Showing posts with label madeleine l'engle. Show all posts
Showing posts with label madeleine l'engle. Show all posts

Thursday, November 13, 2014

5 of my favorite quotations on writing: Kenyon, L'Engle, King, O'Connor, Berry


5 faves: quotations on writing

For a long while I've dreamed about going back to school. It's not the right time (as I like to say "Not all 6 of us can be in school at once!" -- which is probably a cop-out) In the meantime, I'm excited to pursue another goal. I saved up my pennies and signed up for the Glen Online Creative Non-fiction Writing Course.

I'm really excited to learn and thankful for Glen Online and Image Journal's hospitality and encouragement. So to celebrate (and to rouse to the task at hand) here's some writing pep talks from five of my favorite authors.

source

1.  
Jane Kenyon, at a 1991 literary conference in Enfield, New Hampshire, from A Hundred White Daffodils:
"Be a good steward of your gifts. Protect your time. Feed your inner life. Avoid too much noise. Read good books, have good sentences in your ears. Be by yourself as often as you can. Walk. Take the phone off  the hook. Work regular hours."

2.

"As soon as Bion, our baby, was in nursery school, I dropped out of the group of mothers who occasionally gathered together to drink coffee and gossip. This was writing time. Nobody else needed writing time. And I felt that I was looked at askance because I spent so much time at the typewriter and yet couldn't sell what I wrote. I certainly wasn't pulling my weight financially. In my journal I wrote: 'There is a gap in understanding between me and our friends and acquaintances. I can't quite understand a life without books and study and music and pictures and a driving passion. And they, on the other hand can't understand why I have to write, why I am a writer. When, for instance, I say to someone that I have to get home to work, the assumption is that I mean housecleaning or ironing, not writing a book. I'm very kindly permitted to be a writer but not to take time in pursuing my trade. Nor can they understand the importance of music or why an hour with a Mozart sonata at the piano is not wasted time but time spent on a real value. Or really listening, without talking, to music. Or going for a walk simply to see the beauty around one, or the real importance of a view from a window." 

3. 
Stephen King in On Writing:

“Put your desk in the corner, and every time you sit down there to write, remind yourself why it isn’t in the middle of the room. Life isn’t a support system for art. It’s the other way around.”
4.

Wendell Berry on 

How To Be a Poet

 (to remind myself)
i   
Make a place to sit down.   
Sit down. Be quiet.   
You must depend upon   
affection, reading, knowledge,   
skill—more of each   
than you have—inspiration,   
work, growing older, patience,   
for patience joins time   
to eternity. Any readers   
who like your poems,   
doubt their judgment.   


ii   
Breathe with unconditional breath   
the unconditioned air.   
Shun electric wire.   
Communicate slowly. Live   
a three-dimensioned life;   
stay away from screens.   
Stay away from anything   
that obscures the place it is in.   
There are no unsacred places;   
there are only sacred places   
and desecrated places.   


iii   
Accept what comes from silence.   
Make the best you can of it.   
Of the little words that come   
out of the silence, like prayers   
prayed back to the one who prays,   
make a poem that does not disturb   
the silence from which it came.
Source: Poetry (January 2001).

5.
Flannery O'Connor
source
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Any favorite quotations like to share?  
Do tell!

*Linking up with Jenna today


Saturday, March 15, 2014

Five Favorites: poems for Lent

Our daughter turned 18 this week. Brian prays blessing over each one, each year.
I only half listen because I'm trying to capture the photo, but it's a beautiful series of images!

Five favorite poems to read during Lent.


May I suggest you read out loud?  Even if you're alone.  Maybe even especially if you're alone. [click on the title to read each poem in its entirety]

-- 1 --


Ash Wednesday by T.S. Eliot

Teach us to care and not to care
 
Teach us to sit still. 
..... 
-- 2 --



The Wreck of the Deutschland by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Let him easter in us, be a dayspring to the dimness of us, be a crimson-cresseted east, 

.....  

(this is one of the most satisfying read-aloud poems in existence!)

-- 3 --

Wild Geese by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
..... 

-- 4 --

Requiem for a Friend by Ranier Maria Rilke

Once ritual lament would have been chanted; women would have been paid to beat their breasts and howl for you all night, when all is silent. Where can we find such customs now ? So many have long since disappeared or been disowned. That’s what you had to come for: to retrieve the lament that we omitted. 
..... 

-- 5 --

For Lent, 1966 by Madeleine L'Engle

It is my Lent to break my Lent, 
To eat when I would fast,
..... 

