Check out this animation, and the commentary on today's education. Couldn't agree more.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
Wisdom from Ecclesiastes
So my heart began to despair over all my toilsome labor under the sun. For a person may labor with wisdom, knowledge and skill, and then they must leave all they own to another who has not toiled for it. This too is meaningless. What do people get for all the toil and anxious striving with which they labor under the sun? All their days their work is grief and pain; even at night their minds do not rest. This too is meaningless.
A person can do nothing better than to eat and drink and find satisfaction in their own toil. This too, I see, is from the hand of God, for without him, who can eat or find enjoyment? To the person who pleases him, God gives wisdom, knowledge and happiness, but to the sinner he gives the task of gathering and storing up wealth to hand it over to the one who pleases God.
What do workers gain from their toil? I have seen the burden God has laid on the human race. He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end. I know that there is nothing better for people than to be happy and to do good while they live. That each of them may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all their toil—this is the gift of God.
A person can do nothing better than to eat and drink and find satisfaction in their own toil. This too, I see, is from the hand of God, for without him, who can eat or find enjoyment? To the person who pleases him, God gives wisdom, knowledge and happiness, but to the sinner he gives the task of gathering and storing up wealth to hand it over to the one who pleases God.
What do workers gain from their toil? I have seen the burden God has laid on the human race. He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end. I know that there is nothing better for people than to be happy and to do good while they live. That each of them may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all their toil—this is the gift of God.
Monday, October 3, 2011
From Bel Canto
Excerpt from "Bel Canto" by Anne Patchett. I loved the whole book, but this part particularly stood out to me. I like that it beautifully expresses the importance of art.
"Fyodorov began his story, putting himself in the mind of Russia and his childhood, the dark switchback staircase that led up to the apartment where his family lived. He bent his shoulders towards Roxane. He wondered what direction Russia was from where he sat.
'When I was a boy, the city was called Leningrad, but you know this. In those days, we all lived together, Mother and Father, my two brothers, my grandmother, who was my mother's mother. It was my grandmother who had the book of paintings. It was a massive thing.' Fyodorov held up his hands to mark the dimensions of the book in the air. If he was to be believed, it was an enormous book.
'She told us it was given to her by an admirer from Europe when she was a girl of fifteen, a man she called Julian. If that is true, I do not know. My grandmother was one for telling stories. Even more than how she came by the book, how she managed to hold onto it through the war remains a great mystery to me. That she did not try and sell it or burn it for fuel, because there was a time when people would burn anything, that it was not taken from her as it would have been a difficult thing to hide, all of these things are remarkable.
But when I was a boy, it was many years past the war and she was an old woman. We did not go to museums to look at paintings in those days. We would walk past the Winter Palace, a marvelous place, but then we did not go inside. I imagine there was not the money for such things.
But in the evenings, my grandmother brought out her book and told my brothers and me to go and wash our hands. I was not allowed to even touch the pages until I was ten, but still I washed my hands just for the privilege of looking. She kept it wrapped in a quilt under the sofa in the living room where she slept. She struggled to carry it, but would let no one help her. When she was certain the table was clean we would put the quilt with the book inside it on the table and slowly unfold the quilt. Then she would sit down. She was a small woman, and we stood beside her. She was very particular about the light over the table. It couldn't be too strong because she was afraid of fading the colors, and it couldn't be so weak that she felt the painting could not be fully comprehended. She wore white cotton gloves that were perfectly plain and saved for only this occasion and she turned the pages while we watched. Can you imagine this?
I will not say we were terribly poor because we were as rich or poor as everyone else. Our apartment was small, my brothers and I shared a bed. Our family was no different from the other families in our building except for this book. So extraordinary a thing was this book. "Masters of the Impressionist Period" it was called. No one knew we had it. We were never allowed to speak of it because my grandmother was afraid someone would try to take it away from her.
The paintings were by Pissarro, Bonnard, van Gogh, Monet, Manet, Cezanne, hundreds of paintings. The colors we saw at night while she turned the pages were miraculous. Every painting we were to study. Every one she said was something that deserved great consideration. There were nights that she only turned two pages and I'm sure it was a year before I had seen the book in its entirety. It was an extremely good book, I think, expertly done. Certainly, I have not seen the originals of all the painting, but the ones I saw years later looked very much the way I had remembered them.
My grandmother told us she spoke French in her youth and she would read to us as best she could remember the text beneath the plates. Of course she was making it up because the stories would change. Not that it mattered. They were beautiful stories. 'This is the field where van Gogh painted sunflowers,' she would say. 'All day he sat in the hot sun beneath the blue skies. When the white clouds curled past he would remember them for future paintings and here on this canvas he placed those clouds.'
This is the way she spoke to us, pretending she was reading. Sometimes she would read for twenty minutes when there was only a few lines of text. She would say that was because French was a much more complicated language than Russian and that every word contained several sentences' worth of meaning.
