips (My student used half dark chocolate and half white chocolate chips, which I would recommend)
• 3/4 c. chopped pecans (My student did not add nuts, but I think I will when I make these)

Directions

1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees F (205 degrees C).
2. Line cookie sheet with saltine crackers in single layer.
3. In a saucepan combine the sugar and the butter. Bring to a boil and boil for 3 minutes. Immediately pour over saltines and spread t cover crackers completely.
4. Bake at 400 degrees F (205 degrees C) for 5 to 6 minutes. Remove from oven and sprinkle chocolate chips over the top. Let sit for 5 minutes. Spread melted chocolate and top with chopped nuts. Cool completely and break into pieces.

Enjoy!

Student Teaching.

I've been teaching for about a month now, and I am getting used to early mornings and early bedtimes. The sunrises are beautiful in Tennessee when they surround the mountains with pink and purple sky. At first I hated teaching (oh no!) because of the early mornings and fears of being a terrible teacher. But I'm learning to enjoy the rhythm of the days, and by 2:50 I'm exhausted but satisfied that I have purpose in this profession.
So many children come from broken homes, and I am thankful I can offer a smile or affirmation. I enjoy the evenings off that give me time to write and read. I lesson plan and grade a little after school, but mostly I can get these things finished during my planning period and over the weekend on Saturday mornings at the coffee shop.
God has been my source of strength, revival, and hope these past few weeks, and I am beginning to find joy and contentment in Him.
I'm beginning a Research Unit with my 6th graders tomorrow and am excited to see how this goes. I've already had a few lessons flop due to high expectations and inexperience, so I'm crossing my fingers.

Happy Wednesday!

Why, Hello.

I'm debating on retiring this little blog of mine.

My writing has been taking place elsewhere lately.

But for now, let me tell you about student teaching and where I'll be this summer and beyond.
I'm teaching 6th grade Language Arts, which can be a challenge and a blessing. My little munchkins are full of energy. God has blessed me with wonderful students and new teacher friends, who bring encouragement and laughter (and new recipes to try).

And this summer I'm heading west to Seattle to live after graduation! and !!!
I'm in love with the city, the people, the rain, and my aunt, uncle, and cousins who live ten minutes from downtown. I've spent so many summers in Seattle it feels like home.

I love the mountains

The rain

The city

The ocean

The food

The writer community

I cannot wait. But I also don't want this semester to go too quickly -- I only have a few more months in Tennessee. I'll miss the Southern accents, food, and rolling mountains, and the friendships.
God has been good to me.

Glimpses of Beauty.

I was driving back to school in the early morning dark, and rain and wind were whipping around my car. As I rounded a corner on an old country road past a rambling white farmhouse, I glanced into the windows, brightly lit, spilling golden warmth into the darkness. An elderly couple was sitting at the kitchen table with mugs of coffee. I only saw them for a second, but that moment stayed with me. I felt like I had witnessed the “unsought beauty” that Lewis wrote about in his early poetry. How beautiful to see enduring relationships, shared over an early cup of coffee on a rainy winter morning.

The Thanksgiving Holidays.

Younger times.

When I was in high school my family drove to my grandparent's home in Michigan to spend the Thanksgiving holidays. We'd stay in the guest cottage next door, mom and dad in the bedroom, and my brothers and I in sleeping bags in the living room.

It usually snowed that weekend and the day after Thanksgiving we drove to a little ranch nestled in trees and went on a sleigh ride. The horses were big and black and strung with red jingle bells. We slid through forest as the sun set and sang Christmas carols as the shadows turned the snow blue gray.

And my aunt welcomed us back with turkey noodle soup and hot apple cider.

And there was always pie and late night card games, and laughter.

Home again, Home again, jiggety jig.

A few weeks ago in October, I went home and carved pumpkins.

(mine's the one on the right with the bow tie)

Some good friends and I carved them in the park on a Sunday afternoon.

I'm going home again this weekend, and I can't wait.

My mom tells me she has apples to make applesauce and a new movie to watch together.

And one of my brothers is coming home.

and I'll probably bake a little.

muffins or a cake

or something.

Life is busy, but I'm keeping up

and making time for more than busy.

I'm ready for a break.

T is for Time.

