I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees

Summer, as usual, has gotten away from me. I feel as though I have been standing in the midst of a river, watching its ripples and currents, feeling it slide past inch by inch. I have felt my time ebbing away and stood, frozen in a dreamy reverie, gazing at the current and musing over its flow.

I have only 3 days left in Chattanooga. Today is my last day of work, tomorrow my last day babysitting, then I pack my things and head for Marietta. On July 1st the Nation family flies to Dublin. I have not fully wrapped my head around that fact yet.

All reveries aside, however, the past couple months have been packed with activity. Obviously, engagement was the high point. On May 20th Dave asked me to join him in three things: a picnic, hang gliding, and marriage. I eagerly agreed to all three. Since then life has been a whirlwind of wedding planning combined with work, friends and the homework I should have been studiously applying myself to all along for my studies in London. Mom, of course, has already proved a champion wedding warrior (to no one's surprise) and we have accomplished quite a bit in the past month. I leave for England eager and anxious, but confident that everything will happen in due course and fully prepared to suck the marrow out of my time in London.

It's funny the way God has worked in my heart over the years. Dave and I started browsing through my old xanga last night and in addition to having several very good laughs at the absurd things I wrote as a high school and early college student, we were both amazed and encouraged to read some of the things I wrote about my faith. It was humbling to read the thoughts of that younger girl, to remember how innocent, passionate, vulnerable and earnest I was back then and see how openly and joyfully I chronicled my walk with Christ. I have substituted some of my vulnerability for cynicism and lost a measure of my wonderment along the way. I hope to reclaim these qualities, even as I grow into a more mature person. However, it was also encouraging to read some of my old prayers and hopes and see how God has guided, strengthened and blessed my journey. So many answered prayers.

We stumbled across one particular entry I wrote as a very zealous (and very single) senior in high school, which was addressed "to my future husband." I was slightly horrified and embarrassed by this silly, albeit impassioned, entry about purity and patience and attempted to scroll past it, but Dave insisted that, as it was clearly addressed to him, he should read it. Once the overwhelming self-consciousness abated, I realized that a picture of providence was unfolding before me. How incredible to see that something I wrote so ignorantly and zealously 5 years ago was coming full circle. God uses the craziest things to show us His faithfulness. I wonder what I would have thought and felt as a senior in high school if I had known that years down the road, I would sit with the man to whom I had unwittingly addressed that silly blog post and watch him read my message to him. Those impassioned reflections, which I imagined myself to be sending into some web-based void, would actually be stored away for 5 years and eventually delivered to Dave (who, luckily for me, apparently found them quite adorable). Silly, yet meaningful.

The whole experience has renewed my excitement about keeping a record of my life here. I realized that it's not really about the beauty of my words or the profundity of my thoughts, it's just thrilling to be able to look back and see God's hand in your own history. It's amazing how differently you see even your own words after years of perspective. And having it online for the world to see is actually a very healthy measure because it will keep me from being utterly ridiculous. Hopefully... no promises.

And getting back to that record:

As I said, I leave Chattanooga very soon. I have mixed feelings about leaving for London. I am both elated and fearful (hence the quote that heads this blog). At this moment in my life, I am practically swimming in blessings, and cannot begin to express my gratitude for God's goodness and faithfulness. Many adventures lie ahead for me in the next year or so and at this precise moment I feel refreshed, exhilarated and ready to take them head on. I am ready, as some of my beloved friends frequently recite, to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees [....]

[....] and though

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 

(Alfred Lord Tennyson -Ulysses-)

I and Love and Dave

sen·ti·men·tal

–adjective

expressive of or appealing to sentiment, esp. the tender emotions and feelings, as love

I love you for sentimental reasons

I hope you do believe me

I'll give you my heart

I love you and you alone were meant for me

Please give your loving heart to me

And say we'll never part

I think of you every morning

Dream of you every night

Darling, I'm never lonely

Whenever you are in sight

I love you for sentimental reasons

I hope you do believe me

I've given you my heart

God is good.

Mountain Song

Though Levin found himself amidst the hum

of singing scythes, yet I myself prefer

to let the grasses grow. The fertile bed

his peasants sowed with seed, will pillow me

as, laying still and quiet, I reacquaint

myself with stars. I’ll sing no taming song,

but hear instead the whirring crickets chirp,

and wonder that the breeze should blow each blade

of grass so gently. Others work this soil

to harvest crop, but I content myself

with lazy weekend walks and hope the life

of fields and streams will sow itself in me—

that, walking sterile halls and working days

in sterile rooms I’ll keep a fertile mind,

recalling still the kiss of grass, the smell

of pine and all the untamed order of

my mountain valley. Even now I hear

its song and feel my heartbeat keeping time.

