At the movies - in the living room

This past weekend was a recovery weekend. We didn't have much on the calendar, so we caught up on some chores, on planning, on watching movies with the kids. We watched four, yes, four, movies over about 6 days - Thursday to Sunday. And guess what, they were all good.  Moana is now out on video at the library, and the toddler and I hadn't seen it, so we checked it out and watched it more than once.  My husband loves this movie.  It brings back visions of Guam and our happy life there.  The dumb rooster and the roaming pig are details that seem especially apropos.  And the music is good.  

After watching it, the toddler has mentioned more than once that she wants a grandma.  She knows she has two that live far away, but she said she wants to borrow one. She also wants a baby, a dog, and a cat.  I am thinking we need to go to the nursing home and make a friend.  And a part of me still wonders if we should do something like foster care or respite care.   Right now life is still busy, but next year another chick flies the nest.  Just having two gone makes the house seem quieter; with three in college, it might seem positively silent around here.

Finding movies to watch with the 10-17 age group can be difficult, but the three we watched were the right kind of movies to watch with big kids: serious themes, but limited sex and violence.  42, the Jackie Robinson story, had terrible language that earned it a PG-13 rating, but the language came out of the mouth of a reprehensible character and added to the development of the story of Robinson's strength of character, so it didn't feel gratuitous.  Even though he was taunted and belittled by both his own team at first, and competitors, he fought down the urge to fight back, but chose the road of nonviolent, gentlemanly behavior.  This caused his team to rally behind him and created unity on the team.  The movie made the racism of the past real to the kids, and the movie depicts Robinson's strong marriage to his wife and his dedication to the game in ways that are admirable, like the characters in Hidden Figures.

The next movie, Lion, was a bit darker, and I missed part of it because I put the toddler and the 10 year old to bed. Lion is the story of a young Indian boy who falls asleep on a train and can't find his way back to his family.  This movie had a darker side, but again it is a story of persistence and of the strength of family connections. It raises the question of international adoption. Is the child better off in a more prosperous family far from his homeland with more opportunities for education and advancement, or should more of an effort have been made to find his family? The movie focuses on his internal struggle with his identity and the unreliability of memory more than this issue, but I was left wondering.  Surely in a quantitative way, Saroo has had more advantages after being adopted. But he still longs to know his roots, and the final scene of reunion is incredibly moving (I don't think that is a spoiler because viewers must assume it happens; otherwise, the story isn't as compelling).

Paterson was my favorite of these three adult movies that are suitable for teens.  This one we watched only with the two older kids, and the 14 year old went to bed because she was bored by it. It's rated R, but I'm not sure why, other than a few bad words.  The 17 year old's assessment was, "weird but funny." This movie about a bus driver/poet named Paterson who lives in Paterson, New Jersey, has received much more glowing reviews from some critics, and I loved it.  Paterson is played by Adam Driver, recently Kylo Ren and the second priest in Silence.  He has an odd look, perfect for his character, who is an unassuming bus driver living a routine life. The drama of the movie is minimal.  Viewers watch Paterson rise, go to work, and write a poem in his secret notebook on his bus before driving off on his route. Each day he overhears snatches of mundane conversations, mostly good humored. He seems to enjoy his view of the streets.  Occasionally he meets other poets, like a guy rapping at the laundromat about Paul Lawrence Dunbar or a young girl who shares a poem she wrote in her own secret notebook. Her poem actually is more beautiful than Paterson's poetry, which appears on the screen as he writes.  His poetry is very object oriented, like his favorite author's, William Carlos Williams, who is also from Paterson, New Jersey. (The poems at first seem intentionally adolescent. I discovered they were written by Ron Padgett, some for the film. Although they start with commonplace observations, they often end with a twist or with a remark that functions as an ode to the beauty in the thing.) Each afternoon Paterson comes home to eat odd dinners crafted by his beautiful, creative girlfriend (I'm assuming because they don't wear rings). She redecorates every day while he is gone by painting curtains and walls in different patterns of black and white. One day she orders a black and white guitar in hopes of becoming a famous country singer, and another day she decorates cupcakes in black and white to sell at the farmers' market in hopes of starting a cupcake business. She encourages Paterson to share his poetry and to make a copy of his secret notebook. Every evening Paterson walks their expressive bulldog a few blocks to the local bar, where the bartender posts newspaper clippings and photos of famous residents of Paterson, but he refuses to have a TV.  Here, too, Paterson sits and engages in conversations or eavesdrops on other people's conversations before returning home.