Lately, I've been busy, so busy I have to map out my days in the morning so that every minute will count towards something.
It's exhausting.
A few weeks ago, after fall break, a speaker came to chapel and told us that ever since the invention of the clock, people have been ruled by time, by the steady motion of the clock, ticking away minutes, seconds. Some cultures ignore the steady movement of time and choose to live beyond the constraints of tightly blocked out days. Lunch may stretch into a couple hours or an afternoon coffee date may turn into dinner. Time passes, but it is not recorded.
Lately I've found myself longing for freedom from schedules. I don't want to live ruled by time. I want to live within time. But is this possible in such a fast paced country? Is it practical?
I don't wish to ignore time, for I want to use time wisely. But I don't want to rush through life, trying to keep up with the clock, either.
Balance. It's difficult to live within time rather than under it's steady hand.
In The Tempest, Prospero says,
“we are such stuff / As dreams are made on, and our little life / Is rounded with a sleep”
Prospero comprehends man’s mortality, that man’s life is as delicate as a dream, condensing the hours into seconds until life fades into an eternal sleep  
He also understands the concept of time, and is able to act wisely and influentially within the little life he is given, acting with grace and mercy towards those around him.
I so desperately long to learn to live within time, using it wisely as Prospero did, and as Jesus did on his time on earth. But right now, I feel ruled by time. Perhaps someday I will learn.  

Fall Break Beginnings.

"A is for autumn -

blazing colors so bright.

Cider mills, pumpkins,

and Halloween night."

- J is for Jack-O'-Lantern

[Indian corn from the Corner Market near my house]

 My fall break began with pancakes and a new book. Hmmm.

I was planning on writing about my fall plans, of pumpkins and baking and apples.

But I will leave you with a Hopkins poem instead:

"Hurrahing in Harvest" 

Gerard Manley Hopkins

  Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the stooks rise
Around; up above, what wind-walks! what lovely behaviour
Of silk-sack clouds! has wilder, wilful-wavier
Meal-drift moulded ever and melted across skies?

I walk, I lift up, I lift up heart, eyes,
Down all that glory in the heavens to glean our Saviour;
And eyes, heart, what looks, what lips yet give you a
Rapturous love’s greeting of realer, of rounder replies?

And the azurous hung hills are his world-wielding shoulder
Majestic - as a stallion stalwart, very-violet-sweet! -
These things, these things were here and but the beholder
Wanting; which two when they once meet,
The heart rears wings bold and bolder
And hurls for him, O half hurls earth for him off under his feet

Banana Bread.

The first half of this semester has all but disappeared. Fall break begins Friday (thank goodness). Already it's been one of the best years. Why? Because I have made it that way.
I stumbled upon this quote at the end of summer, and immediately made it my desktop background.

"beauty in the everyday is beauty you can hope for" -- seth simonds

I have chosen to find the beautiful in the days so far. Sometimes it's easier to see than others. Sometimes I don't want to see it, but it's always worth trying to glimpse beauty, because then you know that you are alive.
The beautiful things make us feel alive.

So here's a few wonderful things...

 winding roads in Tennessee...

banana bread (I've made so much this semester. It's the perfect brain food)

and all the time I've spent with the people here in Tennessee.

Here's to living life with vitality.

I hope you do.

Hiding Place.

"Hiding Place" 

Amidst the sorrows of the way
Lord Jesus, teach my soul to pray
Let me taste Thy special grace
And run to Christ, my hiding place

You know the vileness of my heart
So prone to act the rebel's part
And when You veil Your lovely face
How can I find a hiding place

Hiding place, hiding place

Lord, guide my wandering feet
Draw me to Thy mercy seat
I've nought to trust but sovereign grace
Thou only art my hiding place

How unstable is my heart
Sometimes I take the tempter's part
And slight the tokens of Thy grace
And seem to want no hiding place

Hiding place, hiding place

But when Thy spirit shines within
Makes me feel the plague of sin
And how I long to see Thy face
'Tis then I want a hiding place

Lord Jesus, shine and then I can
Feel sweetness in salvation's plan
And as a sinner plead for grace
Christ, the sinner's hiding place
And as a sinner plead for grace
Christ, the sinner's hiding place

Beautiful Today.

Summer keeps slipping further away...

but fall is coming and I love the changing leaves

the crisp skies

and cool breezes.

And  I love these apple blocks from Etsy. 

A perfect blend of summer and fall,

to ease you into the new season.

I stretched summer to its limit and now I'm 

going to do the same for fall.

That means trips to the apple barn in TN,

Picking apples at the Orchard in OH,

Carving pumpkins,

baking pumpkin-y things with lots of cinnamon

ginger

nutmeg

cloves.

And appreciating each day.

I'm so bad at seeing the beauty in the everyday.

But I'm getting better at seeing the everyday beauty,

and my life is richer because of it.

Happy September!

