Grateful

Sometimes it seems our minds are not our own anymore. It seems the world is pressing in more and more into my little sanctuary, trying to rob me of the ability to think clearly. I've found it necessary to take small steps pushing back against the influx of information in order that Jesus may reign in my mind and soul rather than the anxieties and fears that accompany such a daily avalanche of information.

So grateful this week for the gift of a mind that can choose beauty, choose to love, choose to be kind rather than fearing the world and the future which always seems so uncertain. A mind that can choose to feed on life giving knowledge.

I know when I'm not under Jesus' yoke because anxiety and all my efforts to control rather than trust are burying me deep in the sand, unable to move forward. And so - repeatedly because I am remarkably human - I pull myself out and hand myself over, a little smaller every time, to Him who can carry me through the darkest tunnel.

We are moving from this beautiful part of the country. Virginia has shown me the most glorious fall I have ever known. Always moving. New unknown. Like Bilbo I get too comfortable and God sees the need to stretch me. I must always remember that this world is just my ship, and I've been remarkably good at getting too comfortable and somehow missing the peace that I expect would come with it. Home is important. It is my little sub-creation. It is my mirror on eternity and paradise. But it is only for a time. It is a means to an ultimate end. I'm looking forward to eternity with Jesus, but there is much to be transformed in me before I get there and I pray for the grace of perseverance.

True Yoke

These thoughts tiptoed into my winding, rushing, stumbling mind
What am I seeking, lightening my soul with
crying for? needing.

When He said, I shall find rest for my soul
with His yoke. Blessed direction. Relieving security.
Small spirit. Weak tears. Halcyon moment.

Precious faces come in
A mind that can know
A heart burying itself in love's divine home.

Come to me, all you that labour, and are burdened, and I will refresh you. Take up my yoke upon you, and learn of me, because I am meek, and humble of heart: and you shall find rest to your souls. For my yoke is sweet and my burden light.

Gospel of St Matthew Ch 11 vs 28-30

Starting a Commonplace

I've always been a journal keeper of some type. Reading about the three pillars of keeping in Laurie Bestvater's book The Living Page has given me a good prod in the direction of regular keeping in a commonplace. It is a simple and yet effective approach to raising my ordinary thoughts out of the pedestrian monotony they frequently plod into.

Last year I read a book whose words left a deep mark on my thinking. I picked up The Martyrs of the Coliseum in a book sale and read the first two pages and was drawn right in. The consequence was that I could not put it down. All other books were neglected. I became a Roman citizen among the frenzied masses yearning for truth and becoming completely enamored by the heroic living and dying of these holy martyrs. These were real stories. Real people. Real miracles. Every chapter an inspiring story in itself. These were words - I decided - that could transform their audience, if they were allowed to do their job. By the end I was plotting how I would get the Author's other work, Victims of the Mamertine which was available but at an inordinate price. The stories are thoroughly researched and beautifully written in narrative form. An older student would gain much from both books in their history studies. Much to my delight Christmas deposited it on my pile and after finishing other reads I now have started it on my vacation here in New Zealand. From my commonplace...

The Church grew like a night flower that loves the shade; but the seed was sown; it casts roots secretly, like the acorn concealed under the surface; the soil, enriched by the remains of the saints and moistened by their blood, willingly received it.

The Victims of the Mamertine by Rev. A. J. O'Reilly

Linking up with Celeste and Keeping Company.

Poetry is a gift

I am quite sure that if this world lost its treasure trove of poetry, many would experience deep enduring pangs within their chest. I am one of those people. I love verse. Words that punch the mind into some motion of thoughts.

We write to give voice to the joys of the spirit. We put words to paper to profess the joys of our souls. And then, we speak with the written word to let go of our griefs and sort out our confused minds so tainted by the fall. Then there is truth. Oh the joy of finding the greatness of Truth. Truth and beauty, a double helix unseen by many. Poetry helps us get the words out succinctly so that others might ponder such pearls. And yet the poetry makes us feel vulnerable, whether it is our own or glimpsing into the broken world of another.