"Myth Became Fact": Why I Study Literature

Tonight I had to write a "letter of interest" to accompany a scholarship application. It was supposed to be about my literary curiosities, passions, and why I am studying literature, among other things. Accordingly, I spent my entire night writing what should have probably taken about 15 minutes. It was quite therapeutic and refreshing to remember why I love books, so I decided to share a bit:

"My interest in English studies developed at an early age and has steadily grown in the last eight years. As a child I was constantly surrounded by literature. My parents were the type that not only encouraged my brother and I to expand our minds by exploring the world around us, but also spent many hours reading to us. Rather than growing up on “Full House” and “Saved By the Bell,” my imagination fed on The Chronicles of Narnia, The Hobbit, Wind in the Willows and Anne of Green Gables. The nights my parents spent reading to me planted a literary seed in my heart, which my later education nurtured into full bloom.

"Although I grew up in a family where reading was highly valued, I first recognized a passion for stories as a high school student. My English classes became a haven from the stress of prep school life. I lost myself in classics like A Tale of Two Cities, To Kill a Mockingbird and Pride and Prejudice, and even learned to enjoy the labor involved in reading novels like Moby Dick, Tristram Shandy, and Anna Karenina. All of these stories touched me on a fundamental, human level and encouraged me to understand and experience thoughts and emotions I had never before grasped. When I got to college I felt somewhat guilty declaring myself as an English major—scarcely believing I was allowed to study something so utterly delightful.

"In my time at Covenant College I began to understand the profound effect of stories. Confronted by thinkers like C. S. Lewis, Dorothy Sayers, J. R. R. Tolkien, Owen Barfield, and Salman Rushdie, I realized the capacity of fiction to present truth. I learned that humanity is naturally drawn to stories, because each of us experiences what Paulo Coelho calls our “leyenda personal” (personal legend)—an idea which I find particularly prevalent considering the astounding number of memoirs currently published in America. The Inklings particularly inspired me with their conception of mythopoeia and subcreation—suggesting that every story effectively echoes the cosmic story of existence (which, being a Christian, I perceive to be the Biblical metanarrative of creation, fall, and redemption—although I consider the notion of story as relevant to all human experience, regardless of ideology). The more I read and study literature, the more I am stretched and challenged, and the more I understand my own world and my own heart. This is the literary inheritance I one day hope to share as a professor."

So, in case I was wondering... that's why I'm in graduate school. My SIP comes back to me at times and rebukes me for the apathy I frequently embrace--how could I be so callous towards the stories I get to study, these Christ-haunted myths? They would whisper heavenly anticipation to me, if only I would listen.

"Ac grace is a gyfte of god and of greet loue spryngeþ" (Piers Plowman)

Faded from the Winter

See, I told you I'd be back.

I feel ridiculous realizing how long it's been since I posted my last entry. I sincerely apologize to anyone who has actually been waiting to hear more.

I am now in my second semester of graduate school here in Chattanooga. Last semester started with a lot of excitement, sunk to a bit of boredom in the middle, and ended in a frantic rush at the beginning of December. With a sigh of relief and a new 4.0 (It's back! But don't get too attached...), I thoroughly enjoyed my Christmas vacation at home with loved ones.

January, of course, came all too soon, and so I find myself back in Chattanooga. This semester seems worlds away from the last. My classes are more enjoyable, but also a lot more demanding, which is always a blessing and a curse at the same time. Here is my class schedule:

• Monday nights: Genre in American Literature: The Novel

American Lit has never really been my forte--I am naturally drawn to the Brits most of the time. However, the reading for this class is wonderful and I'm getting the opportunity to experience novels that have been on my "must read" list for years. We've so far read The Scarlet Letter (again... yes... turns out it's actually fantastic, despite what you thought in high school), The Rise of Silas Lapham, The Ambassadors (yikes... I was planning to be all scholarly and love James... but I don't know. It was the most laborious read of my life), and I'm currently revisiting The Great Gatsby (which is always a pleasure). The class actually focuses more on important critical trends and the nature of the genre itself, rather than being a survey of a bunch of novels, so I'm also reading a lot of criticism which is always fun. I think this will be my most challenging class.