The drama of the movie happens in these conversations. Occasionally a sense of tension emerges in the relationship between Paterson and his girlfriend because he hesitates to eat her brussel sprout pie, or because she ordered a rather expensive guitar, but it is minimal and graciously resolved.  They seem to encourage each other in their creative pursuits without envy or resentment.  Both of them thrive in their small ways of expressing their rich inner lives.  They notice beautiful things and take pleasure in the witnessing.  The small drama that occurs at the end is resolved in a fortuitous encounter that again reaffirms Paterson's observation that poets are everywhere, that the world is full of poetry, and that the ability to notice beauty and be inspired by it is universal. The beauty of the film is that Paterson doesn't say any of this; he doesn't preach.  Filmmaker Jim Jarmusch  has created a small film that documents the objects and interactions of everyday life and creates "a thing of beauty that is a joy forever."  In this he perfectly captures William Carlos Williams' idea that there is "no ideas but in things," a line I had heard but didn't remember the source. Of course, it is from his long poem "Paterson." (Incidentally, in looking up that line, I found that Williams was also inspired by Keats.) It's all connected. 

Easter 2017

Alleluia, everyone! He is risen indeed!

We had a beautiful celebration of Easter here.  The whole family that is here and not at college attended the Easter Vigil where several friends were confirmed, and one friend's husband and baby were baptized and the husband confirmed, which was an answer to long years of prayer.  Despite the late night, the kids did not sleep in, and woke up ready to celebrate Easter morning by finding their baskets with plenty of candy (although less than in the past) and a few gifts, followed by a delicious brunch.  It was a bit quieter without the big boys or cousins around, but we had an early dinner in the afternoon with friends from church/Navy.  All day I was missing the older boys, but they were happy celebrating with cousins and my parents on their farm.

Holy Week was a bit busier than usual. My husband's cousins from North Carolina were in town for their kids' spring break. They stayed one night with us, and then moved to a little beach cottage that wasn't ready on their first night in town. We met them Holy Thursday at their beach cottage to visit and celebrate my husband's birthday. His brother and family also came down for a surprise celebration. We didn't think we'd see them because we had been up to Ventura the weekend before to see his other brother, who was visiting with his family from New York. It was also the baby's and my sister-in-law's birthdays.  Lots of celebrating going on! 

Because of the company, we ended up missing Holy Thursday Mass. We were all a little disappointed about this, even the kids.  Since the cousins were leaving all the next day, we came to the conclusion that perhaps we should stay and visit rather than go to church. They were not interested in going with their small children. I still feel conflicted about the reasoning here. On the one hand, it is not a holy day of obligation, and many people with small children don't go to the long service.  We have missed Holy Thursday mass in the past when we were traveling and the kids were all small.  But a part of me thinks we could have run to church, met them for a late dinner, and perhaps have been a witness.  On the other hand, missing Mass was a sacrifice we could offer up in order to spend time with them and witness in a different way. These extended family connections are important. We added a memory to the collection of rare times spent together and made an act of gratitude for their presence and long journey here. 

Navigating relationships is complex. On the one hand, we rarely regret the time spent with others, despite the impediments to convening that often arise - time, distance, expense. No one in our household really relishes cleaning for company, or getting in the car for long hours, or saying no to spending money in the moment in order to save for the future. But we always enjoy having company and going to see relatives or even meeting friends somewhere. I didn't really fully understand the concept of hospitality when my teachers mentioned it in college in relationship to those ancient Greeks, but now I see better why it was so important. Opening our homes and hearts to others requires effort but begets life. In ancient days, travelers wouldn't be able to get very far if others didn't offer room and board from a sense of duty, but we wouldn't be able to crawl very far out of our own little bubble of self if we didn't agonize a little.  It is almost always better to say yes, even if we really want to say no, even if it means a little agony and discomfort. The pleasures in the moment and in the remembering are worth that small bit of pain. 

And how much greater is the celebration when we share it with others! This is the joy of the Easter Vigil, when all the candles are lit, and then again when the lights come on in the church and the choir sings the Alleluia (from Handel, of course). This is the joy of being baptized and confirmed in front of the entire congregation who clap in welcome spontaneously, despite being asked to hold applause. The joy bubbles over.  When we sit around the table laughing with siblings or cousins or friends, we are reenacting that Last Supper, in a way. In coming together, we are incarnating love. We have washed the floors, if not the feet, in welcome.  We offer up our labors and then enjoy the fruits of being in each other's presence. 

I pray that some of the people who do not regularly go to church but come on Easter might feel some of this connection, the joy that overflows when you are happy to be with others, despite the distraction that comes with crowds at Easter liturgies.  I understand why so many people feel they don't have to go to church to have a relationship with God, but I feel sorry that they don't feel connected to God by joining into a relationship with others at church. So while we would have been overjoyed to celebrate Holy Thursday at church with the cousins, we tried to meet them where they are. And at the following liturgies we were even more attentive, although I did find myself looking around at the congregation, admiring them in their Easter finery, and feeling that sense of kinship, much like we felt with the cousins, of being joined together in a relationship that is based on love and sacrifice, celebrating together.  Hearing the voices singing, sharing the light of the candles, clapping for the confirmandi, walking together up to the altar for community, all filled me with a sense of belonging, of being a part of something bigger, something eternal. 