There were so many paintings to consider. It was many, many years before I had memorized all of them. Even now, I could tell you the number of haystacks in the field and from which direction the light is coming.' Fyodorov stopped to catch his breath. He took the opportunity to think of the people around the table: his grandmother, now dead, his mother and father, dead, his youngest brother Dimitri, drowned in a fishing accident at the age of twenty-one. There was only him and his brother Mikal left now.
'Every now and then she wouldn't bring out the book at all. She would say she was tired. She would say that so much beauty hurt her. Sometimes a week or even two would pass. No Seurat! I remember feeling almost frantic, such a dependency I had come to feel for those paintings. But it was the rest from it, the waiting that made us love the book so madly.
I could have had one life, but instead I had another because of this book my grandmother protected,' Fyodorov said, his voice quieter now. 'What a miracle is that? I was taught to love beautiful things. I had a language in which to consider beauty. Later that extended to opera, the the ballet, to architecture I saw, and even later still I came to realize that what I had seen in the paintings, I could see in the fields or a river. I could see it in people. All of that, I attribute to this book.
Towards the end of her life, she could not pick it up at all and she sent me to get it. Her hands shook so, she was afraid of tearing the paper and so she let us turn the pages. My hands were too large for her gloves by then, but she showed me how to use them between my fingers like a cloth so I could keep everything clean.' Fyodorov sighed.
'My brother has the book now. He is a doctor outside of Moscow. Every few years, we hand it off to each other. Neither of us could do without it completely. I have tried to find another copy, but I believe there is no other book like this in the world.
It was a tragedy to my grandmother that none of us showed a talent for painting. But it was not something I was capable of learning. My brothers and I were all excellent observers. Some people are born to make great art and others are born to appreciate it. Don't you think? It is a kind of talent in itself, to be an audience, whether you are the spectator in the gallery or you are listening to the voice of the world's greatest soprano. Not everyone can be the artist. There have to be those who witness the art, who love and appreciate what they have been privileged to see."
"Fyodorov began his story, putting himself in the mind of Russia and his childhood, the dark switchback staircase that led up to the apartment where his family lived. He bent his shoulders towards Roxane. He wondered what direction Russia was from where he sat.
'When I was a boy, the city was called Leningrad, but you know this. In those days, we all lived together, Mother and Father, my two brothers, my grandmother, who was my mother's mother. It was my grandmother who had the book of paintings. It was a massive thing.' Fyodorov held up his hands to mark the dimensions of the book in the air. If he was to be believed, it was an enormous book.
'She told us it was given to her by an admirer from Europe when she was a girl of fifteen, a man she called Julian. If that is true, I do not know. My grandmother was one for telling stories. Even more than how she came by the book, how she managed to hold onto it through the war remains a great mystery to me. That she did not try and sell it or burn it for fuel, because there was a time when people would burn anything, that it was not taken from her as it would have been a difficult thing to hide, all of these things are remarkable.
But when I was a boy, it was many years past the war and she was an old woman. We did not go to museums to look at paintings in those days. We would walk past the Winter Palace, a marvelous place, but then we did not go inside. I imagine there was not the money for such things.
But in the evenings, my grandmother brought out her book and told my brothers and me to go and wash our hands. I was not allowed to even touch the pages until I was ten, but still I washed my hands just for the privilege of looking. She kept it wrapped in a quilt under the sofa in the living room where she slept. She struggled to carry it, but would let no one help her. When she was certain the table was clean we would put the quilt with the book inside it on the table and slowly unfold the quilt. Then she would sit down. She was a small woman, and we stood beside her. She was very particular about the light over the table. It couldn't be too strong because she was afraid of fading the colors, and it couldn't be so weak that she felt the painting could not be fully comprehended. She wore white cotton gloves that were perfectly plain and saved for only this occasion and she turned the pages while we watched. Can you imagine this?
I will not say we were terribly poor because we were as rich or poor as everyone else. Our apartment was small, my brothers and I shared a bed. Our family was no different from the other families in our building except for this book. So extraordinary a thing was this book. "Masters of the Impressionist Period" it was called. No one knew we had it. We were never allowed to speak of it because my grandmother was afraid someone would try to take it away from her.
The paintings were by Pissarro, Bonnard, van Gogh, Monet, Manet, Cezanne, hundreds of paintings. The colors we saw at night while she turned the pages were miraculous. Every painting we were to study. Every one she said was something that deserved great consideration. There were nights that she only turned two pages and I'm sure it was a year before I had seen the book in its entirety. It was an extremely good book, I think, expertly done. Certainly, I have not seen the originals of all the painting, but the ones I saw years later looked very much the way I had remembered them.
My grandmother told us she spoke French in her youth and she would read to us as best she could remember the text beneath the plates. Of course she was making it up because the stories would change. Not that it mattered. They were beautiful stories. 'This is the field where van Gogh painted sunflowers,' she would say. 'All day he sat in the hot sun beneath the blue skies. When the white clouds curled past he would remember them for future paintings and here on this canvas he placed those clouds.'