In my high school years, although I barely recognized the inter-dependance of truth and beauty, I had a natural revulsion for anything that was not true. In some mysterious way it had to be beautiful and beauty as ordered in nature, was truth. 

I read A Handmaids Tale by Margaret Atwood on the orders of an enamored English teacher, and turned my nose up at the opportunity to watch the movie. I was punished for my act of defiance and seeming insult. Mary, the Mother of God, was far away from my mind at that time, but the Word, Truth, Jesus, was showing me glimpses behind the veil of true feminism and beauty. And A Handmaids Tale fell far from the mark.

Poetry became a boon to the interior life I didn't know existed in me. So for someone like me, flawed, struggling, existing only on God's grace, I discovered the sweet brevity of poetry to articulate and ponder ideas I could not understand until they were out on paper. And then the joys of finding the words of others who like me, taking hold of Grace to overcome self absorption ever present in our minds since the fall. Lifting our minds and hearts as creatures to our Creator, a never ending source of peace.

Broken, frail, but trusting in the mercy of God. Many of these writers seemed to live out faith and hope. Some of them became saints. Some crawled into the specter of death on their hands and knees. Some chose to abandon their Creator and let their minds stumble over the weeds that had grown up around them.

I have the joy of many wonderful collections of poetry. A favorite is The Book of Living Verse compiled by Louis Untermeyer. The following belongs to Gerard Manley Hopkins

The Habit of Perfection

Elected Silence, sing to me

And beat upon my whorled ear,

Pipe me to pastures still, and be

The music that I care to hear.

Shape nothing, lips; be lovely-dumb;

It is the shut, the curfew sent

From there where all surrenders come

Which only makes you eloquent.

Be shelled, eyes, with double dark

And find the uncreated light:

This ruck and reel which you remark

Coils, keeps, and teases simple sight.

Palate, the hatch of tasty lust,

Desire not to be rinsed with wine:

The can must be so sweet, the crust

So fresh that come in fasts divine!

Nostrils, your careless breath that spend

Upon the stir and keep of pride,

What relish shall the censers send

Along the sanctuary side!

O feel-of-primrose hands, O feet

That want the yield of plushy sward,

But you shall walk the golden street

And you unhouse and house the Lord.

And, Poverty, be thou the bride

And now the marriage feast begun,

And lily-colored clothes provide

Your spouse not labored - at nor spun.

And then, too long to repeat here, The Hound of Heaven by Francis Thompson. Words do not exist to describe the story of this man from 19th century England. His poetry leaves me weak and tearful, humbled by my frailty before God. Ever dependent on His mercy and love.

Summer Learning

We have had a wonderful summer and now find ourselves three weeks into school. This is the closest I've been to living out Charlotte Mason's philosophy in education and the outcome is tremendous. In many ways I too am being reeducated and my mind is waking up to the wonder of truth and beauty like never before. I touched on it briefly in my youth, but now it is like a flood everyday. Everything in my life I now see is continual grace from God and at times my soul seems to be swimming, hidden in His love. Yet how blind I remain.

In our education at home, we've embraced both verbal and drawn narrations in our study of Ancient Egypt and Catechism. I've practiced my artwork and our 2nd grader is quite pleased with his own work. Our youngest has made great strides learning his phonograms and making small but steady progress with stroke work.

We have come to love our nature journals and are discovering so much more outside now that we are more aware of our surroundings than ever before.

I've spent a great deal of time reading too. Rereading For The Children's Sake by Susan Schaeffer Macauley and starting When Children Love to Learn edited by Elaine Cooper. I've also added Leisure the Basis of Culture by Josef Pieper and The Gift of Fire by Richard Mitchell. Starting to make regular entries in my commonplace is the next step! There are many books I plan to revisit over the remainder of the year in addition to the novels that I am reading myself and to the boys. That will have to be saved for another post.