Other good words online this week

  • There's No Place Like Home by Garrison Keillor at National Geographic: "When a man lives in one place for most of his life, he doesn’t need GPS. He is guided by memories of boyhood bike rides, the ever present Mississippi, and the undeniable power of rhubarb."
  • A Suggestion for Lent at Like Mother, Like Daughter:  "Live your Lent, don’t worry about watching yourself experience it, or for that matter, looking for signs that your children are experiencing it. You are and they are — if you live it."
  • The Lent Project at Biola University: The Lent Project calendar starts on Ash Wednesday, March 5, and continues through Holy Week and Bright Week, ending on Sunday, April 27 and includes visual art, poetry, music and devotional thoughts for each of the 54 days of this season.


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A poetry-filled weekend for us all, dear ones.

For more Five Favorites, visit Moxie Wife!



Tuesday, April 10, 2012

from the book pile, 2012: Wendell Berry, Madeleine L'Engle, Brennan Manning



to see the book pile from 2011, click here


I've been working my way through the tower of books teetering off the antique writing desk that serves as my nightstand.  Working my way through reading and working my way through the thoughts and learnings each title provokes.

When I first started this blog in 2006 one of my goals was to nurture a forum that kept me accountable for the cultural goods I consume.  Of course, I didn't really know then to articulate the goal in those terms.  The truth dawns gradually: as in in worship so as in culture -- I did not make it, but it is making me.

Having also gotten quite clear with the truth that I will never be a professional book reviewer, I've let myself off the hook and changed up the way I document my reading.



Every new year, I consider making a number goal for books read in the coming twelve months.  It's never a good idea; rather takes away the enjoyment of arriving at December 31 and tallying up titles from the previous year.  Feels like an accomplishment no matter the number.  Hope you enjoy!


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1. Watch With Me: and Six Other Stories of the Yet-Remembered Ptolemy Proudfoot and His Wife, Miss Minnie Nee' Quinch

Author:  Wendell Berry

Genre: fiction, short story

Published: Pantheon, 1995

General Impression:  
Whenever I visit the fictional town of Port William, Kentucky with Berry as my storytelling guide, something deep inside me stretches out and relaxes.  Even though his characters are not shallow, meeting their days with their own set of complexities, I feel like I can relax that truth will be told in the light of humor, humility and grace.  It's true that Wendell Berry tells his stories with a determination to protect the agrarian legacy of our nation, but his stories don't ever succumb to mushy sentimentalism about "the way it was" or, worse, back-handed sermonette between the lines of his character's dialogue.  (if only James Cameron had learned at the Wendell Berry school of storytelling!)

While, the stories of the kind, lumbering farmer Tol Proudfoot and his school-marm-turned-adoring-wife, Minnie, didn't capture my imagination quite as much as Hannah Coulter and her family, I loved every minute of time we spent together in these six short interweaving stories.  Actually, I sort of felt like I grew up knowing the Ptolemy Proudfoot sort of genteel, gregarious country men among my grandparents' generation.  And, really, Wendell Berry knows the basic elements of true romance, telling the story of Tol's unspoken admiration for Miss Minnie and his knight-in-shining-armor attempt to earn her attention, outbidding everyone for her pie at the school auction.  Who needs a super model leading man and woman with that kind of old-fashioned chivalry? Sigh.


Read this book to rest and delight in the ageless craftsmanship of good story-telling.

One of my all-time favorite character descriptions (an excerpt from chapter 1, "A Consent - 1908"):

"Tol was overabundant in both size and strength. And perhaps because animate creatures tended to get out of his way, he paid not much attention to himself. He damaged his clothes just by being in them, as though surprising them by an assortment of stresses and strains for which they had not been adequately prepared. The people around Port William respected Tol as a farmer; they loved to tell and retell and hear and hear again the tales of his great strength; they were amused by the looks of him, by his good humor, and by his outsized fumblings and foibles. But never, for a long time, would any of them have suspected that his great bulk might embody tender feelings."

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Author:  Madeleine L'Engle

Genre: fiction

Published: HarperOne, an imprint of HarperCollins, 1992

General Impression:  
A while back I set a goal to read Madeleine L'Engle's entire body of work.  I intend to keep at that goal, but am so glad I didn't get to k now L'Engle first through this novel, Certain Women.  I liked the protagonist, Emma, well enough.  She had the typical similarities to all of Ms. L'Engle's female leads -- intelligent, introverted, compassionate, slightly traumatized, artistic, introspective, and a little bit lonely.  Really seems like each one is just a re-interpretation of Madeleine's own self and own life.  