This is the way she spoke to us, pretending she was reading. Sometimes she would read for twenty minutes when there was only a few lines of text. She would say that was because French was a much more complicated language than Russian and that every word contained several sentences' worth of meaning.
There were so many paintings to consider. It was many, many years before I had memorized all of them. Even now, I could tell you the number of haystacks in the field and from which direction the light is coming.' Fyodorov stopped to catch his breath. He took the opportunity to think of the people around the table: his grandmother, now dead, his mother and father, dead, his youngest brother Dimitri, drowned in a fishing accident at the age of twenty-one. There was only him and his brother Mikal left now.
'Every now and then she wouldn't bring out the book at all. She would say she was tired. She would say that so much beauty hurt her. Sometimes a week or even two would pass. No Seurat! I remember feeling almost frantic, such a dependency I had come to feel for those paintings. But it was the rest from it, the waiting that made us love the book so madly.
I could have had one life, but instead I had another because of this book my grandmother protected,' Fyodorov said, his voice quieter now. 'What a miracle is that? I was taught to love beautiful things. I had a language in which to consider beauty. Later that extended to opera, the the ballet, to architecture I saw, and even later still I came to realize that what I had seen in the paintings, I could see in the fields or a river. I could see it in people. All of that, I attribute to this book.
Towards the end of her life, she could not pick it up at all and she sent me to get it. Her hands shook so, she was afraid of tearing the paper and so she let us turn the pages. My hands were too large for her gloves by then, but she showed me how to use them between my fingers like a cloth so I could keep everything clean.' Fyodorov sighed.
'My brother has the book now. He is a doctor outside of Moscow. Every few years, we hand it off to each other. Neither of us could do without it completely. I have tried to find another copy, but I believe there is no other book like this in the world.
It was a tragedy to my grandmother that none of us showed a talent for painting. But it was not something I was capable of learning. My brothers and I were all excellent observers. Some people are born to make great art and others are born to appreciate it. Don't you think? It is a kind of talent in itself, to be an audience, whether you are the spectator in the gallery or you are listening to the voice of the world's greatest soprano. Not everyone can be the artist. There have to be those who witness the art, who love and appreciate what they have been privileged to see."
Monday, August 29, 2011
A Celebration
I'm a creature of habit. A traditionalist. I like the familiar, the comfort found in certain routines. I order the same food at restaurants, I listen to the same CD every year when I decorate the Christmas tree, I've had "creamy chicken pasta" on my birthday basically since I could chew, I've seen "You've Got Mail" more times than I can count, and my favorite books are absolutely falling apart from being read to death. I like having a knowable pattern and rhythm to my days.
However, I keep hitting these pockets of change. And I'm me, so of course, I'm always resistant to it.
But the more I think about it, I think God must purposefully weave change into our lives because it's good for us. Sometimes the change is hard, like selling the house you grew up in, or when a best friend gets married and moves to another state. This is why I'm probably wary of the unfamiliar. It always seems to hold loss.
And I'm in a state of change right now. I had a really hard time at first. But, somehow, someway, I'm finding I'm enjoying it. As I've been thrown into a new season, I'm seeing clearly for the first time just how stagnant parts of my life had become.
Familiar is still good. Nothing wrong with tradition or loyalty or even the comfort of certain routines. But in order for growth, there must be change. Super obvious, I know. I know. But for some reason, it hit home for me this last week.
There have been hard parts of the transition. Yet, the bittersweet aspect of change is just that -- both bitter and yet sweet. Sometimes I guess I need the bitter to bring out the sweet. Like the quiet kid in one of my summer classes who ran back on the last day of class to say "I will miss you, Miss Miller!" If I hadn't been moving on, he might not have said anything and I would have missed out on that lovely moment.
It's so human nature to realize exactly what you have right before you're moving on. All those memories hit me and it becomes even harder to let go. But I've been taking things for granted, and this reminds me not to. I'm also full of hope that the new, upcoming season of life will be an adventure. I'm not done growing and being stretched -- and I was not smart for thinking I was, for becoming too complacent. I need change. I need it just as much as I do the comfort of the familiar.
Think about it. God's built in change all around. The subtle shift of seasons-- the first frost or that first long day of the summer. The key change and crescendo in a song that gives chills. Graduations, marriages, deaths, births.
When you gain something new, you often lose something. But even in the loss, there is hope. For me, there's hope of a new job, a renewed friendship, a chance to explore a new place, living on my own, becoming alive again in certain areas of my life, being placed as a servant in someones life...
I'm realizing some changes are worth celebrating.
However, I keep hitting these pockets of change. And I'm me, so of course, I'm always resistant to it.
But the more I think about it, I think God must purposefully weave change into our lives because it's good for us. Sometimes the change is hard, like selling the house you grew up in, or when a best friend gets married and moves to another state. This is why I'm probably wary of the unfamiliar. It always seems to hold loss.