• Tuesday afternoons: Appalachian/Environmental Literature

I love this class. I love this class. It's exactly what it sounds like: literature from and about Appalachia, with an environmental focus. We read a novel a week (although sometimes it's a travel journal or other non-fiction book. I, of course, prefer the fiction.) and write a short paper every week, which is a huge pain, but it really aids class discussion and I think it's great practice for me (further re-enforcing my ability to crank out a well-rounded, fully supported essay). I've been joking with everyone that I'm going to come out of this class as a tree-hugger, but in the best way possible. It's been both enjoyable and eye opening to learn more about the world around me and the effect my actions have on the places I inhabit. Reading people like Wendell Berry and Ron Rash has encouraged me to develop a more holistic theology of place. Recognizing that the Chattanooga, Tennessees and Blairesville, Georgias of this world will one day be resurrected in the new heavens and earth certainly makes you think more deeply about the way we alter and scar our landscapes. Basically, I'm much keener on the idea of place--being connected with your physical surroundings and being responsible in your lifestyle. I'm not planning to stop shaving my legs and start living in a tent, but I have come to esteem deliberate simplicity.

• Thursday nights: Modern Rhetorical Theory

Don't ask me what this class is about. I still don't know. I have a certain number of Rhetoric credits to fulfill, and that is the only reason I signed up for this class, thinking to myself, "maybe I'll finally grasp what 'rhetoric' actually is." Unfortunately, the discipline of rhetoric appears to be not much more than sociological analysis sans the whiff of science, and rhetorical theory is apparently a group of people who are all trying to define exactly what rhetoric is. In other words, the discipline exists to define itself... And that's about all I've gathered so far. It's theory, so I can handle that (to an extent... and then my brain explodes), but I am clearly on a different wave-length from everyone else in the class. I. A. Richards is right: true communication is an impossibility. ;)

Other than school, I still work 10 hours a week for Dr. Sachsman in the Communications department and 10 hours a week for Dr. Rehyansky in the English department. I'm still going to North Shore every Sunday, singing now and then, and enjoying a growing sense of community with my small group. I still have the most wonderful and caring boyfriend that ever existed, which is an incredible blessing, and I wish I could say that I have a plethora of friends, but I do have a few dear friends in the area.

God and I are having a lot of conversations about my future these days. Well, mostly I'm asking Him what on earth He wants me to do and waiting to hear His answer. Although I still plan to apply for doctoral programs and hope to teach university level english classes some day, that dream is getting less simple by the day. For one, I am having trouble imagining actually getting a Master's degree, much less a Doctorate. The sheer work that lies ahead is daunting and discouraging, and it's difficult to remain confident at times when I feel so essentially insufficient. Furthermore, life as a post-graduate student is something that you can never be prepared for, no matter how much people tell you to brace yourself. The frustration of constant, ever-present work, when others can compartmentalize their lives into career and leisure is acute. Yes, what I'm saying is that I am lazy, and I hate having to work when other people relax. This becomes extremely difficult, however, in times when I am discouraged with school and struggling to find deep meaning in my studies. At those times, my life can appear somewhat empty. God and I have been discussing my need for joy and purpose in my work a lot too. I remain confident that He is in control and knows my every need.

And, believe me, if there's one thing I am aware of these days, it's my need. Living alone has effectively lost any glitter it once had. I am now confronted with hours and hours by myself in a cold apartment with only books and my own insufficiency for companions. Dave is wonderful and he has been an incredible support for me (he has seen me at my worst this semester, and amazingly-by the grace of God-managed to love me and continue to speak the truth of the gospel to me when I most need to hear it), but he also has a lot of responsibilities and a busy life here in Chattanooga. I treasure every moment I get to spend with him, but I am fully aware that he simply cannot fix the loneliness in this season of my life. If not for Jesus, I am not sure I could keep getting out of bed in the morning. It is only His grace and love that sustains me through the dejection I'm experiencing this semester.

I hope and believe, however, that Winter is finally coming to an end--in a literal and metaphorical sense. I am beginning to wake up to the sound of birdsong again, and the promise of sunshine and warm weather lifts my spirits and lessens my claustrophobia considerably. In addition, I am catching glimpses of the light at the end of the semester's tunnel and can start looking forward to the adventure of a new summer. It strikes me that I have a lot to look forward to, not to mention a lot to be thankful for in the here and now. I officially sent my first payment for a Shakespeare course in London this summer, which sends a thrill through my heart. It's time I begin to shake off this Winter hibernation and start actively pursuing the many adventures God has set before me in my Master's program, in Chattanooga, and wherever else He may lead.

