My taxes were starting to stress me out. The living room teepee was my solution.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Laundry Day
So a few months ago, I found myself in need of a washer and dryer. These items are pricier than you would anticipate. After discussing it with my roommate, we both decided we'd like to spend the money on something other than a dryer (such as more clothes to wash) and opted just for the washer. In lew of a dryer, we have become very creative with how we dry our clothes. I'm sure that when I'm older and more responsible I'll look back on these photos and think myself silly-but for now, I think it's just kind of fun and I'm enjoying the new dresses I bought.
Lullaby
Lullaby
by Dawn Potter
The lilacs are fading; their petals are falling.
The ants have crawled into their holes.
The children are restlessly tossing their beds.
The horses are chasing their foals.
The dark, oh the dark, flies upon us so fast.
The little boys roll up and down.
Their feet kick the walls, and they churn up the sheets,
while sailors jump ship and then drown,
and armies hunt men, and butchers kill hogs,
and hurricanes level the towns
on the coast where the sea goes on slapping the shore,
and the dogs run careening like clowns.
'Lullaby' by Dawn Potter, from Boy Land & Other Poems."
by Dawn Potter
The lilacs are fading; their petals are falling.
The ants have crawled into their holes.
The children are restlessly tossing their beds.
The horses are chasing their foals.
The dark, oh the dark, flies upon us so fast.
The little boys roll up and down.
Their feet kick the walls, and they churn up the sheets,
while sailors jump ship and then drown,
and armies hunt men, and butchers kill hogs,
and hurricanes level the towns
on the coast where the sea goes on slapping the shore,
and the dogs run careening like clowns.
'Lullaby' by Dawn Potter, from Boy Land & Other Poems."
Saturday, January 30, 2010
30 January 2010
The snow is still here and I find it oddly familiar even though I've never seen this much snow in my native city. The front door to my condo can only open about half way because the ice is so tall and sturdy. Reminiscence of the Little House On The Prairie Books come to mind as I think about Pa having to shovel Laura and Mary a tunnel so they could get to the barn for chores. Clearly this is nothing of that severity, but it's the closest I've ever come to identifying with Laura Ingalls Wilder and having idolized her as a child, I'll cling to any common bond we might share.
My dad came and rescued me with his 4 wheel drive vehicle and Hubbell and I joined him and my mom for a morning walk at Radnor Lake. No one was at the park except for a few people cross country skiing and I couldn't help but wonder why anyone in Nashville would have cross country skis on hand. I guess you could use the "just in case" logic for that, I used the same logic to justify keeping a kite the trunk of my car. But my Elmo kite seems much more practical for this climate than cross country skis.
We let the dogs off the leash and sensing the bigness around them, they were all instilled with a new youthfulness as they ran harder than they've ever run before. While we laughed watching them slip on patches of ice, my dad started telling me about someone he met at church. He said that it was a very nice young man, and he thought I might enjoy meeting him. My father has never meddled in my love life and I thought this was a good arrangement. Trying to diffuse the situation, I just said 'uh-huh' and made some off comment about how Hubbell's large feet could double as snow shoes. He pressed on telling me that his name was Barrett but he went by Barry and "you'll never believe this", he said,"his last name is Cool. C-O-O-L. He's Mr. Cool!". I could feel my eyebrows expressing cynicism and battled to not let my face give away what I was thinking. My dad continued to try to sell Barry Cool to me by saying "he's from Georgia and he drives a pick up truck. He came over to the house the other day and watched a football game with your mom and I". At this point I had to intervene, inquiring as to why he was spending evenings with my parents. To this, my father replied,"he's just easy to be around, he's kind of 'Cool' like that". There are times when my father is not funny and extremely humorous at the same time. This is one of those times.