And I'm in a state of change right now. I had a really hard time at first. But, somehow, someway, I'm finding I'm enjoying it. As I've been thrown into a new season, I'm seeing clearly for the first time just how stagnant parts of my life had become.
Familiar is still good. Nothing wrong with tradition or loyalty or even the comfort of certain routines. But in order for growth, there must be change. Super obvious, I know. I know. But for some reason, it hit home for me this last week.
There have been hard parts of the transition. Yet, the bittersweet aspect of change is just that -- both bitter and yet sweet. Sometimes I guess I need the bitter to bring out the sweet. Like the quiet kid in one of my summer classes who ran back on the last day of class to say "I will miss you, Miss Miller!" If I hadn't been moving on, he might not have said anything and I would have missed out on that lovely moment.
It's so human nature to realize exactly what you have right before you're moving on. All those memories hit me and it becomes even harder to let go. But I've been taking things for granted, and this reminds me not to. I'm also full of hope that the new, upcoming season of life will be an adventure. I'm not done growing and being stretched -- and I was not smart for thinking I was, for becoming too complacent. I need change. I need it just as much as I do the comfort of the familiar.
Think about it. God's built in change all around. The subtle shift of seasons-- the first frost or that first long day of the summer. The key change and crescendo in a song that gives chills. Graduations, marriages, deaths, births.
When you gain something new, you often lose something. But even in the loss, there is hope. For me, there's hope of a new job, a renewed friendship, a chance to explore a new place, living on my own, becoming alive again in certain areas of my life, being placed as a servant in someones life...
I'm realizing some changes are worth celebrating.
Johnny Lingo and His Eight Cow Wife
Many things can change a woman.
"When I sailed to Kiniwata, an island in the Pacific, I took along a notebook. After I got back it was filled with descriptions of flora and fauna, native customs and costume. But the only note that still interests me is the one that says: "Johnny Lingo gave eight cows to Sarita’s father." And I don’t need to have it in writing. I’m reminded of it every time I see a woman belittling her husband or a wife withering under her husband’s scorn. I want to say to them, "You should know why Johnny Lingo paid eight cows for his wife."
Johnny Lingo wasn’t exactly his name. But that’s what Shenkin, the manager of the guest house on Kiniwata, called him. Shenkin was from Chicago and had a habit of Americanizing the names of the islanders. But Johnny was mentioned by many people in many connections. If I wanted to spend a few days on the neighboring island of Nurabandi, Johnny Lingo would put me up. If I wanted to fish he could show me where the biting was best. If it was pearls I sought, he would bring the best buys. The people of Kiniwata all spoke highly of Johnny Lingo. Yet when they spoke they smiled, and the smiles were slightly mocking.
"Get Johnny Lingo to help you find what you want and let him do the bargaining," advised Shenkin. "Johnny knows how to make a deal."
"Johnny Lingo!" A boy seated nearby hooted the name and rocked with laughter.
"What goes on?" I demanded. "Everybody tells me to get in touch with Johnny Lingo and then breaks up. Let me in on the joke."
"Oh, the people like to laugh," Shenkin said, shrugging. "Johnny's the brightest, the strongest young man in the islands, and for his age, the richest."
"But if he’s all you say, what is there to laugh about?"
"Only one thing. Five months ago, at fall festival, Johnny came to Kiniwata and found himself a wife. He paid her father eight cows!
I knew enough about island customs to be impressed. Two or three cows would buy a fair-to-middling wife, four or five a highly satisfactory one. "Good Lord!" I said, "Eight cows! She must have beauty that takes your breath away."
"She’s not ugly," he conceded, and smiled a little. "But the kindest could only call Sarita plain. Sam Karoo, her father, was afraid she’d be left on his hands."
"But then he got eight cows for her? Isn’t that extraordinary?"
"Never been paid before."
"Yet you call Johnny’s wife plain?"
"I said it would be kindness to call her plain. She was skinny. She walked with her shoulders hunched and her head ducked. She was scared of her own shadow."
"Well," I said, "I guess there’s just no accounting for love."
"True enough," agreed the man. "And that’s why the villagers grin when they talk about Johnny. They get special satisfaction from the fact that the sharpest trader in the islands was bested by dull old Sam Karoo."
"But how?"
"No one knows and everyone wonders. All the cousins were urging Sam to ask for three cows and hold out for two until he was sure Johnny’d pay only one. Then Johnny came to Sam Karoo and said, ‘Father of Sarita, I offer eight cows for your daughter.’"
"Eight cows," I murmured. "I’d like to meet this Johnny Lingo."
I wanted fish and I wanted pearls, so the next afternoon I beached my boat at Nurabandi. And I noticed as I asked directions to Johnny’s house that his name brought no sly smile to the lips of his fellow Nurabandians. And when I met the slim, serious young man, when he welcomed me with grace to his home, I was glad that from his own people he had respect unmingled with mockery. We sat in his house and talked. Then he asked, "You come here from Kiniwata?"
