Certainty

This morning, just as I was waking up, a thought hit me- it was one of those epiphanies that come along every so often and jerk me right down to earth.  You know, one of those things that you already know, but suddenly you KNOW.  You know?

I suddenly realized that I will never never ever be certain about anything.  That I will always have to make decisions based on wisdom and thought and faith.  At some point, I will always have to step out on faith and just. do. something.  Wisdom will only take me so far.

On the one hand, this makes me nervous.  What if I make the wrong decision?!  But on the other hand, what will happen if I do make a mistake?  I did the best I could, in faith.  I have to rely on God for the consequences.  Now I have a freedom that I did not know I had before- the grace to make mistakes, the freedom to choose and just see what happens.

I don’t feel so hindered now.  I think I’ll just jump up in the air and fly away.

Gratitude

I feel a bit complain-y about France just now, so I’ve decided to write a list of things for which I am thankful.  An old remedy, which The Badgermum always reminds me of.

1.  I love that I walk more here.  I don’t drive- I take the bus and I walk.  I usually get in at least 30 minutes a day, which doesn’t seem like much until you consider how much I walked in Norman (that is, not at all).

2.  Fresh bread is cheap and easy to find.  There are at least three bakeries in Pélissanne, and I can walk to one in 15 minutes.  The bread costs about one euro per loaf.

3.  I live within sight of mountains.

4.  I see a wonderful and neighborly bunch of French people every Sunday morning at church.

5.  My pastor speaks English…

6.   …I can understand his French…

7.  …and he preaches the Gospel every Sunday.

8.  His wife is wonderful, and has taken me under her wing, praying for me every day, inviting me for lunch each Sunday, and even gave my parents a place to stay when they came to visit.

9.  My “boss” is very easy-going and always makes sure I have everything I need.

10.  My French classes have gone very well, mostly because I had a wonderful professor to start me off.

From The Autobiography of G.K. Chesterton

I wish we did not have to fritter away on frivolous things, like lectures and literature, the time we might have given to serious, solid, and constructive work like cutting out cardboard figures and pasting coloured tinsel upon them.

More Poetry (especially for Kayla)

Today I woke up at 6 to ride to Salon at 7 to take the bus at 8 to get to Aix at 8:30 to take my oral French exam at 10.  Whew.

I had an hour-an-a-half to kill before my exam, so I went to the school library.  They have a small collection of English books, not really anything recent, but it’s good enough for an American girl who needs reading material!  I like to check out their books of poetry and search for ones I need to copy down and remember.

Today I brought home a small book of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s verse (she wrote ‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways..’).  I also got some John Donne.  I like a few of his Holy Sonnets.  One of them might be familiar to you:

Death, be not proud, though some have callèd thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which yet thy pictures be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more, must low
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones and soul’s delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings and desperate men
And dost with poison, war and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then ?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

And here’s one of the ones I copied down from E.B. Browning:

Sonnet 32

The first time that the sun rose on thine oath
To love me, I looked forward to the moon
To slacken all those bonds which seemed too soon
And quickly tied to make a lasting troth.
Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may quickly loathe;
And, looking on myself, I seemed not one
For such man’s love!—more like an out-of-tune
Worn viol, a good singer would be wroth
To spoil his song with, and which, snatched in haste,
Is laid down at the first ill-sounding note.
I did not wrong myself so, but I placed
A wrong on thee. For perfect strains may float
‘Neath master-hands, from instruments defaced,—
And great souls, at one stroke, may do and dote.

A Little Bit of Poetry

One of my friends (Hi Kayla!) asked me for suggestions for her poetry-reading, specifically for poets similar to GM Hopkins.  I am not very well-read in poets (yet), but I do have a few favorites.

Gerard Manley Hopkins was a Jesuit priest who lived from 1844 – 1889.  He has a very unusual style, and uses sprung rhythm, which lends a nice cadence to his works.

AS kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies dráw fláme;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:	5
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves—goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I do is me: for that I came.
Í say móre: the just man justices;
Kéeps gráce: thát keeps all his goings graces;	10
Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is—
Chríst—for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men’s faces.

You can read more of his works here.

I also enjoy reading Christina Rossetti, for her similar subject matter and plain style.  One of her most well-known poems is The Goblin Market.  I read it last three years ago, and these words still stick in my mind:

“We must not look at goblin men

We must not buy their fruits

Who knows upon what soil they fed

Their hungry, thirsty roots?”

More Christina Rossetti here.

Of course, I have to include G.K. Chesterton, whose most popular poems are either epics or short comical poems, and the ones in between are mainly forgotten.  My favorite epic of his is The Ballad of the White Horse.

