new year

The year is ending; another one is starting and I feel like I ought to write something inspirational. Well, I'm out of inspiration. I checked my pockets and found a camera, a knotted Rosary, a knife, and a crumpled JoAnn's receipt with a few words scrawled in black pen, but no inspiration. Pity. I glanced at the clock a little bit ago and the hour/minute corresponded with the month/date of my birthday, but that's the best I can do. It made me smile.

For a while I've thought the idea of resolutions at the beginning of the year to be rather stupid. "Lent will be here soon enough," Fr. Tom says. And he's right.

Dr. Jackson mentioned to our class that his resolution one year was to start using flapjacks in place of pancakes. I think he's on to something. Here's what I've got:

1. Start using "eh?" the way yoopers and Canadians do. After seeing Tangie's reaction when she told us about the Canadian toll booth guy saying "eh?" I figured--dangit, I'm from Michigan, I can say "eh?" too. And considering how many pieces of my heart I've left up north, I'm going to have to work "eh?" well into my speech if I'm ever going to get them back.

2. Start saying "geez louise!" like Emily does, mostly because Emily's pretty cool. I type "geez louise!" in emails and IM, but I want to say it.

3. Start saying "dealies" for "things" like Grandpa and Dad do. "I've got five of these little dealies here."

4. Stop saying "like" as often. This will be harder because there are so many different uses for the word and for some of them, there just aren't good substitutes. For example:
a) "I opened the door and she's like--what?" This means "her general reaction was 'what?' though she may not have actually said that directly. In fact she may not have said anything at all. Maybe it was just her facial expression that said 'what?' Or maybe she said something that I can't repeat because it's inappropriate or because I don't remember it, but I know what her general reaction was."
*a) substitute: "she's," the way Grandpa says. "I opened the door and she's--what?"
b) "They had a crazy huge pile of snow. It was, like, five feet tall." This means "about, approximately." It may not have been exactly five feet tall, but it was about five feet tall. (Like me.)
*b) substitute: about. "It was about five feet tall." close to. "It was close to five feet tall."
c) "It was about five feet tall, like me." Here, "like" is just a shorter way of saying "similar to." This is fine, it doesn't bother me any, except that I should say "I" instead of "me." But that's unnecessarily awkward.
d) "We watched a bunch of different movies, like Escanaba In Da Moonlight and Wild Women of Wango." This just means "for example."
*d) substitute: just leave it out. "We watched a bunch of different movies. Escanaba In Da Moonlight, Wild Women of Wango."
e) "A deck of cards, like, to play euchre with?" This means "as in" or "you mean" and to used for clarification.
*e) substitute: as in, you mean, or just leave it out. "A deck of cards? To play euchre with?" (This one will be difficult.)

Here's the thing though. Pretty much every time I consciously try to alter the way I talk, it doesn't work. I've eradicated the obnoxious "like" a couple times and it keeps coming back. I pick up on how other people talk without knowing it. (Maybe that's why I got the accent I apparently have.) It'll be a fun experiment, though, I guess. We'll see what happens.

Happy solemnity of Mary, Mother of God (theotokos)!

And while we're speaking Greek--piana tapana stokavadi!

Thank you, Al Gore

Emily said it best.

I started this blog in September so that I would write. I had two ends in mind: first, writing more would make me a better writer, and second, writing what I'm thinking would force me to think things through all the way.

It's not especially important to me whether anyone reads this or not. The point is that I keep writing, and some vague idea that someone might read this is enough motivation.

It's weird not writing for an audience though. I made the beginning of my Jackson paper alliterate, but I would never do that for a history professor. I let spelling and punctuation slide when I'm emailing my sisters, but I would never do that in a newspaper. I scrawl in thank-you notes to my friends but write neatly in thank-you notes to my grandmother. It isn't dishonesty, it's just that you treat different people differently. No matter what I'm writing, the audience is in the front of my mind.

But here, I'm not writing for an audience. Not officially, anyway. But I know four people who read this regularly and at least two who read it every so often, and it's hard not to gear my thoughts in their direction.

For this post, however, I do have an audience in mind: Emily and Anne, my beautiful, wonderful, completely different sisters. Look:

"Your shoulder bit my tooth!"

"Mom, I don't really need black shoes."
"That's why!"
"That's why what?"
"That's why she never buys you anything when I don't come!"

Crayola still makes historical markers.