I put a bit of a spring in my step and encouraged the dogs to chase me, hoping to run away from the conversation and the thought of my parents ever setting me up with someone so clearly not my type. Exhausted from trying to outrun two border collies and a lab, I inhaled painfully cold air and dwelt on the sharpness entering my throat and lungs and releasing comforting warm breath. My eyes watered from the cold but also from the memory of love lost and the truth that I'll have to try to replace that one day. Try to replace something that was precious and good with something that doesn't fit. The tears pooled and crowded each other in my eyes until they shoved out a few unfortunate individuals. They initially were warm trailing down my face and then the cold air had its way with them and they burned on my skin. I left black fuzz balls on my face as I dried it with the back of my mittens and saw my parents catching up in their easy stroll, probably still discussing Mr. Cool. With my composure regained, I rejoined the conversation and threw a stick for Hubbell. And that simple action, that little glimpse of joy that is inherent of making another creature happy, it was precious and good.
My dad came and rescued me with his 4 wheel drive vehicle and Hubbell and I joined him and my mom for a morning walk at Radnor Lake. No one was at the park except for a few people cross country skiing and I couldn't help but wonder why anyone in Nashville would have cross country skis on hand. I guess you could use the "just in case" logic for that, I used the same logic to justify keeping a kite the trunk of my car. But my Elmo kite seems much more practical for this climate than cross country skis.
We let the dogs off the leash and sensing the bigness around them, they were all instilled with a new youthfulness as they ran harder than they've ever run before. While we laughed watching them slip on patches of ice, my dad started telling me about someone he met at church. He said that it was a very nice young man, and he thought I might enjoy meeting him. My father has never meddled in my love life and I thought this was a good arrangement. Trying to diffuse the situation, I just said 'uh-huh' and made some off comment about how Hubbell's large feet could double as snow shoes. He pressed on telling me that his name was Barrett but he went by Barry and "you'll never believe this", he said,"his last name is Cool. C-O-O-L. He's Mr. Cool!". I could feel my eyebrows expressing cynicism and battled to not let my face give away what I was thinking. My dad continued to try to sell Barry Cool to me by saying "he's from Georgia and he drives a pick up truck. He came over to the house the other day and watched a football game with your mom and I". At this point I had to intervene, inquiring as to why he was spending evenings with my parents. To this, my father replied,"he's just easy to be around, he's kind of 'Cool' like that". There are times when my father is not funny and extremely humorous at the same time. This is one of those times.
I put a bit of a spring in my step and encouraged the dogs to chase me, hoping to run away from the conversation and the thought of my parents ever setting me up with someone so clearly not my type. Exhausted from trying to outrun two border collies and a lab, I inhaled painfully cold air and dwelt on the sharpness entering my throat and lungs and releasing comforting warm breath. My eyes watered from the cold but also from the memory of love lost and the truth that I'll have to try to replace that one day. Try to replace something that was precious and good with something that doesn't fit. The tears pooled and crowded each other in my eyes until they shoved out a few unfortunate individuals. They initially were warm trailing down my face and then the cold air had its way with them and they burned on my skin. I left black fuzz balls on my face as I dried it with the back of my mittens and saw my parents catching up in their easy stroll, probably still discussing Mr. Cool. With my composure regained, I rejoined the conversation and threw a stick for Hubbell. And that simple action, that little glimpse of joy that is inherent of making another creature happy, it was precious and good.
Friday, January 29, 2010
29 January 2010
Today it snowed. And not "Nashville's definition" of snow, but legitimate snow, where no ground can be seen. I don't guess inches well, so let's say 4", although it might have been 10". I'm really quite poor at that. Coming back inside, I poured some Sprite over strawberries. As I started to drink it, I thought to myself that it would be much more chic and European to make some hot tea. Recognizing in fact just how narcissistic I am that I think about how cool my drink choices are, I decide to stick with the Sprite with strawberries because it tastes good right now and honestly, no one else is home except for Hubbell. And he just drank from the toilet, so his opinion can't be that refined.
I took Hubbell to the Green Hills' library park. It's a large, flat yard surrounded with tall thin trees. Standing on the edge of the yard, the trees are such a stunning contrast to the white snow. It was like standing in an Ansel Adams' photo. No one was around so I let Hubbell off his leash. Such a rebel. He tore off across the yard, pouncing on little mounds of snow and delighting in making them disappear. He brought me a stick, which I threw and he returned with a different one. I threw the replacement and watched as it vanished beneath the surface of the snow like a drowning man in a pool. Never one to be discouraged, Hubbell returned with yet another one. We exchanged sticks approximately a dozen times, each one a cheapened downgrade of the original.