"Yes."
"They speak of me on that island?"
"They say there’s nothing I might want that you can’t help me get."
He smiled gently. "My wife is from Kiniwata."
"Yes, I know."
"They speak of her?"
"A little."
"What do they say?"
"Why, just..." The question caught me off balance. "They told me you were married at festival time."
"Nothing more?" The curve of his eyebrows told me he knew there had to be more.
"They also say the marriage settlement was eight cows." I paused.
"They wonder why."
"They ask that?" His eyes lightened with pleasure. "Everyone in Kiniwata knows about the eight cows?"
I nodded.
"And in Nurabandi everyone knows it too." His chest expanded with satisfaction. "Always and forever, when they speak of marriage settlements, it will be remembered that Johnny Lingo paid eight cows for Sarita."
So that’s the answer, I thought: vanity.
And then I saw her. I watched her enter the room to place flowers on the table. She stood still a moment to smile at the young man beside me. Then she went swiftly out again. She was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. The lift of her shoulders, the tilt of her chin the sparkle of her eyes all spelled a pride to which no one could deny her the right. I turned back to Johnny Lingo and found him looking at me. "You admire her?" he murmured.
"She...she’s glorious. But she’s not Sarita from Kiniwata," I said.
"There’s only one Sarita. Perhaps she does not look the way they say she looked in Kiniwata."
"She doesn’t. I heard she was homely. They all make fun of you because you let yourself be cheated by Sam Karoo."
"You think eight cows were too many?" A smile slid over his lips.
"No. But how can she be so different?"
"Do you ever think," he asked, "what it must mean to a woman to know that her husband has settled on the lowest price for which she can be bought? And then later, when the women talk, they boast of what their husbands paid for them. One says four cows, another maybe six. How does she feel, the woman who was sold for one or two? This could not happen to my Sarita."
"Then you did this just to make your wife happy?"
"I wanted Sarita to be happy, yes. But I wanted more than that. You say she is different, this is true. Many things can change a woman. Things that happen inside, things that happen outside. But the thing that matters most is what she thinks about herself. In Kiniwata, Sarita believed she was worth nothing. Now she knows she is worth more than any other woman in the islands."
"Then you wanted--"
"I wanted to marry Sarita. I loved her and no other woman."
"But —" I was close to understanding.
"But," he finished softly, "I wanted an eight-cow wife."
"When I sailed to Kiniwata, an island in the Pacific, I took along a notebook. After I got back it was filled with descriptions of flora and fauna, native customs and costume. But the only note that still interests me is the one that says: "Johnny Lingo gave eight cows to Sarita’s father." And I don’t need to have it in writing. I’m reminded of it every time I see a woman belittling her husband or a wife withering under her husband’s scorn. I want to say to them, "You should know why Johnny Lingo paid eight cows for his wife."
Johnny Lingo wasn’t exactly his name. But that’s what Shenkin, the manager of the guest house on Kiniwata, called him. Shenkin was from Chicago and had a habit of Americanizing the names of the islanders. But Johnny was mentioned by many people in many connections. If I wanted to spend a few days on the neighboring island of Nurabandi, Johnny Lingo would put me up. If I wanted to fish he could show me where the biting was best. If it was pearls I sought, he would bring the best buys. The people of Kiniwata all spoke highly of Johnny Lingo. Yet when they spoke they smiled, and the smiles were slightly mocking.
"Get Johnny Lingo to help you find what you want and let him do the bargaining," advised Shenkin. "Johnny knows how to make a deal."
"Johnny Lingo!" A boy seated nearby hooted the name and rocked with laughter.
"What goes on?" I demanded. "Everybody tells me to get in touch with Johnny Lingo and then breaks up. Let me in on the joke."
"Oh, the people like to laugh," Shenkin said, shrugging. "Johnny's the brightest, the strongest young man in the islands, and for his age, the richest."
"But if he’s all you say, what is there to laugh about?"
"Only one thing. Five months ago, at fall festival, Johnny came to Kiniwata and found himself a wife. He paid her father eight cows!
I knew enough about island customs to be impressed. Two or three cows would buy a fair-to-middling wife, four or five a highly satisfactory one. "Good Lord!" I said, "Eight cows! She must have beauty that takes your breath away."
"She’s not ugly," he conceded, and smiled a little. "But the kindest could only call Sarita plain. Sam Karoo, her father, was afraid she’d be left on his hands."
"But then he got eight cows for her? Isn’t that extraordinary?"
"Never been paid before."
"Yet you call Johnny’s wife plain?"
"I said it would be kindness to call her plain. She was skinny. She walked with her shoulders hunched and her head ducked. She was scared of her own shadow."
"Well," I said, "I guess there’s just no accounting for love."
"True enough," agreed the man. "And that’s why the villagers grin when they talk about Johnny. They get special satisfaction from the fact that the sharpest trader in the islands was bested by dull old Sam Karoo."
"But how?"