"Emily has a boyfriend, Emily has a boyfriend!"
"Will you shut up!"
"No. Emily has a boyfriend, Emily has a boyfriend!"

"I din't hev a suth'n twaang!"

"That's south of the Mason-Dixie line."

Emily: Anne, you can't wear that green striped sweater with the blue skirt.
Anne: Why not?
Mary: Anne, even *I* know better than that!

Swing dance turned self-defense turned I don't really want to fall over right now.
"They only do this when there are guys over."
"No, that's actually not true."
"Yeah, she was beating me up in the kitchen yesterday."

"Anne, are you going to eat that?"
"No."
"Anne, is that all you're going to eat?"
"Yes."
"Anne, aren't you going to eat anything?"
"No."
"Anne, eat something."
"I just ate five pieces of pizza at quiz bowl!"

Pianatapanastokavadi!

my favorite gmail chat conversation ever-
"Is that book still in the living room?"
"What book?"
"Captivating."
"Maybe, I dunno. I'm up in my room."
"Okay, I'll go look."
"Good, cause you're closer to the living room anyway."
"Anne stole it. It was in her room."
"Oh, I wondered what she came up here for."
"I can hear you laughing."
"Have you started the book?"
"No, but if you ask me the same question...wait..."
"You're gonna read one sentence then tell me you did."
"Now I have. Yes yes, lil sis, you called me out."
"Punk. Warthog-faced buffoon."
"Actually, I read one and a half."
"I hear you laughing down there."
"That is Anne laughing. I mean, coughing."
"I'm sure. You're probably choking her to death."

"Your cell phone looks like a rabbit!"

empty

Anne and I took the last leaf out of the table before dinner. I've often marveled at what a good idea it was first to invent and second to find a table with leaves. Growing up, we had two leaves in the table and three for company. As we started graduating and moving out, the table got smaller and smaller and leaves started accumulating in the front closet. Now, they only come out when everyone is home, and we put the last one away today.

Emily left first, driving away in yesterday's rain that turned the knee-deep snow into mist. She called to let us know she'd made it to her friend's house in Ohio, where she stayed the night, then again when she arrived in Atlanta.

Joe left right after Mass and breakfast this morning, his Monte Carlo moving matter-of-factly toward Arlington. He called home when he arrived.

Paul stayed for euchre and left before noon, then returned to pick up his Costa Rican shotglass. The Oldsmobile clunked down the street, bound for Cleveland. He left the polyurethane for me on the table in the basement.

And then there were four and the table was shrunk.

Evidences of my family are scattered throughout the house. A new fan (with lights!) hangs over the family room. Emily and Joe each left a pair of shoes, and I still haven't cleaned up the golden-brown mess Paul and I left on the table when the polyurethane leaked through the cardboard. I have far more clothing in my room than I really need, some of it new (that's Emily's fault). A walking stick leans in the corner of my room. There are still five beds for all of us. The house is too big for a small family.

Briefly I thought about crying my eyes out, but mostly I feel a calm, empty sadness.

And today?

Today is the feast of the Holy Family.

how to get men to respect you, I guess

I recently discovered that two of my camp friends, whom we'll call P and T, don't like each other.

More accurately, T doesn't like P, and P merely requites the sentiment.

I asked T what the issue was, and he told me that he disagreed with P on some important things, specifically, how P treats women.

P has always treated me well, I told him.

That's because he knows he can't get inside your pants, he told me.

Was that really it?

Men are always thinking about sex, he told me, and with me, sex isn't even an issue. P doesn't look at me and think "how can I have sex with her?" because he knows he can't. He looks at me and thinks "friend."

Are a lot of men like that? I asked him.

They pretty much all are, he told me.

Do you see why I don't want to have sex until I'm married? I asked him.

In order to love anyone--sisters, parents, friends, a specific male--you have to make yourself vulnerable to them. It's like leaning against a wall--you are vulnerable to the wall falling over, but if you're smart, you only lean against walls that won't let you fall over. Likewise, you only make yourself emotionally vulnerable to people who won't toy with your emotions or take advantage of you. "I hate you" is much more bitter coming from a friend than from someone you don't know.