After a decent amount of time, I felt my toes go numb. It's my fault, I should have worn my Wellington rain boots instead of my nursing clogs. I wish I knew where my rain boots are. It would be the only time this year I would have used them and I can't find them. Some things are poor investments. Like polka dotted rain boots you lose.
While I coaxed him off the snowy playground, I thought to myself "this is a good memory". This rare snow, a southern blizzard, a dog mesmerized by snow melting in his mouth, these are beautiful things to experience. I hope to remember them.
I took Hubbell to the Green Hills' library park. It's a large, flat yard surrounded with tall thin trees. Standing on the edge of the yard, the trees are such a stunning contrast to the white snow. It was like standing in an Ansel Adams' photo. No one was around so I let Hubbell off his leash. Such a rebel. He tore off across the yard, pouncing on little mounds of snow and delighting in making them disappear. He brought me a stick, which I threw and he returned with a different one. I threw the replacement and watched as it vanished beneath the surface of the snow like a drowning man in a pool. Never one to be discouraged, Hubbell returned with yet another one. We exchanged sticks approximately a dozen times, each one a cheapened downgrade of the original.
After a decent amount of time, I felt my toes go numb. It's my fault, I should have worn my Wellington rain boots instead of my nursing clogs. I wish I knew where my rain boots are. It would be the only time this year I would have used them and I can't find them. Some things are poor investments. Like polka dotted rain boots you lose.
While I coaxed him off the snowy playground, I thought to myself "this is a good memory". This rare snow, a southern blizzard, a dog mesmerized by snow melting in his mouth, these are beautiful things to experience. I hope to remember them.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Faith
Faith is to believe what we do not see, and the reward of this faith is to see what we believe. -St. Augustine
Monday, January 25, 2010
One of the Butterflies
One of the Butterflies
by W. S. Merwin
"The trouble with pleasure is the timing
it can overtake me without warning
and be gone before I know it is here
it can stand facing me unrecognized
while I am remembering somewhere else
in another age or someone not seen
for years and never to be seen again
in this world and it seems that I cherish
only now a joy I was not aware of
when it was here although it remains
out of reach and will not be caught or named
or called back and if I could make it stay
as I want to it would turn to pain."
by W. S. Merwin
"The trouble with pleasure is the timing
it can overtake me without warning
and be gone before I know it is here
it can stand facing me unrecognized
while I am remembering somewhere else
in another age or someone not seen
for years and never to be seen again
in this world and it seems that I cherish
only now a joy I was not aware of
when it was here although it remains
out of reach and will not be caught or named
or called back and if I could make it stay
as I want to it would turn to pain."
The Road Not Taken
"The Road Not Taken"
by Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference."
It's a classic for a reason...
by Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference."
It's a classic for a reason...
Thursday, January 21, 2010
By Dark
By Dark
by W. S. Merwin
When it is time I follow the black dog
into the darkness that is the mind of day
I can see nothing but the black dog
the dog I know going ahead of me
not looking back oh it is the black dog
I trust now in my turn after the years
when I had all the trust of the black dog
through an age of brightness and through shadow
on into the blindness of the black dog
where the rooms of the dark were already known
and had no fear in them for the black dog
leading me carefully up the blind stairs.
"By Dark" by W. S. Merwin, from The Shadow of Sirius.
by W. S. Merwin
When it is time I follow the black dog
into the darkness that is the mind of day
I can see nothing but the black dog
the dog I know going ahead of me
not looking back oh it is the black dog
I trust now in my turn after the years
when I had all the trust of the black dog
through an age of brightness and through shadow
on into the blindness of the black dog
where the rooms of the dark were already known
and had no fear in them for the black dog
leading me carefully up the blind stairs.