"No one knows and everyone wonders. All the cousins were urging Sam to ask for three cows and hold out for two until he was sure Johnny’d pay only one. Then Johnny came to Sam Karoo and said, ‘Father of Sarita, I offer eight cows for your daughter.’"
"Eight cows," I murmured. "I’d like to meet this Johnny Lingo."
I wanted fish and I wanted pearls, so the next afternoon I beached my boat at Nurabandi. And I noticed as I asked directions to Johnny’s house that his name brought no sly smile to the lips of his fellow Nurabandians. And when I met the slim, serious young man, when he welcomed me with grace to his home, I was glad that from his own people he had respect unmingled with mockery. We sat in his house and talked. Then he asked, "You come here from Kiniwata?"
"Yes."
"They speak of me on that island?"
"They say there’s nothing I might want that you can’t help me get."
He smiled gently. "My wife is from Kiniwata."
"Yes, I know."
"They speak of her?"
"A little."
"What do they say?"
"Why, just..." The question caught me off balance. "They told me you were married at festival time."
"Nothing more?" The curve of his eyebrows told me he knew there had to be more.
"They also say the marriage settlement was eight cows." I paused.
"They wonder why."
"They ask that?" His eyes lightened with pleasure. "Everyone in Kiniwata knows about the eight cows?"
I nodded.
"And in Nurabandi everyone knows it too." His chest expanded with satisfaction. "Always and forever, when they speak of marriage settlements, it will be remembered that Johnny Lingo paid eight cows for Sarita."
So that’s the answer, I thought: vanity.
And then I saw her. I watched her enter the room to place flowers on the table. She stood still a moment to smile at the young man beside me. Then she went swiftly out again. She was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. The lift of her shoulders, the tilt of her chin the sparkle of her eyes all spelled a pride to which no one could deny her the right. I turned back to Johnny Lingo and found him looking at me. "You admire her?" he murmured.
"She...she’s glorious. But she’s not Sarita from Kiniwata," I said.
"There’s only one Sarita. Perhaps she does not look the way they say she looked in Kiniwata."
"She doesn’t. I heard she was homely. They all make fun of you because you let yourself be cheated by Sam Karoo."
"You think eight cows were too many?" A smile slid over his lips.
"No. But how can she be so different?"
"Do you ever think," he asked, "what it must mean to a woman to know that her husband has settled on the lowest price for which she can be bought? And then later, when the women talk, they boast of what their husbands paid for them. One says four cows, another maybe six. How does she feel, the woman who was sold for one or two? This could not happen to my Sarita."
"Then you did this just to make your wife happy?"
"I wanted Sarita to be happy, yes. But I wanted more than that. You say she is different, this is true. Many things can change a woman. Things that happen inside, things that happen outside. But the thing that matters most is what she thinks about herself. In Kiniwata, Sarita believed she was worth nothing. Now she knows she is worth more than any other woman in the islands."
"Then you wanted--"
"I wanted to marry Sarita. I loved her and no other woman."
"But —" I was close to understanding.
"But," he finished softly, "I wanted an eight-cow wife."
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
In Time of Silver Rain
"In time of silver rain
The earth puts forth new life again
Green grasses grow
And flowers life their heads
And all over the plain, the wonder spreads
Of life, of life of life
In the time of silver rain
The butterflies lift silken wings
To catch a rainbow cry
And trees put forth new leaves to sing
In joy beneath the sky
As down the roadway
Passing girls and boys go singing too
In the time of silver rain
When spring and life are new"
--Langston Hughes
The earth puts forth new life again
Green grasses grow
And flowers life their heads
And all over the plain, the wonder spreads
Of life, of life of life
In the time of silver rain
The butterflies lift silken wings
To catch a rainbow cry
And trees put forth new leaves to sing
In joy beneath the sky
As down the roadway
Passing girls and boys go singing too
In the time of silver rain
When spring and life are new"
--Langston Hughes
Sunday, June 12, 2011
A Prayer: Psalm 20
May the LORD answer you when you are in distress;
May the name of the God of Jacob protect you.
May he send you help from the sanctuary
and grant you support from Zion.
May he remember all your sacrifices
and accept your burnt offerings.
May he grant you the desires of your heart
and make all your plans succeed.
May we shout for joy over your victory
and lift up our banners in the name of our God.
May the Lord grant all your requests.
Now this I know:
The Lord gives victory to his anointed.
He answers him from his heavenly sanctuary
with the victorious power of his right hand.
Some trust in chariots and some in horses,
but we trust in the name of the Lord our God.
They are brought to their knees and fall,
but we rise up and stand firm.
May the name of the God of Jacob protect you.
May he send you help from the sanctuary
and grant you support from Zion.
May he remember all your sacrifices
and accept your burnt offerings.
May he grant you the desires of your heart
and make all your plans succeed.
May we shout for joy over your victory
and lift up our banners in the name of our God.
May the Lord grant all your requests.
Now this I know:
The Lord gives victory to his anointed.