If you're going to have sex with someone, you make yourself pretty much as vulnerable as you possibly can. And if I'm going to make myself that vulnerable to a man, I want to make sure it's a man who has sexual self-control. Someone who looks at me and thinks "beautiful woman" or "friend" or "girlfriend" or "fiance" or "wife"--someone who doesn't look at me and think "sex." My sexuality is a very important part of me, but it's definitely not the only part of me. The only way he can see the rest of me is if he gets his mind away from sex. If he already knows that he isn't getting any, and if he's still hanging out with me, it means he isn't just looking for sex.

Amazing how much respect something as simple as chastity commands.

another creation, inevitably overthought

And God created man to his own image: to the image of God he created him: male and female he created them. (Gen. 1:27)

The first thing God did in relation to us (as far as we know) is create. And I think part of being made imago Dei is our desire to create.

Scarves, tables, birdhouses, collages, ornaments, novels, wreathes, computers, skyscrapers, toilets, bombs, socks, children--we have a creative instinct. It's not a "man thing" or a "woman thing" but a "human thing" to make things. Look:



There are tendencies (though definitely not exclusive) for women to make some things and men to make other things; therefore, both craft stores and hardware stores. What fascinates me here is not our differences but our similarities. In either place, you can find wire, wood, wire cutters, needle-nose pliers, hammers, measuring sticks or tapes, paint, paintbrushes, sealant, string, glue, and hoards of other stuff that I can’t remember because it’s been too long since I’ve been in either store.

While the other little kids were watching the Smurfs and whatever other TV shows I cannot reminisce about, I was making cradles out of kleenex boxes, cameras out of toilet paper rolls, games out of history class, covered wagons out of swingsets, towns out of chalk. "Do you want to do 'make things'?" my brother Paul would ask, and we'd make a mess of beads and string in the downstairs bedroom. He'd end up with a tightly-knotted, well-made bracelet; I'd have a mess I thought was beautiful until my mom wouldn't let me wear it to Mass. I have a stash of cardboard under my bed at school; I keep twine and carabiners handy--often it doesn't occur to me to buy something until I've failed two or three times at making it.

I think this creative instinct in me has grown to the point of obsession. I toyed with an idea through finals week, and when I got home, I started work. I never really wanted to have it, but I wanted to make it, so I told Seth I was making it for him. And he can have it. I just wanted to make it.



It was really strange making it. I'm semi-competent at craft-store-creation and semi-competent at hardware-store-creation and this task required both. I dug through the dresser in the downstairs bedroom where we keep most of the craft-store-stuff (and some of Emily's things); I burrowed into the cellar where we keep most of the the hardware-store-stuff (and our jam and empty jam jars). This intrigued me: clearly a craft-store paintbrush on a shelf in the cellar, just shelves above scads of paint cans.



This is what the kitchen table looked like during part of the operation:



Needle-nose pliers, a hardware-store paintbrush, a knife--also a safety pin, quilting needles, mod podge--also fire!

This is how I made it:

Scrap pine wood from the cellar, power saw, and sandpaper to make the base. Green tissue paper, sparkly white tissue paper (both from gifts from my mom's students), and mod podge to make green and snow for the base. Candle wax to make snow on the base and to hold Gawain in place. Melted red crayon to make blood in the snow and on Gawain's neck.

Wire, wire cutters, and needle-nose pliers to make Gawain. (The wire kept breaking when I didn't want it to, so I had to rework my plans a few times.)

Embroidery floss and knots from a childhood friendship-bracelet-making phase to make the girdle. Quilting needle and gold thread to make the green girdle gleam gold.

Paper sack and hammer to break a bottle. Glass and craft store scouring pad to make a shield. Insignia red enamel paint and craft-store paintbrush found in the cellar to make the shield red. Braided gold thread and mod podge to make a pentangle.



(Seth, if you're wondering, I took this picture while typing "DRY, DARNIT!" into your IM window.)

Match stick to make an ax handle. Lid from an empty jam jar, labeled 2006, marked with a knife blade and cut with scissors, to make an ax blade. Hot glue to attach.

i love my sisters

Door opened.
Name yelled.
Bags dropped.

Feet run.
Bodies collide.
Arms pull.

Reunion.

the semester in review

Dr. Jackson told me that when you get a Ph.D, it's like you've climbed to the top of a mountain. You're there: you know what there is to know. Then you take a couple more steps up, turn around and look out, and see thousands of other mountains yet to be scaled.

I don't have a Ph.D but I know what he means. I'm at the top of a mountain right now.