Speaking of adventures. It's time for work, and I have a manuscript of Piers Plowman that has been patiently waiting for me.

My prayer for the semester:

In the morning, when I rise
In the morning, when I rise
In the morning, when I rise
Give me Jesus.

Give me Jesus,
Give me Jesus.
You can have all this world,
Give me Jesus.

When I am alone,
When I am alone,
When I am alone,
Give me Jesus.

Give me Jesus,
Give me Jesus.
You can have all this world,
But give me Jesus.

When I come to die,
When I come to die,
When I come to die,
Give me Jesus.

Give me Jesus,
Give me Jesus.
You can have all this world,
Just give me Jesus.

Chapter One (again)

Well, I'm back.

I typically reserve this type of writing for times when I am traveling abroad or somewhere special that inspires me. Admittedly, I had hoped that my next post would be coming from Edinburgh or St. Andrews in Scotland, but as Divine Providence would have it I find myself firmly planted back in Chattanooga Tennessee. God has a funny way of doing whatever He pleases with you and working it all out for the best whether you like it or not, and therefore, I have decided to simply be inspired by Chattanooga and cast aside any European regrets.

At this moment, I am sitting on my bed in my apartment on the fifth floor of an old brick building on Vine Street. Yesterday being my first day of class and work here at the University of Tennessee in Chattanooga, it was both encouraging and frustrating. My thoughts are frankly all over the place, so I'll resort to my horrific (yet typical) use of bullet pointing for some highlights:

• Work is going to be just fine. I will learn to have a thick skin and I will learn a lot about editing and I will constantly remind myself that when you combine the cost of tuition with my stipend I am being very well compensated. My assistantship with the English department has not started yet, but I met my Professor and she seemed amiable enough and I am looking forward to working for her. The communications department, however, is where I worked yesterday and where I will be returning today, equipped with my own usb thumb drive and a readiness to read with a critical eye and search through tons of files on tons of ancient computers.
• I have officially arrived at not Covenant. Before my first class was over, the professor (a very colorful youngish gentleman who loves Literary Theory and Criticism almost as much as he loves to hear himself talk) informed the class that despite protests from the crazed conservative masses, there is no such thing as absolute truth. I thought we all realized back in high school how absurd such a statement is? Speaking of Literary theory and Criticism, that statement of fact about the non-existence of absolute truth might sort of deconstruct itself upon close inspection... maybe that's just me. Anyway, I quickly realized that the sorts of things I heard Oxford Dons say aren't as charming and palatable coming from the mouth of a Tennessee native who illustrates everything with a reference to Southpark or the Speed channel. Nonetheless it's going to be a really good class and I will be challenged on many fronts.

Glancing at the clock it strikes me that if I want to obtain my books and lunch and get to work on time I should probably roll out of bed and start moving. But, don't worry, I'll be back. :)

Galatians 19-21 "For through the law I died to the law, so that I might live to God. I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live but Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me. I do not nullify the grace of God, for if justification were through the law, then Christ died for no purpose."

Her Tea Leaves

I'm in a poetry class this semester, and I thought it would be appropriate that I include the poems that I have worked on thus far. They are in the order in which I wrote them.

Christopher Wren (Villanelle)

I saw a puddle crossing Old School’s Quad

And stepped aside to keep my sandals dry

And raised my eyes to praise a stone façade.

 

“Redemption here would take an act of God,”

I thought. Perceiving sin in every eye,

I saw a puddle crossing Old School’s Quad.

 

Within those halls the greatest thinkers trod.

I saw myself amongst them by and by

And raised my eyes to praise a stone façade.

 

Yet on those streets in light I rode roughshod,

And every base, debauching drunk denied,

And skirted puddles crossing Old School’s Quad.

 

Those vaulted spires seduced me as a bawd

Ensnares a wretched mind. I breathed a sigh

And raised my eyes to praise a stone façade.

 

Beware the wakeful wit of stone-carved gods—

The evil erudition may supply.

I saw a puddle crossing Old School’s Quad

And raised my eyes to praise a stone façade.

Brother (Sestina)                                                                    

My memories of you are like gentle

Strokes of a brush. They paint before my eyes

a silhouette upon which, until now

(your absence), I could not deliberate.

Our lives become a manuscript explored

And I will bend the binding back and read.

 

When I was six and didn’t care, you read

me Faerie books. You drew me on gently

into adventures, charmingly explored

amidst your childish zeal, and in my eyes

you were the author of deliberate,

intelligent mythologies. So, now

 

do I perceive you changed? Seeing you now,

an awkward start-up man, yet widely read

and not without thoughtful, deliberate

assurance, I must turn the pages gently

to recall the child with brightened blue eyes

who thought our creek a sea to be explored.