He leads me to Lewis Carroll, who I must include if only for Jabberwocky.

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought–
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Calloh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Quotidian

This week was the end of the first school semester for me.  I had my end-of-semester written exam yesterday.  The professor graded them last night and told us the grades today- I got an 18 out of 20.   I was pleasantly surprised at that.  She kept the papers to look over with the other professors- they’re deciding who to move up to the next level!  They’ll also take into account the grades from the oral exam, which is next Wednesday.

Now I’ve got a week off.  The only school I have is one hour on Wednesday, and the only work will be on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday nights.  Another vacation!

I need to go back to the mercerie and buy some more yarn for my lap blanket.  I’m on my last skein.

Also, I’ve been directed by Nathalie to make as many lemon meringue pies as we can eat next week.  If I don’t post here, it’s because I’m either 1) chained to the stove or 2) in a sugar coma.  But I don’t mind dying by lemon meringue pie.

Various Adventures, Mostly Involving Lemon Meringue Pie

Last Saturday, the 10th, I went with Michael, Danielle (his sister), and Leah (his neice) to Marseille to see the Van Gogh/Monticelli exhibit.  I had forgotten about the exhibit and, once reminded, had to rush to find a time to see it before it closed.  We went on the next-to-last day, which was a really, really bad idea.  It was so crowded that we couldn’t properly see any of the paintings.  We had brief glimpses of each one- just enough to decide that Van Gogh’s style and use of color is far superior to Monticelli’s.

We waited in line for quite a while just to be rushed through the galeries.  The whole experience also left me with a sardine-ish feeling.  When we finally got out into the clean free air again, we were so relieved that we were almost giddy!  We went for hot chocolates and lemon meringue pie to make up for our hardship, and it almost did.  The pie was not so good as it could have been, and I decided then to ask my mother for her recipe so I could try my hand at it.  Which leads to this Saturday’s fun…

Saturday morning, I went to Jackie’s house in Cornillon (Jackie is Michael’s mother, if you recall).  We stopped on the way to pick up lemons and other pie necessities.  After lunch and a short siest in front of the fireplace, I rolled up my sleeves and got to work.  I enlisted Michael to help whisk the filling up.  I squeezed lemons and whipped egg whites and when it was all finished, we had an absolutely beautiful lemon meringue pie.  It was a terrible thing to sit and wait for that pie to cool, and in the end, we cut into it while it was still a bit warm.  The filling ran all over our plates, because it wasn’t set yet, but oh my– it was good.  Unfortunately, we ate it all, so we’ll have to make another. I will have to bear this trial bravely.

Saturday evening, we went to a meeting of the Full Gospel Christian Businessmen’s Association (we being Jackie, her husband, Michael, and I).  Jackie likes to go and hear the speakers, and thought I would too, so I tagged along.  We heard some singing (guy with a guitar type- first time I’ve heard that in France), with testimonies interspersed between songs.  There were some very interesting stories- one with a demonic possession and another with visions from God.  I don’t know enough to judge the verity of these stories, so I’ll just say they were intriguing- especially since they were all in French.  The main speaker was just there to testify, it seems, and not to give any kind of lecture.  He began at the beginning and talked for nearly 2 and a half hours!  He finally stopped himself at 11 o’clock.  We practically ran back to the car, and drove as fast as we could to the closest food source- McDonald’s.  We hadn’t eaten anything since that lemon meringue pie, and those hamburgers tasted like heaven!  We were sighing over french fries and coke like they were the best things we had ever tasted.  It was a really good meal.

And now my affair with McDonald’s  has come full circle.  I loved, I hated, and now I love again.  I hope I can enjoy this- I see no end of the cycle!

I also see no end of lemon meringue pies…

Funniest. Thing. Ever.

Seriously. I laughed until my face hurt. Still hurts, actually- it was that funny.

HT: Norman (my tall friend)

From the Autobiography of GK Chesterton

“That style, or swift construction of a complicated sentence, was the sign of a lucidity now largely lost. You will find it in the most spontaneous explosions of Dr. Johnson. Since then some muddled notion has arisen that talking in that complete style is artificial; merely because the man knows what he means and means to say it. I know not from what nonsense world the notion first came; that there is some connection between being sincere and being semi-articulate. But it seems to be a notion that a man must mean what he says, because he breaks down even in trying to say it; or that he must be a marvel of power and decision, because he discovers in the middle of a sentence that he does not know what he was going to say. Hence the conversation of current comedy; and the pathetic belief that talk may be endless, so long as no statement is allowed to end.”

Is it true?

The two sins against hope are despair and presumption.