LCJ turns three

Beautifying the mudane

Hills of Ventura County covered in wildflowers

Birthday joy

Happy Jesus and Friends cake. Thanks, Dad!

Wildflowers blooming on the cliffside

Icons

Seeking the top of the world

Post Easter Vigil

Easter morning

Someone already ate my bunny's ears

Escapes

My sister visited this past weekend. My husband took the kids beach camping with his brother, so we both had sibling time.  My sister and I went out for coffee and sat in the sun, went out to lunch and sat in the sun, went to the beach and sat in the sun.  We also woke up one morning and went on a hike because it was such a nice sunny day. Our conversations were sometimes on the heavy side, but usually those kinds of conversations are enlightening!  We also met up with friends for wine one night, so we felt sunny after that fun. By the end of the weekend, I had had so much sun - plus a lot of good conversation - my insides felt light, too. So on Sunday, when my husband was talking to his parents and mentioned to them that I had had a rough week and would tell them about it, I couldn't remember everything that had happened last week, except that I was being much better about wearing sunscreen.  So it was a wonderful visit, a brief retreat from reality. 

We did do some reading while we sat in the sun.  I didn't get very far with my current book, Washington's God, by Michael Novak, which I'm reading for book club.  It's not one I would have picked, but it does have some interesting parts and some points that might make for good book club discussion. For instance, Washington sometimes wrote or spoke of Providence protecting him and his troops during the Revolution, and of Providence favoring the founding of our nation. Does this mean that God favors democracy, and the project of the United States in particular? Does it mean He is on the side of those who take up the cause of justice and liberty?  Do we think He is still favoring our nation, which has even more liberties now that the abolition of slavery, women's rights, and the gay agenda have made advancements?  We don't usually get very political at book club - this is a Catholic women's group - so I doubt we'll talk too much about what God thinks about political movements, but it is an interesting question, and in my own heart, I might tend to be more Deist sometimes to the extent that I question whether God does favor one nation over another.  It is an interesting thought experiment, however, to try to unravel the workings of nations and the workings of God. And part of the adventure of a book club is picking up books you wouldn't normally choose. 

Other books I've read this Lent I've found easier to read.  My morning readings are coming from Between Midnight and Dawn, by Sarah Arthur, a book of meditations which are primarily poems and short stories about faith and God's work in the world.  Scriptures are suggested to accompany the readings, but I have been very lax about looking them up, despite a weak intent to read more Scripture.  Maybe that can be an Easter resolution. 

I did read along with the readings in the sample issue of Give Us This Day that I picked up. It seems to be a Magnificat alternative, complete with a similar font and paper size, color, and weight.   It doesn't have all the extra readings that Magnificat provides, but is only a few dollars cheaper to subscribe.

I brought home an armload from the new books shelf at the library a month ago and consumed them all with delight.  Some of Annie Dillard's essays have been collected in The Abundance.  My interest in Annie Dillard began in 1991 when I had to write an essay in response to Pilgrim at Tinker Creek for a college admissions essay. I checked out the book, read it, and felt kinship for her descriptions of the Virginia Valley where she lived because it mirrored my own love for the woods of Michigan, where we spent a week every summer.  I wrote about lombardy poplar trees, got into college, and met and married my husband, and the rest is history, as they say.  And in college, one of my professors was Michael Waldstein, whose name came up in a conversation recently, because he taught Humanae Vitae and Familiaris Consortio and directly influenced the openness of our marriage to children.  So many webs.

Dillard's essays in this book continue to look closely at nature and our relationship to it, but often as a metaphor for seeing and observing and creating. Several selections in this collection have a broader scope.  "A Writer in the World" was my favorite. In this essay, she writes that the writer "studies literature, not the world," which is interesting from an author sometimes considered a nature writer, or a world watcher. (See this article for interesting description of how Dillard came to write Pilgrim.)

I liked this paragraph:  "Why are we reading, if not in hope of beauty laid bare, life heightened, and its deepest mystery probed? Can the writer isolate and vivify all in experience that most deeply engages his intellect and heart - and our own? Can the writer renew our hope for literary forms? Why are we reading if not in hope that the writer will magnify and dramatize our days, will illuminate and inspire us with wisdom, courage, and the possibility of meaning, and will press upon our minds the deepest mysteries, so we may feel again their majesty and power?  . . .  We still and always want waking."

And this: "The artist is willing to give all his or her strength and life to probing with blunt instruments those same secrets no one can describe in any way but with those instruments' faint tracks.

190 A British journalist,[Malcolm Muggeridge?] observing the Sisters of Charity in Calcutta, reasoned: 'Either life is always and in all circumstances sacred, or intrinsically of no account; it is inconceivable that it should be in some cases the one, and in some the other.'