"By Dark" by W. S. Merwin, from The Shadow of Sirius.
Monday, January 18, 2010
The More Loving One
"The More Loving One"
by W. H. Auden
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
'The More Loving One' by W.H. Auden, from Collected Poems. © The Modern Library — Random House, 2007."
by W. H. Auden
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
'The More Loving One' by W.H. Auden, from Collected Poems. © The Modern Library — Random House, 2007."
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Germany jails Christians for removing kids from sex-ed class
Another reason why the government's control should be minimal in our lives. Very minimal.
Germany jails Christians for removing kids from sex-ed class
Germany jails Christians for removing kids from sex-ed class
Song of Sol. 5:6
"'I called upon him, but he gave me no answer' (S. of Sol. 5:6).
The Lord, when He hath given great faith, hath been known to try it by long delayings. He has suffered His servants' voices to echo in their ears as from a brazen sky. They have knocked at the golden gate, but it has remained unmovable, as though it were rusted upon its hinges. Like Jeremiah, they have cried, 'Thou hast covered thyself with a cloud, that our prayer should not pass through.' Thus have true saints continued long in patient waiting without reply, not because their prayers were not vehement, nor because they were unaccepted, but because it so pleased Him who is a Sovereign, and who gives according to His own pleasure. If it pleases Him to bid our patience exercise itself, shall He not do as He will with His own!
No prayer is lost. Praying breath was never spent in vain. There is no such thing as prayer unanswered or unnoticed by God, and some things that we count refusals or denials are simply delays. --H. Bonar
Christ sometimes delays His help that He may try our faith and quicken our prayers. The boat may be covered with the waves, and He sleeps on; but He will wake up before it sinks. He sleeps, but He never oversleeps; and there are no 'too lates' with Him. --Alexander Maclaren
Be still, sad soul! lift thou no passionate cry, But spread the desert of thy being bare To the full searching of the All-seeing eye; Wait! and through dark misgiving, black despair,
God will come down in pity, and fill the dry Dead place with light, and life, and vernal air. --J. C. Shairp"
The Lord, when He hath given great faith, hath been known to try it by long delayings. He has suffered His servants' voices to echo in their ears as from a brazen sky. They have knocked at the golden gate, but it has remained unmovable, as though it were rusted upon its hinges. Like Jeremiah, they have cried, 'Thou hast covered thyself with a cloud, that our prayer should not pass through.' Thus have true saints continued long in patient waiting without reply, not because their prayers were not vehement, nor because they were unaccepted, but because it so pleased Him who is a Sovereign, and who gives according to His own pleasure. If it pleases Him to bid our patience exercise itself, shall He not do as He will with His own!
No prayer is lost. Praying breath was never spent in vain. There is no such thing as prayer unanswered or unnoticed by God, and some things that we count refusals or denials are simply delays. --H. Bonar
Christ sometimes delays His help that He may try our faith and quicken our prayers. The boat may be covered with the waves, and He sleeps on; but He will wake up before it sinks. He sleeps, but He never oversleeps; and there are no 'too lates' with Him. --Alexander Maclaren
Be still, sad soul! lift thou no passionate cry, But spread the desert of thy being bare To the full searching of the All-seeing eye; Wait! and through dark misgiving, black despair,
God will come down in pity, and fill the dry Dead place with light, and life, and vernal air. --J. C. Shairp"
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Out of the rolling ocean the crowd
Out of the rolling ocean the crowd
by Walt Whitman
Out of the rolling ocean the crowd came a drop gently
to me,
Whispering, I love you, before long I die,
I have travell'd a long way merely to look on you to
touch you,
For I could not die till I once look'd on you,
For I fear'd I might afterward lose you.
Now we have met, we have look'd, we are safe,
Return in peace to the ocean my love,
I too am much of that ocean, my love, we are not so
much separated,
Behold the great rondure, the cohesion of all, how
perfect!
But as for me, for you, the irresistible sea is to separate
us,
As for an hour carrying us diverse, yet cannot carry us
diverse forever;
Be not impatient — a little space — know you I salute
the air, the ocean and the land,
Every day at sundown for your dear sake, my love.