Unlike some of L'Engle's other tight-knit fictional families, though, Emma Wheaton's family is highly dysfunctional.  Her father, David, an American actor who has lived for 87-years modelling unhappy marriages, capricious affection toward his children and other selfish tendencies.  Also unlike other plotlines, this novel includes more familial conflict than in others of her novels, more real-life trauma than I've read yet.  And some of it rings true.  

What got me sidetracked was the complexity of all the names and relationships between the main character and her father's many wives and children (with the various wives).  It kind of reminded me of when I was a little girl and dreamed of one day having twenty children mostly because I wanted desperately to name all twenty of the children and give them twenty horses so I could name all their horses.  And then name their children and their children's horses, and so on.  L'Engle tried to tell a story that paralleled the biblical King David and his dysfunctional household, but I couldn't ever quite climb into the narrative because I was too buy trying to keep track of who was who and whether or not I really cared.

No worries:  I still heart Madeleine.  I just won't probably remember much from this story.

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Author:  Brennan Manning

Genre: memoir

Published: David C. Cook, 2011

General Impression:  First things first, I love the cover of this book!  I wish I could show you some photos of some of my dad's family to explain how much similarity there is between Manning's face (especially those eyebrows!) and some of my second cousins and great uncles.  OK, now on to a more proper review...



It's been a while since I've read anything by this author who has had such a deep influence on my understanding of Gospel grace.  Over the past several months, I thought several times of pulling one or more of his titles off my shelf and re-reading.  A couple of weeks before my birthday, Brian and I were strolling through a bookstore about ten minutes before it closed.  I saw this on an endcap display and snatched it up without thinking twice, deciding it'd be a perfect early-birthday gift for me!


I read it one sitting -- until 2am.  Manning's story did not surprise me as much as help me connect all the dots between the bits and pieces of self-disclosure I'd read in his other books.  I was sad to hear so much suffering in his life, so much heartache, so many failures.  And I was a bit nervous to turn each page, afraid to discover the story that would ultimately discredit all that I'd learned from this alcoholic, de-frocked priest.  Instead, each sad story, each disappointing relationship, each new discovery of weakness served only to increase the man's credibility as a ragamuffin -- and now an aging, ailing man -- in need of grace.  His stark, naked transparency about his own history as a liar and a drunk made only one thing glaringly true:  all is grace, indeed.

An excerpt in which one favorite writer (Manning) quotes another favorite writer (Robert Farrar Capon):

"Some have labeled my message one of "cheap grace." In my younger days, their accusations were a gauntlet thrown down, a challenge. But I'm an old man now and I don't care...I have come across another [phrase] I would like to leave you with...I found it in the writings of the Episcopal priest Robert Farrar Capon. He calls it vulgar grace...My life is a witness to vulgar grace -- a grace that amazes as it offends. A grace that pays the eager beaver who works all day long the same wages as the grinning drunk who shows up at ten till five. A grace that hikes up the robe and runs breakneck toward the prodigal reeking of sin and wraps him up and decides to throw a party no ifs, ands, or buts. A grace that raises bloodshot eyes to a dying thief's request -- 'Please, remember me' -- and assures him, 'You bet!' A grace that is the pleasure of the Father, fleshed out in the carpenter Messiah, Jesus the Christ, who left His Father's side not for heaven's sake but for our sakes, yours and mine. This vulgar grace is indiscriminate compassion. It works without asking anything of us. It's not cheap. It's free, and as such will always be a banana peel for the orthodox foot and a fairy tale for the grown-up sensibility. Grace is sufficient even though we huff and puff with all our might to try to find something or someone it cannot cover. Grace is enough. He is enough. Jesus is enough."

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Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Wednesday is for Words: Madeleine L'Engle

Annunciation
Phaedra Taylor

A Wind in the Door, Madeleine L'Engle

" ' Not everybody is able to see me,' he told her. 'I'm real, and most earthlings can bear very little reality. But if it will relieve your mind, I'll dematerialize.' he waved a few wings gracefully. 'It's really more comfortable for me not to be burdened with matter, but I thought it would be easier for you if you could converse with someone you could see.'

The cherubim was there in front of her, covering most of the star-watching rock, and then he was not there. She thought she saw a faint shimmer in the air, but it might have been the approach of dawn. She could feel him, however, moving within her mind. 'Are you feeling extremely brave Megling?'

'No.' A faint light defined the eastern horizon. The stars were dim, almost extinguished.

'I think we're going to have to be brave, earth child, but it will be easier because we're together. I wonder if the Teacher knows..'