 

The fleeting backyard world we once explored

dissolves to rude reality, and now

the physical discovery of eyes

and child-size hands is mediated, read

in words instead of sprightly play. Gently,

age has constructed a deliberate

 

man of you, and I must deliberate

whether you’ve lost the ardor to explore

that once drove me to mimic each gentle

action you took. Perhaps the truth’s that now

you’ve moved beyond that childish world and read

a greater story than before, with eyes

 

that are more like God’s own redemptive eyes.

This new world unfolds in deliberate,

broken, yet beautiful glimpses. I read

again your every move and see explored

a vaster, more enchanting story now

than any you’ve invented. Still your gentle

 

passion inspires me like your gentle eyes

have often done. Now, with deliberate

care, we’ll explore this faerie world you’ve read.

Babel   (Pantoum)                                            

Beautiful melodies, sung out of key,

Fall on receptive, deafened ears. Short of

all encompassing salvation, only

blind men read. Inarticulate sermons

 

Fall on receptive, deafened ears, short of

A word of truth. Faith mewls and dozes while

Blind men read inarticulate sermons

To pews of padded flesh and bone. To style

 

A word of truth, faith mewls and dozes while

coarse commotion rises and silence calls

to pews of padded flesh and bone to style.

Without a tuning touch the center falls,

 

coarse commotion rises, and silence calls

wantonly, babbling. Tongues must comprehend

without a tuning touch: the center falls.

In such scars our words aspire to transcend

 

wantonly. Babbling tongues must comprehend

all encompassing Salvation. Only

In His scars our words aspire to transcend

Beautiful melodies sung out of key.

Upon the Dropping of Ceramics Class (Sonnet)

Alas, I cannot apprehend the weight

of every willful act I take. Control

eludes—clay forms collapse, crush, take the toll

of ineffectual hands. I watch with hate

and curse the crooked forms. To tolerate

this failure, must I lay my wilting soul

in weak submission down before a bowl

of mangled earth?—a blank deistic fate?

Not so. For He has cradled lifeless clay

before. The malleable matter of

my small and childish lot cannot betray

such dextrous, guiding hands. For viscous gloves

of filthy mud did not deter His plan

when quick’ning arid dust and forming man. 

Highland Lament (Ballad)

Oh won’ ye go an find my luve,

 an bring him back tae stay?

Oh won’ ye go an seek him out?

 He’s left me but a day.

He promised to be e’er my luve,

 an ne’er tae go away.

Oh won’ ye go an find my luve,

 an bring him back tae stay?

 

On yester’morn he left our home,

 Wi’out a single word.

The fast’nin o’ his brog an brat,

 was a’ the sound I heard.

I rose from bed tae find him gone,

 the myst’ry I now mourn

Oh Won’ ye go an find him for

 I’m hertily forlorn.

 

When we were wed it seemed a shame,

 for I were yet so young.

My faither gave me tae a man

 So auld, my hert was wrung.

An though he luved me tenderly

 An wrote me verse an sung,

I met his luve wi’ bitterness

 an spake wi’ poison’d tongue.

 

The day since he’s been gone I’ve been

 descendin tae despair,

At first I said “he’s left tae seek

 a bih o’ Hielan air.”

But now I see he won’ come back.

 It takes me unaware,

Tae see the way I need him, Oh

 my hert was unprepared!

 

So won’ ye go an find my luve

 an tell him I was wrong,

The way I took his gentle smile

 for granted a’ along.

Today if he wuld smile at me

 my hert wuld fill wi’ song.

Oh won’ ye go an find my luve

 an tell him I was wrong?

Cornmarket (Blank Verse)

A cold, light rain falls gently on my cheeks

and hair, like so many silver beads. The rain

no longer stops this town, its streets are full

of faceless motion, tucked beneath a black

umbrella, or sunk in hooded slickers. I

once thought I saw a friendly face within

this heartless throng, but soon repented of

such charitable thought, and chastened, walked

with down-turned eyes to watch my footfalls. Now,

with beaded rain collecting on their lashes,

I raise my eyes again, examining

the street. Each darkened form propels itself

with some unknown intention, hastening on

to buy a pair of shoes or read another

essay to a keen and silent don. In all

the bodies moving here among the stores,

the birds, and beggars on the cadge, I smile,

look up into the falling rain, and feel

delicious freedom pouring down like oil.