"Out of the rolling ocean the crowd" by Walt Whitman. Public domain.
by Walt Whitman
Out of the rolling ocean the crowd came a drop gently
to me,
Whispering, I love you, before long I die,
I have travell'd a long way merely to look on you to
touch you,
For I could not die till I once look'd on you,
For I fear'd I might afterward lose you.
Now we have met, we have look'd, we are safe,
Return in peace to the ocean my love,
I too am much of that ocean, my love, we are not so
much separated,
Behold the great rondure, the cohesion of all, how
perfect!
But as for me, for you, the irresistible sea is to separate
us,
As for an hour carrying us diverse, yet cannot carry us
diverse forever;
Be not impatient — a little space — know you I salute
the air, the ocean and the land,
Every day at sundown for your dear sake, my love.
"Out of the rolling ocean the crowd" by Walt Whitman. Public domain.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Monday, January 11, 2010
Being in Love
Being in Love
by Chungmi Kim
Awakened from a dream, I curl up
and turn. The roses on the dresser
smile and your words bloom.
The red roses for Valentine's Day.
Like in a film
thoughts of you unfold
moment by moment.
I vaguely hear
the sound of your spoon scooping cereal
the water stream in the shower
the buzzing noise of your electric razor
like a singing of cicada.
Your footsteps in and out of the bedroom.
Your lips touching my cheek lightly.
And the sound of the door shutting.
In your light
I fall asleep again under the warm quilt
happily like a child.
Upon wakingon the kitchen counter I find a half
grapefruit carefully cut and sectioned.
Such a loving touch is a milestone
For my newly found happiness.
"Being in Love" by Chungmi Kim, from Glacier Lily. © Red Hen Press, 2004.
by Chungmi Kim
Awakened from a dream, I curl up
and turn. The roses on the dresser
smile and your words bloom.
The red roses for Valentine's Day.
Like in a film
thoughts of you unfold
moment by moment.
I vaguely hear
the sound of your spoon scooping cereal
the water stream in the shower
the buzzing noise of your electric razor
like a singing of cicada.
Your footsteps in and out of the bedroom.
Your lips touching my cheek lightly.
And the sound of the door shutting.
In your light
I fall asleep again under the warm quilt
happily like a child.
Upon wakingon the kitchen counter I find a half
grapefruit carefully cut and sectioned.
Such a loving touch is a milestone
For my newly found happiness.
"Being in Love" by Chungmi Kim, from Glacier Lily. © Red Hen Press, 2004.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
William James-interesting fellow
It's the birthday (January 11th) of the man who coined the term "stream of consciousness" and who said that "the art of being wise is the art of knowing what to overlook" — psychologist and philosopher William James (books by this author) (1842), born in New York City to one of the most prominent intellectual families in the history of America. His brother was writer Henry James, his sister was diarist Alice James, his dad was a famous theologian, and his godfather was Ralph Waldo Emerson.
He was tone-deaf, got motion sickness easily, suffered from depression and was suicidal for long intervals, had chronic back pain, recurring digestive ailments, and problems with vision. He told people he had "soul-sickness."
He got an M.D. at Harvard but never practiced medicine; instead, he spent his life in academia at Harvard. There he taught physiology, then anatomy, and then, for many years, psychology and philosophy. Over the years, he lectured to many future famous Americans, including Teddy Roosevelt, W.E.B. DuBois, and Gertrude Stein, a favorite of his. On an in-class exam he gave, Gertrude wrote, "Dear Professor James, I am so sorry but I do not feel a bit like writing an examination paper on philosophy today." He wrote back, "Dear Miss Stein, I understand perfectly. I often feel like that myself."
He was an enormously prolific writer. Scholar John McDermott put together a bibliography of William James' writings that was 47 pages long. His most well-known work is probably the 1,200-page Principles of Psychology, published in 1890 after more than a decade of research and writing.