'Knows what?' 

'That you've seen an Echthros.'

'Progo, I don't understand. What is an Ecthros?'

Abruptly, Proginoskes materialized, raised several wings, and gathered her in. 'Come, littleing. I'll take you some place...and show you.'...'...Come.' He drew her further in to him.

She found herself looking directly into one of his eyes, a great, amber cat's eye, the dark mandala of the pupil, opening, compelling, beckoning. She was drawn towards the oval, was pulled into it, was through it. Into the ultimate night on the other side. Then she felt a great, flaming wind, and knew that somehow she herself was part of that wind.

Then she felt a great shove, and she was standing on a bare stone mountaintop, and Proginoskes was blinking and winking at her. She thought she saw the oval, mandala-eye through which she had come, but she was not sure.

The cherubim raised a great wing to sketch the slow curve of sky above them. The warm rose and lavender of sunset faded, dimmed, was extinguished. The sky was drenched with green at the horizon, muting upwards into a deep, purply blue through which stars began to appear in totally unfamiliar constellations.

Meg asked, 'Where are we?'

'Never mind where. Watch.'

She stood beside him, looking at the brilliance of the stars. Then came a sound, a sound which was above sound, beyond sound, a violent, silent, electrical report, which made her press her hands in pain against her ears. Across the sky, where the stars were clustered as thickly as in the Milky Way, a crack shivered, slivered, became a line of nothingness.
If this kind of thing was happening in the universe, no matter how far away form earth and the Milky Way. ...

'Progo, what is it? What happened?'

'What?'

'Annihilated. Negated. Extinguished. Xed.'

Meg stared in horrible fascination at the rent in the sky. This was the most terrible thing she had ever seen...She pressed close to the cherubim, surrounding herself with wings and eyes and puffos smoke, but she could still see the rip in the sky.

She could not bear it."



Wednesday, February 16, 2011

from the book pile, 2011: Eugene Peterson, Madeleine L'Engle, Erin Bried


More books read, more books added to the pile.  More books loaned out, more books marked up.  More books swapped online.  It's  pretty much as important as breathing to me, this reading, learning, delighting in turn of phrase, intangible truth understood in new ways or for the first time.

Still working through a few Christmas gifts, but also going back to the pile that's been accumulating in my nightstand.

Enjoy!



Practice Resurrection: A Conversation on Growing Up in Christ1.  Practice Resurrection : A Conversation on Growing Up In Christ

Author:  Eugene Peterson

Genre:  Non-fiction

Published:  Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Company (January 22, 2010)

General Impression:  I have yet to read anything from this sagacious soul that I do not love.  This gentle and good-humoured writing -- part-sermon from the book of Ephesians, part-memoir of a long obedience in the ministry, part-hang-in-there-it's-gonna-all-work-out-in-the-end pep talk to a world full of antsy ecclesial activists -- is by far my favorite Peterson title yet.  

It may have something to do with the season of life Brian and I find ourselves, committed to loving Christ's Church,  sensing a call to serve Christ's Church vocationally, while at the same time, almost daily hatching schemes to walk out the door and never look back.  Yes, this reading was timely.  I have been saved, I'm being saved, I will be saved.  In this particular season of life, Practice Resurrection was my come-to-Jesus altar call.  

Favorite Feature:  While the man who essentially re-wrote the Bible could probably have stood on his own authorial merits, Eugene Peterson generously and meaningfully inserts quotations and excerpts from writers, theologians, preachers, ancient and new.

An Excerpt

"I realized that this was my place and work in the church, to be a witness to the truth that dazzles gradually. I would be a witness to the Holy Spirit's formation of congregation out of this mixed bag of humanity that is my congregation -- broken, hobbled, crippled, sexually abused and spiritually abused, emotionally unstable, passive and passive-aggressive, neurotic men and women. Men at fifty who have failed a dozen times and know that they will never amount to anything. Women who have been ignored and scorned and abused in a marriage in which they have been faithful. People living with children and spouses deep in addictions. Lepers and blind and deaf and dumb sinners. Also fresh converts, excited to be in on this new life. Spirited young people, energetic and eager to be guided into a life of love and compassion, mission and evangelism. A few seasoned saints who know how to pray and listen and endure. And a considerable number of people who pretty much just show up. I wonder why they bother. There they are. The hot, the cold, and the lukewarm, Christians, half-Christians, almost Christians. New-agers, angry ex-Catholics, sweet new converts. I didn't choose them. I don't get to choose them."
( p. 27)

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Author:  Madeleine L'Engle

Genre:  Non-fiction, memoir

Published:  HarperOne (January 1, 1984)

General Impression:  From one favorite author (Peterson) to another (L'Engle), another sure-bet read for me.  In fact, next time someone asks me one of those icebreaker questions like what famous people, living or dead, would you invite to dinner, I can't imagine a more delightful conversation than one between Madeleine L'Engle and Eugene Peterson.  (I suspect they had a few while she was alive.)