Another interesting essay was "For the Time Being," which examined the life of Teilhard de Chardin and his spiritual friendship with Lucile Swan.  Though he wrote "Through woman and woman alone, man can escape from isolation," he apparently never broke any of his vows despite the love he felt for Lucile and the joy he experienced with her. But obedience was a more difficult vow than chastity, though that might not be everyone's struggle. The restraints placed by the Church on his writing about his archaeological research caused perhaps more pain.

Mary Oliver's new book Upstream was also on the shelf, so I snagged it and grabbed a book of her poetry, A Thousand Mornings, to accompany my reading. Oliver and Dillard both are immersed in appreciation for the beauty and transcendence of the physicality of the natural world.   They share some traits as writers: they see the sacred in the ordinary, they understand writing to be a way of seeing, they live private lives but bare their souls publicly.

Oliver's book is also a collection of essays about life lived in proximity to nature in Maine. She writes, "Attention is the beginning of devotion," and then reveals the world she is devoted to.  As a child, she used to run away to the woods with a backpack full of books. I used to do something similar, only the woods was the vacant lot next door to our house.  Literature and nature provided her and escape when she was a child as she summarizes, "And this is what I learned: the world's otherness is an antidote to confusion, that standing within this otherness - the beauty and mystery of the world, out in the fields or deep inside books -- can re-dignify the worst-stung heart."

Oliver also writes of the creative life: Creative work as "a hunger for eternity. Intellectual work sometimes, spiritual work certainly, artistic work always -- these are forces that fall within its grasp, forces that must travel beyond the realm of the hour and the restraint of the habit. ... The extraordinary is what art is about."  Discipline, a schedule, ready at all hours. anywhere, concern with the edge. , loyalty to the work. absentminded... "MY responsibility is not to the ordinary or the timely. ... My loyalty is to the inner vision, whenever and however it may arrive.  If I have a meeting with you at three o'clock, rejoice if I am late. Rejoice even more if I do not arrive at all.

"There is no other way work of artistic worth can be done. And the occasional success, to the striver, is worth everything. The most regretful people on earth are those who felt the call to creative work, who felt their own creative power restive and uprising, and gave to it neither power nor time."

That last line is one to wrestle with.  Is there any voracious reader who didn't at some point want to be a writer? But does everyone who wishes to write have a gift that deserves the time and attention of the sort that causes Oliver to be late or to miss meetings with other people? What will be remembered - the poem or the missed engagement?

Oliver claims to have sought knowledge as certainties and then it entertained, shaped, and failed... "now I think there is only one subject worth my attention and that is the precognition of the spiritual side of the world and, within this recognition, the condition of my own spiritual state. I am not talking about having faith necessarily, although one hopes to. What I mean by spirituality is not theology, but attitude. Such interest nourishes me beyond the finest compendium of facts. In my mind now, in any comparison of demonstrated truths and unproven but vivid intuitions, the truths lose.  . . .

"I would therefore write a kind of elemental poetry that doesn't just avoid indoors but doesn't even see the doors that lead inward - to laboratories, to textbooks, to knowledge. I would not talk about the wind, and the oak tree, and the leaf on the oak tree, but on their behalf. ....

"I would say that there exist a thousand unbreakable links between each of us and everything else, and that our dignity and our chances are one. ...

"I could not be a poet without the natural world. Someone else could. But not me. For me the door to the woods is the door to the temple."

From her poetry:

"On Traveling to Beautiful Places" "Every day I'm still looking for God / and I'm still finding him everywhere, in the dust, in the flowerbeds."

"And Bob Dylan ToOo"  '"Anything worth thinking about is worth singing about.' / Which is why we have / songs of praise, songs of love, songs of sorrow.'"

"The Gardener" - Then I step out into the garden where the gardener, who is said to be a simple man, / is tending his children, the roses."

Next time I find time to write: Reviews of Neil Gaiman's View from the Cheap Seats and Ben Hatke's Mighty Jack. And eventually perhaps I'll come back to the Joy of Love. So much to chew on.  Since all of that meaty reading, I have done very little the last couple of weeks, in between work and other responsibilities.  I did finish Ann Voskamp's One Thousand Gifts after hearing so much about it. She says Eucharisteo so often, I am surprised she is not Catholic. She does a beautiful job of tying together the connection between gratitude and trust and joy.  I can see why her writing is the source of parodies, but also of many fans and I found it thought-provoking that her trip to Paris, away from her family and her world that were the source of all her thanksgiving, was the source of her apprehension of joy.  Perhaps she thought of her trip as more of a pilgrimage. 

Should travel through these stories count as a pilgrimage? What about the long meditative walks in the sun with my sister? I am always ready for that journey, wherever the destination.