Moonless, this June Night

I should be doing many things besides blogging, like reading for Bible class, annotating sources for my thesis. But instead I want to tell you about an essay I just read. Well, no, actually I'm not going to tell you about it, I'm just going to post it for you to read, because I don't want to stumble over words when Aldous Huxley is so eloquent (and I would be doing what Huxley warns against). 

I hope you enjoy this essay as much as I did, and I hope it makes you aware.

"Music at Night"

 Aldous Huxley

Moonless, this June night is all the more alive with stars. Its darkness is perfumed with faint gusts from the blossoming lime trees, with the smell of wetted earth and the invisible greenness of the vines. There is silence; but a silence that breathes with the soft breathing of the sea and, in the thin shrill noise of a cricket, insistently, incessantly harps on the fact of its own deep perfection. Far away, the passage of a train is like a long caress, moving gently, with an inexorable gentleness, across the warm living body of the night. Music, you say; it would be a good night for music. But I have music here in a box, shut up, like one of those bottled djinns in the Arabian Nights, and ready at a touch to break out of its prison. I make the necessary mechanical magic, and suddenly, by some miraculously appropriate coincidence (for I had selected the record in the dark, without knowing what music the machine would play), suddenly the introduction to the Benedictus in Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis begins to trace its patterns on the moonless sky. The Benedictus. Blessed and blessing, this music is in some sort the equivalent of the night, of the deep and living darkness, into which, now in a single jet, now in a fine interweaving of melodies, now in pulsing and almost solid clots of harmonious sound, it pours itself, stanchlessly pours itself, like time, like the rising and falling, falling trajectories of a life. It is the equivalent of the night in another mode of being, as an essence is the equivalent of the flowers, from which it is distilled. There is, at least there sometimes seems to be, a certain blessedness lying at the heart of things, a mysterious blessedness, of whose existence occasional accidents or providences (for me, this night is one of them) make us obscurely, or it may be intensely, but always fleetingly, alas, always only for a few brief moments aware. In the Benedictus Beethoven gives expression to this awareness of blessedness. His music is the equivalent of this Mediterranean night, or rather of the blessedness as it would be if it could be sifted clear of irrelevance and accident, refined and separated out into its quintessential purity. “Benedictus, benedictus. . .” One after another the voices take up the theme propounded by the orchestra and lovingly mediated through a long and exquisite solo (for the blessedness reveals itself most often to the solitary spirit) by a single violin. “Benedictus, benedictus. . .” And then, suddenly, the music dies; the flying djinn has been rebottled. With a stupid insect-like insistence, a steel point rasps and rasps the silence. At school, when they taught us what was technically known as English, they used to tell us to “express in our own words” some passage from whatever play of Shakespeare was at the moment being rammed, with all its annotations — particularly the annotations — down our reluctant throats. So there we would sit, a row of inky urchins, laboriously translating “now silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies” into “now smart silk clothes lie in the wardrobe,” or “To be or not to be” into “I wonder whether I ought to commit suicide or not.” When we had finished, we would hand in our papers, and the presiding pedagogue would give us marks, more or less, according to the accuracy with which “our own words” had “expressed” the meaning of the Bard. He ought, of course, to have given us naught all round with a hundred lines to himself for ever having set us the silly exercise. Nobody’s “own words,” except those of Shakespeare himself, can possibly “express” what Shakespeare meant. The substance of a work of art is inseparable from its form; its truth and its beauty are two and yet, mysteriously, one. The verbal expression of even a metaphysic or a system of ethics is very nearly as much of a work of art as a love poem. The philosophy of Plato expressed in the “own words” of Jowett is not the philosophy of Plato; nor in the “own words” of, say, Billy Sunday, is the teaching of St. Paul St. Paul’s teaching. “Our own words” are inadequate even to express the meaning of other words; how much more inadequate, when it is a matter of rendering meanings which have their original expression in terms of music or one of the visual arts! What, for example, does music “say”? You can buy at almost any concert an analytical program that will tell you exactly. Much too exactly; that is the trouble. Every analyst has his own version. Imagine Pharaoh’s dream interpreted successively by Joseph, by the Egyptian soothsayers, by Freud, by Rivers, by Adler, by Jung, by Wohlgemuth: it would “say” a great many different things. Not nearly so many, however, as the Fifth Symphony has been made to say in the verbiage of its analysts. Not nearly so many as the Virgin of the Rocks and the Sistine Madonna have no less lyrically said. Annoyed by the verbiage and this absurd multiplicity of attributed “meanings,” some critics have protested that music and painting signify nothing but themselves; that the only things they “say” are things, for example, about modulations and fugues, about color values and three-dimensional forms. That they say anything about human destiny or the universe at large is a notion which these purists dismiss as merely nonsensical. If the purists