Still Melancholy I suppose
The most beautiful place I have seen in my lifetime is a valley in the Eastern Highlands of Zimbabwe. I entered it along the western ridge in the golden hours of the afternoon. How can I describe it? The grass rolled down the valley’s sides in thick green-gold waves. The mountains above it melted into shades of pink and purple, gold and ochre. The sky was still topaz above me and I felt as though I had unannounced wandered into God’s resting place.
I set up my tent half way down and took the mile hike to the northern caves. The razor grass was not soft—it frayed my jeans, but I’ve never been in a sea of grass like that before or since. No trace of my passing behind me. No trace that anyone had ever passed before. I think I sang. I’m sure I prayed. It was the sort of walk where the beauty is heartbreaking and yearning in the soul goes unsatisfied because it’s not for earthly things.
As it will, the afternoon continued on. I met one of the people I was traveling with. He had a stove so we shared a meal before I climbed back up to my camp. It was good. Simple, rice and cheese, but good. There are so many….things like this I want to share. The stories seem to be worn out, but the memories are so clear sometimes. I’m like an Alzheimer’s patient who wakes up and remembers life for a moment. The orphanage, the university, Gardner, the chicken busses, the choir, the woman who wanted a knife, African Unity Square, Strachen’s, Mbare.
Mbare is when brings this up tonight. I walked
here. There are no letters. There is no email. It has been eight years. There is a time to grieve and apparently it is not over.
I sometimes wonder if the reason many of my male students have a hard time with personal narrative, vignettes and other creative writing is that those genres require a level of self exposure general essays and expository writing do not. What I’m talking about is guys being disconnected from their emotions. They can tell me the emotion they felt or the situation they were in, but it is much rarer for them to be able to articulate both and the connection between them.
I understand this better now that I’ve taught a few years and spent time developing emotional depth with David (who is not naturally a man who reflects on his emotional state). There’s this hang time (I’m dating a researcher and a scientist. Cat-like reflexes are not his thing. Deliberate decisions are.) and then he pops up with a triple score word that pinpoints it precisely. We’ve worked up to this.
I can only think of a couple of guys who regularly take their emotional temperature and respond accordingly to sadness, anger, overwhelming joy, grief, frustration, confusion, etc. Most of those are just taken for confusion. It surprises me when I ask the men in my life how they’re doing the varied responses I get. I rephrase and ask how they’re feeling….well, some come up with a health related answer, but the rest seem to enjoy it. I’m thinking mostly of my dad, brother and former neighbor in that second category. I’m not one to casually bring it up in ordinary conversation—I’m a little more aware of cultural norms than that. Just a little though.
I’m busily handing back vignette anthologies. Vignettes are short stories from life that are based on a relativly small slice of time, impact that reader's emotional in some way and are kind of a cross between a short story and a poem--mmuch imagery and figurative language. Some of the best writing I got was from guys. But they didn’t choose to share it aloud when the opportunity presented itself. Some of the worst was from guys. They told stories, but there was no compelling emotion written into them. They listed ideas but refused to try to move deeper. I was sad. I don’t know if they get what I was talking about or if they just couldn’t deliver or just wouldn’t deliver. It made me sad.
Mmm...Favors
First off, I seem to have long-term misplaced (ok, formally lost at this point) my address book and never had some of your addys. I figure if you're readign the blog... well, you're probably beloved and on my desire-to-send-snail-mail list. I'm sure Emily Post would disapprove of this medium (then again, they didn't have blogs at the turn of last century, still..it seems unlikely she'd like the idea), but could you email your addresses for Christmas cards and the like?
Reverie
Another weekend. And I got to spend it here. I don’t know the last time I had nearly a month of weekends here (well, not counting NCTE). David was here and we did Lansing things. Things I want him to share and know if I’m going to give them up. We had Fleetwood for breakfast (and he asked if they served Fleetwood Mac & Cheese. The waitress was nonplussed), then wandered out to Wooden Skate (my brother and I went to school with the Durow girls—Kim had a son two months ago for those who care!), hung out in the EL Barnes & Noble (one of the many things I like about him is that he too can waste hours in a bookstore), ate at Charlie Kang’s, and rented a chick flick (Failure to Launch) and really enjoyed being at a church together that wasn’t new. Fun to see some of my favorite people afterwards too. I love that! Fellowship! Yipee!
Past that, other thoughts include:
A) Winter cat is better than summer cat. Her fur fills out and she’s extra-lux. Makes me understand why trappers used to hunt in the winter. Also, she gets cold and extra cuddly. I like that in a cat.
B) It troubles me no end and makes me roll my eyes that one of my students used Harold and Kumar go to White Castle as evidence in a persuasive writing that love at first sight exists. Where do I even start with the logic flaws in that one?
C) One of my students is being an absolute …donkey about his white supremacist views. His reading material is in 36pt font and he’s doing that annoying teenage thing of snorting, muttering and generally drawing just enough attention to the fact that he’s reading the crap with out actually stepping over the line to the point where I can reasonably confiscate it and burn it without stifling his first amendment rights. I wish I didn’t care about those pesky rights things. But not really. Still, my blood boils. As MLK said, "Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that." Pray for wisdom and clear sight as to how to love him and protect the kids around him.
D) Tis the season—didn’t even think about
this as a holiday activity.
E) I love my old school red rubber hot water bottle. Warm feet all night. Perhaps I have a romanticized view of what it’s like to share a bed with a spouse, but in my mind, I imagine never groggily waking up cold in the night—more specifically, never having cold feet or needing that beloved hot water bottle again.
I love this phase of my life. I feel so richly blessed ( I am most of the time, but awarness of it and the feelings that go with it—mmm….so good). I sit in my warm little house and look out into the silent snowy night. The lights from my tree glow softly in the background. My tummy has been filled. This is a moment I feel the presence of God. How did I get so lucky? I don’t have excesses of money, I’m just rich. It’s not that I deserve it. It’s not that it’s an impressive place. My couch is old and scarred. My house is small but plenty huge for just me. Contentment is a blessing. A peaceful house too. A space of my own and people who love me to fill that space from time to time. My life is a good one.
Good night.