While working on the book, he did first-person research on the psychology of mystical experience, and to aid in this he sometimes used narcotics. He said that he could only really understand the German idealist philosopher Hegel when he was under the influence of laughing gas.He wrote a lot about the psychology of pragmatism. He argued that a person's beliefs were true if they were useful to that person. And he said, "Believe that life is worth living and your belief will help create the fact."He also wrote: "Common sense and a sense of humor are the same thing, moving at different speeds. A sense of humor is just common sense, dancing."He hung out with Freud, Jung, Helen Keller, Mark Twain, Bertrand Russell, and many other intellectuals.
He once said, "Wherever you are, it is your own friends who make your world." And he said, "Properly speaking a man has as many social selves as there are individuals who recognize him."
He was tone-deaf, got motion sickness easily, suffered from depression and was suicidal for long intervals, had chronic back pain, recurring digestive ailments, and problems with vision. He told people he had "soul-sickness."
He got an M.D. at Harvard but never practiced medicine; instead, he spent his life in academia at Harvard. There he taught physiology, then anatomy, and then, for many years, psychology and philosophy. Over the years, he lectured to many future famous Americans, including Teddy Roosevelt, W.E.B. DuBois, and Gertrude Stein, a favorite of his. On an in-class exam he gave, Gertrude wrote, "Dear Professor James, I am so sorry but I do not feel a bit like writing an examination paper on philosophy today." He wrote back, "Dear Miss Stein, I understand perfectly. I often feel like that myself."
He was an enormously prolific writer. Scholar John McDermott put together a bibliography of William James' writings that was 47 pages long. His most well-known work is probably the 1,200-page Principles of Psychology, published in 1890 after more than a decade of research and writing.
While working on the book, he did first-person research on the psychology of mystical experience, and to aid in this he sometimes used narcotics. He said that he could only really understand the German idealist philosopher Hegel when he was under the influence of laughing gas.He wrote a lot about the psychology of pragmatism. He argued that a person's beliefs were true if they were useful to that person. And he said, "Believe that life is worth living and your belief will help create the fact."He also wrote: "Common sense and a sense of humor are the same thing, moving at different speeds. A sense of humor is just common sense, dancing."He hung out with Freud, Jung, Helen Keller, Mark Twain, Bertrand Russell, and many other intellectuals.
He once said, "Wherever you are, it is your own friends who make your world." And he said, "Properly speaking a man has as many social selves as there are individuals who recognize him."
Richard Baxter: The Cure of Melancholy
"Certainty of our faith and sincerity is not necessary to salvation, but the sincerity of faith itself is necessary. He shall be saved that giveth up himself to Christ, though he know not that he is sincere in doing it. Christ knoweth his own grace, when they that have it know not that it is sound.
An abundance are cast down by ignorance of themselves, not knowing the sincerity which God hath given them. Grace is weak in the best of us here; and little and weak grace is not very easily perceived, for it acteth weakly and unconstantly, and it is known but by its acts; and weak grace is always joined with too strong corruption; and all sin in heart and life is contrary to grace, and doth obscure it...And how can any under all these hindrances, yet keep any full assurance of their own sincerity?"
Richard Baxter, "The Cure of Melancholy"
An abundance are cast down by ignorance of themselves, not knowing the sincerity which God hath given them. Grace is weak in the best of us here; and little and weak grace is not very easily perceived, for it acteth weakly and unconstantly, and it is known but by its acts; and weak grace is always joined with too strong corruption; and all sin in heart and life is contrary to grace, and doth obscure it...And how can any under all these hindrances, yet keep any full assurance of their own sincerity?"
Richard Baxter, "The Cure of Melancholy"
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Brian Friel
Brian Friel, one of the greatest playwrights from Ireland known most famously for Dancing at Lughnasa, is notorious for his privacy. This was one of his rare answers in an interiew and I think it's appropriate-just the facts: 'I am married, have five children, live in the country, smoke too much, fish a bit, read a lot, worry a lot, get involved in sporadic causes and invariably regret the involvement, and hope that between now and my death I will have acquired a religion, a philosophy, a sense of life that will make the end less frightening than it appears to me at this moment.'"
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