A couple of summers ago, I read the other two titles in the three-book series, Crosswicks Journals (book 1, A Circle of Quiet, book 3, The Irrational Season).  Crosswicks is the beloved and rambly Connecticut farm home where Ms. L'Engle loved her husband,  raised her children (when not living in Manhattan) and wrote her first books.  And, in this book, Crosswicks is the home where four generations eat and play and work the summer Madeleine's mother dies.  

As the author winds her way back and forth through the long years of relationship with not only her own mother, but the fabled tales of relatives long gone, we can spot more than a few of the family tree who are otherwise written as characters in some of her fiction work.  We also see again this exceptional woman's determination to find, what N.T. Wright calls, a new way to be human, as she almost literally moves heaven and earth to make her now-alien mother comfortable in her last days.

As usual, in reading a Madaleine L'Engle book, I was more than entertained.  I was also discipled.

Two Excerpts (because I can't choose just one)

"I am only beginning to realize how fragmented and  uncoordinated I am. My left hand does not know what my right hand is doing. My heart tells me to go in one direction, and my  mind another, and I do  not know which to obey. I am furious with Mother fo rnot being my mother, and I am filled with an aching tenderness. I have never known before. There are rough waters below the surface of my consciousness, and strange, submarine winds. The submerged me is more aware of wild tides and undertows than the surface. One deep calls another, because of the noise of the water floods; all the waves and the storms are gone over me. And above the surface the brazen sun shines, heat shimmers on the hills, and the long fronds of the golden willow Mother planted ten or more years ago droop in the stillness." (p. 92)

"This time out of time in the absolute familiarity of the living room is  healing and redemptive for me. Tallis uses a chalice which he designed, setting it with stones which had belonged to his mother; this is the first time he has used it. He has us all sit around the living room as we usually do for our home services when there are too many of us for the Tower. And there in the living room is, for me, the Church, an eclectic group, Congregational, Roman Catholic, Jewish, agnostic, Anglican, atheist. The dogs and the babies wander around. Jo and I sit on the little sofa which Mother bought, and where she always sat. the Additions to the Prayer Book service are from the Orthodox liturgy: stark; terrible; glorious.

The most moving moment is when everybody receives the bread and wine, each person spontaneously holding out hands. This the Church which I affirm, and the mystery by which I live." (p. 233)

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Author:  Erin Bried

Genre:  Non-fiction

Published:  Ballantine Books; Original edition (December 15, 2009)

General Impression:  When I was engaged to marry my husband and working a second-shift job to pay for the wedding, my grandmother and I held a standing weekly lunch date.  Each week she and I made a different entree from her recipe file of well-loved family dinners.  This was my crash-course in home cooking.  More than the cooking tips, I've retained the memory of our time together.

In the twenty years following, I've more often adopted a survival mentality to housework and homemaking.  When I saw How To Sew A Button... it revived those memories with my Grandma, helping me to think about what I'm doing to pass along more than mere survival techniques to my children and grandchildren. 

Plus, the book was just plain fun to read.  In the world of how-to books, How to Sew a Button... deserves its very own shelf.  Author Erin Bried  interviewed ten real, authentic-down-to-their-homemade-jam-stained fingertips grandmamas from around the nation.  The fun and easy-to-read manual uncovers the lost art of making a home: shining shoes, gardening  and storing vegetables, folding crisp fitted sheets, and, yes, sewing those loose buttons. 

I'm putting this book on my shelf right next to Edith Schaeffer -- a harmonious duet of artful homemaking


Favorite Tips

How to Roast a Whole Chicken
How to Chase a Snake Out of Your Garden
How to Properly Fold a Fitted Sheet
How to Use Vinegar to Clean Almost Anything
How to Make a Centerpiece
How to Share Your Good Fortune (even when times are tight)
How to Mix the Perfect Cocktail
and, of course, How to Sew A Button (you can ask my mother the family story of me pouting through the sewing classes she paid for me to take!)

An Excerpt

"How to Mop
Step 1:  Send everyone with pitter-pattering feet packing, move any furniture that's in your way, and put on some good music. Remember, the word mop doesn't end with an e."
(p. 75)
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