He answers him from his heavenly sanctuary
with the victorious power of his right hand.
Some trust in chariots and some in horses,
but we trust in the name of the Lord our God.
They are brought to their knees and fall,
but we rise up and stand firm.
Lord, answer us when we call!
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Optimism: A Reflection on College
I've been studying Flannery O'Connor quite a lot lately for school. I taught a class on four of her short stories this last Monday. I chose her as the author for my teaching day because the first time I read her, I didn't know what to do with her. Her stories are all stunningly beautiful and interesting and –– as any writer knows –– brilliant. But they are sad and violent and strange. They made me think.
Maybe what makes them so good is that they're so . . . real. Christians don't always like to look at the ugliness of the world. We don't like to see the sin and pain or anything too jarring.
I've been like that most of my life. I would toss away any story with a slightly unhappy ending, completely frustrated by it. I would fall apart at the first sign of struggle, tension or heartbreak in my life. I was that girl that believed in prince charming and sunny days and a life that was like a movie –– a happy one with good music, of course.
But then, I got a little bit older. There were fights. There was bad heartbreak. There was rejection. There was failure. There was sickness and fear. There was disappointment. There was stress and money problems. I don't exactly think I'd been stupid before –– I just hadn't come up against it at once before. I couldn't understand why my optimistic, romantic view of life wasn't panning out. What if I let people down? What if I fail at this job? Why doesn't he love me back? What happens if I can't make my rent payment? How do I deal with missing my sisters so much that I ache? I didn't like it.
Yes, I was a die-hard romantic, but over these last few years, I found myself asking: Is it bad if I'm not anymore?
I think Flannery answered that question for me. She brought together a lot of the truths I've been learning over these years of college. Torrey's mantra is that we want to pursue the good, the true and the beautiful. And it's been hard work. These last four years haven't been a walk in the park . . . yet, in some ways they have. What I mean is: I didn't always find the good, the true or the beautiful, but the route was scenic. Maybe just the act of looking for them is optimistic -- because that means you believe the good is out there. God is out there.
As Flannery's stories showed me so poignantly, the good and beautiful in life are sometimes still painful. And the pain isn't something to shun. One of my favorite Flannery quotes is "Grace is change, and change is painful." That's hopeful, isn't it? Hard, but hopeful. Maybe the definition of optimism is seeing that pain is grace. It too can be beautiful.
I thought maybe I lost my optimism in a slew of real life -- work, tuition checks, conflict and boy drama. But then, I think of sitting in the sun on my deck, eating Panda Express with Lizzie, re-reading "Blue Castle," laughing at the antics of the two-year-olds in my Sunday School class, cooking, sleeping, chatting, giggling...
Both pain and pleasure are a part of reality. I can't ignore the good that comes along with pain. And I can see the good to be found in the pain of pursuing the good, the true, and the beautiful –– God. He's hard to find here on earth sometimes. Yet, He's magnificently everywhere.
"Grace is change, and change is pain."
Maybe I'm more of a realist now. Maybe like Flannery, I can see beauty in the jarring and the ugly in life, and I hope I won't run the other way. Knowing that grace and good are at the end –– and in between times too –– well, I think that makes me an optimist afterall.
Maybe what makes them so good is that they're so . . . real. Christians don't always like to look at the ugliness of the world. We don't like to see the sin and pain or anything too jarring.
I've been like that most of my life. I would toss away any story with a slightly unhappy ending, completely frustrated by it. I would fall apart at the first sign of struggle, tension or heartbreak in my life. I was that girl that believed in prince charming and sunny days and a life that was like a movie –– a happy one with good music, of course.
But then, I got a little bit older. There were fights. There was bad heartbreak. There was rejection. There was failure. There was sickness and fear. There was disappointment. There was stress and money problems. I don't exactly think I'd been stupid before –– I just hadn't come up against it at once before. I couldn't understand why my optimistic, romantic view of life wasn't panning out. What if I let people down? What if I fail at this job? Why doesn't he love me back? What happens if I can't make my rent payment? How do I deal with missing my sisters so much that I ache? I didn't like it.
Not that my life was ever bad –– no, on the contrary it's been extraordinarily blessed. But I think I just came into a fuller realization of the pain in the world. Not just mine, but everyone's. And my little heart was heavy. I wondered if I was just getting wiser, or was I losing my optimism?
Yes, I was a die-hard romantic, but over these last few years, I found myself asking: Is it bad if I'm not anymore?
I think Flannery answered that question for me. She brought together a lot of the truths I've been learning over these years of college. Torrey's mantra is that we want to pursue the good, the true and the beautiful. And it's been hard work. These last four years haven't been a walk in the park . . . yet, in some ways they have. What I mean is: I didn't always find the good, the true or the beautiful, but the route was scenic. Maybe just the act of looking for them is optimistic -- because that means you believe the good is out there. God is out there.