were right, then we should have to regard painters and musicians as monsters. For it is strictly impossible to be a human being and not to have views of some kind about the universe at large, very difficult to be a human being and not to express those views, at any rate by implication. Now, it is a matter of observation that painters and musicians are not monsters. Therefore. . . The conclusion follows, unescapably. It is not only in program music and problem pictures that composers and painters express their views about the universe. The purest and most abstract artistic creations can be, in their own peculiar language, as eloquent in this respect as the most deliberately tendencious. Compare, for example, a Virgin by Piero della Francesca with a Virgin by Tura. Two Madonnas — and the current symbolical conventions are observed by both artists. The difference, the enormous difference between the two pictures is a purely pictorial difference, a difference in the forms and their arrangement, in the disposition of the lines and planes and masses. To any one in the least sensitive to the eloquence of pure form, the two Madonnas say utterly different things about the world. Piero’s composition is a welding together of smooth and beautifully balanced solidities. Everything in his universe is endowed with a kind of supernatural substantiality, is much more “there” than any object of the actual world could possibly be. And how sublimely rational, in the noblest, the most humane acceptation of the word, how orderedly philosophical is the landscape, are all the inhabitants of this world! It is the creation of a god who “ever plays the geometer.” What does she say, this Madonna from San Sepolcro? If I have not wholly mistranslated the eloquence of Piero’s forms, she is telling us of the greatness of the human spirit, of its power to rise above circumstance and dominate fate. If you were to ask her, “How shall I be saved?” “By Reason,” she would probably answer. And, anticipating Milton, “Not only, not mainly upon the Cross,” she would say, “is Paradise regained, but in those deserts of utter solitude where man puts forth the strength of his reason to resist the Fiend.” This particular mother of Christ is probably not a Christian. Turn now to Tura’s picture. It is fashioned out of a substance that is like the living embodiment of flame — flame-flesh, alive and sensitive and suffering. His surfaces writhe away from the eye, as though shrinking, as though in pain. The lines flow intricately with something of that disquieting and, you feel, magical calligraphy, which characterizes certain Tibetan paintings. Look closely; feel your way into the picture, into the painter’s thoughts and intuitions and emotions. This man was naked and at the mercy of destiny. To be able to proclaim the spirit’s stoical independence, you must be able to raise your head above the flux of things; this man was sunk in it, overwhelmed. He could introduce no order into his world; it remained for him a mysterious chaos, fantastically marbled with patches, now of purest heaven, now of the most excruciating hell. A beautiful and terrifying world, is this Madonna’s verdict; a world like the incarnation, the material projection, of Ophelia’s madness. There are no certainties in it but suffering and occasional happiness. And as for salvation, who knows the way of salvation? There may perhaps be miracles, and there is always hope. The limits of criticism are very quickly reached. When he has said “in his own words” as much, or rather as little, as “own words” can say, the critic can only refer his readers to the original work of art: let them go and see for themselves. Those who overstep the limit are either rather stupid, vain people, who love their “own words” and imagine that they can say in them more than “own words” are able in the nature of things to express. Or else they are intelligent people who happen to be philosophers or literary artists and who find it convenient to make the criticism of other men’s work a jumping off place for their own creativity. What is true of painting is equally true of music. Music “says” things about the world, but in specifically musical terms. Any attempt to reproduce these musical statements “in our own words” is necessarily doomed to failure. We cannot isolate the truth contained in a piece of music; for it is a beauty-truth and inseparable from its partner. The best we can do is to indicate in the most general terms the nature of the musical beauty-truth under consideration and to refer curious truth-seekers to the original. Thus, the introduction to the Benedictus in the Missa Solemnis is a statement about the blessedness that is at the heart of things. But this is about as far as “own words” will take us. If we were to start describing in our “own words” exactly what Beethoven felt about this blessedness, how he conceived it, what he thought its nature to be, we should very soon find ourselves writing lyrical nonsense in the style of the analytical program makers. Only music, and only Beethoven’s music, and only this particular music of Beethoven, can tell us with any precision what Beethoven’s conception of the blessedness at the heart of things actually was. If we want to know, we must listen — on a still June night, by preference, with the breathing of the invisible sea for background to the music and the scent of lime trees drifting through the darkness, like some exquisite soft harmony apprehended by another sense.

Rainy Days.

Rain today.
 It reminded me of Vietnam, when the rain turned the streets to rivers and the sound of water on the roof was deafening. It was the only time the streets were still, when the gray skies fell all the way into the city instead of hovering above the rooftops. The city was cleansed and for a moment the sky was blue. I loved the city most then.