As Flannery's stories showed me so poignantly, the good and beautiful in life are sometimes still painful. And the pain isn't something to shun. One of my favorite Flannery quotes is "Grace is change, and change is painful." That's hopeful, isn't it? Hard, but hopeful. Maybe the definition of optimism is seeing that pain is grace. It too can be beautiful.
I thought maybe I lost my optimism in a slew of real life -- work, tuition checks, conflict and boy drama. But then, I think of sitting in the sun on my deck, eating Panda Express with Lizzie, re-reading "Blue Castle," laughing at the antics of the two-year-olds in my Sunday School class, cooking, sleeping, chatting, giggling...
Both pain and pleasure are a part of reality. I can't ignore the good that comes along with pain. And I can see the good to be found in the pain of pursuing the good, the true, and the beautiful –– God. He's hard to find here on earth sometimes. Yet, He's magnificently everywhere.
"Grace is change, and change is pain."
Maybe I'm more of a realist now. Maybe like Flannery, I can see beauty in the jarring and the ugly in life, and I hope I won't run the other way. Knowing that grace and good are at the end –– and in between times too –– well, I think that makes me an optimist afterall.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
From "Cold Tangerines"
"I have always, essentially, been waiting. Waiting to become something else, waiting to be that person I always thought I was on the verge of becoming, waiting for that life I thought I would have. In my head, I was always one step away.
And through all that waiting, here I am. My life is passing, day by day, and I am waiting for it to start. I am waiting for that time, that person, that event when my life will finally begin.
The Big Moment, unfortunately, is an urban myth. Some people have them, in a sense, when they win the Heisman or become the next American Idol. But even that football player or that singer is living a life made up of more than that one moment. Life is a collection of a million, billion moments, tiny little moments and choices, like a handful of luminous, glowing pearls. It takes so much time, and so much work, and those beads and moments are so small, and so much less fabulous and dramatic than the movies.
But this is what I’m finding, in glimpses and flashes: this is it. This is it, in the best possible way. That thing I’m waiting for, that adventure, that move-score-worthy experience unfolding gracefully. This is it. Normal, daily life ticking by on our streets and sidewalks, in our houses and apartments, in our beds and at our dinner tables, in our dreams and prayers and fights and secrets – this pedestrian life is the most precious thing any of use will ever experience.
Today is your big moment. Moments, really. The life you've been waiting for is happening all around you. The scene unfolding right outside your window is worth more than the most beautiful painting, and the crackers and peanut butter that you're having for lunch on the coffee table are as profound, in their own way, as the Last Supper. This is it. This is life in all its glory, swirling and unfolding around us, disguised as pedantic, pedestrian non-events. But pull off the mask and you will find your life, waiting to be made, chosen, woven, crafted.
I believe that this way of living, this focus on the present, the daily, the tangible, this intense concentration, not on the news headlines, but on the flowers growing in your own garden, the children growing in your own home. This way of living has the potential to open up the heavens, to yield a glittering handful of diamonds where a second ago there was coal. This way of living and noticing and building and crafting can crack through the movie sets and soundtracks that keep us waiting for our own life stories to begin, and set us free to observe the lives we have been creating all along without even realizing it."
-- Shauna Niequist
And through all that waiting, here I am. My life is passing, day by day, and I am waiting for it to start. I am waiting for that time, that person, that event when my life will finally begin.
The Big Moment, unfortunately, is an urban myth. Some people have them, in a sense, when they win the Heisman or become the next American Idol. But even that football player or that singer is living a life made up of more than that one moment. Life is a collection of a million, billion moments, tiny little moments and choices, like a handful of luminous, glowing pearls. It takes so much time, and so much work, and those beads and moments are so small, and so much less fabulous and dramatic than the movies.
But this is what I’m finding, in glimpses and flashes: this is it. This is it, in the best possible way. That thing I’m waiting for, that adventure, that move-score-worthy experience unfolding gracefully. This is it. Normal, daily life ticking by on our streets and sidewalks, in our houses and apartments, in our beds and at our dinner tables, in our dreams and prayers and fights and secrets – this pedestrian life is the most precious thing any of use will ever experience.
Today is your big moment. Moments, really. The life you've been waiting for is happening all around you. The scene unfolding right outside your window is worth more than the most beautiful painting, and the crackers and peanut butter that you're having for lunch on the coffee table are as profound, in their own way, as the Last Supper. This is it. This is life in all its glory, swirling and unfolding around us, disguised as pedantic, pedestrian non-events. But pull off the mask and you will find your life, waiting to be made, chosen, woven, crafted.
I believe that this way of living, this focus on the present, the daily, the tangible, this intense concentration, not on the news headlines, but on the flowers growing in your own garden, the children growing in your own home. This way of living has the potential to open up the heavens, to yield a glittering handful of diamonds where a second ago there was coal. This way of living and noticing and building and crafting can crack through the movie sets and soundtracks that keep us waiting for our own life stories to begin, and set us free to observe the lives we have been creating all along without even realizing it."
-- Shauna Niequist
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