I learned crazy amounts this semester. I learned that wife-beaters are shirts, not belts. I learned that you can fold bedsheets like American flags. I learned that I can function quite well on 5 hours of sleep. I learned that I can do a heck of a lot more than I think I can, and that sometimes endurance is all you need when deadlines fly into your face and go plaid.

I learned that nothing is too marvelous for God to do, and that if I pray about something, he will rush to help. During the summer, his strength allowed me to a mile in under two hours. This year, his strength allowed me to forgive someone in under two years--a much greater feat for someone like me.

I hit on Marine recruiters, and they know my name now.

I learned how to be a woman. I learned that knitting and football are irrelevant to my femininity, and there's no reason to get caught up trying to figure out whether it's okay that I don't enjoy shoe shopping. I learned that being a woman is a stupid reason not to snow sumo.

I live with my woman friends now, not down the street but down the hall. And I love them. I've never been good at having woman friends but I'm getting better at it. I want to have woman friends now, which is important. C. S. Lewis was wrong when he said friendship must be "about" something (e.g., stamp collecting). I have friends who knit and they can talk about knitting but knitting isn't the basis of their friendship. I have friends who love languages and we can lament together that English doesn't have an ablative, but language isn't the basis of our friendship. We don't need a common interest to have a friendship. We need to love each other and goof off. That's all. Most of what strengthened my woman-friendships were things like barging into each other's rooms, tattooing each other's arms with less-than-beautiful sayings, laughing about being half-dressed. The important thing was spending joyful time together, and it didn't really matter what we did.

I don't go out of my way to dress sloppily like I did last year.

I give hugs, and real hugs, not those lame side-hugs. Physical affection between friends doesn't scare me anymore. I'm willing to admit that the "I don't like people touching me" I spewed last year was a lie. (Don't tickle me, though.)

I danced.

My instinct still wonders what the attractive male two tables away thinks of what I'm wearing, but I now have a hand that can slap that instinct and tell it to shut up, because it's God's opinion that really matters.

I carry my own things, books and trumpet and such, not to show off my strength and not to spite the men who offer to carry them for me, but because they're my books and there's no reason I can't carry them myself.

I learned that people aren't as stupid as I tend to assume, at least proportionally. I'm just as dumb as everyone else, and there's probably a whole heck of a lot I'm completely oblivious to.

I have flaws, and there's no sense in getting frustrated over not being perfect. Virtue shields, but when virtue fails, there is mercy. I don't want people to think I don't have flaws, anyway, because when I find people who seem flawless, I usually don't like them.

I learned that showing off is utter nonsense. No matter what, no mere human can understand me as I am. I don't understand myself as I am, so who am I to know what to show off? Keep myself right with God. Then, everything will fall into place, and if it doesn't, I have him.

That's most important. I have him.

addendum

Addendum to mob. I was thinking about this later.

I remember when I was a little kid, my dad was watching the news and I saw people walking. The reporter said they were forced to stay on the path because of land mines, and I saw them huddled cold and with their children, walking, pressed forward. Kosovo. How old was I? I must have been very young.

I cried.

My mom took me up to her room and hugged me and talked to me and I don't remember what she said, all I remember is crying.

I didn't cry for the mob I saw today. Things are different now. I've grown older--wiser? more foolish? Have I grown out of being childish or childlike?

mob

I sat in Grewcock typing my annotated bibliography. Christmas music floated from the speakers. Amanda’s pink and blue striped socks wiggled against the arm of the couch. A crackling-less fire warmed the fireplace. Fox News played in AJ’s.

I glanced up at the widescreen and saw a fire above the words MOB SCENE. The top left corner of the screen said LIVE.

A friend lives near Dearborn, Mich., and my immediate thought was of her worry of riots after the election. A moment of panic. Mobs setting things on fire? I typed “fox news, mob” into google.



Overseas. I relaxed.

It was a disconcerting experience. Mobs are mobs; fire is fire; death is death whether here or overseas. An Israeli daughter who loses her brother sheds no fewer tears than I would.

Why am I so unconcerned?

Amanda said it could be the ocean--we're so separated, geographically, from the Middle East that it creates an emotional separation as well.

I'd like to think nobly and say that, as a finite human, I cannot be concerned with every horror in the world, else I would burn out. But I don't know if I'm as concerned as I ought to be.

Just yesterday I told a friend--lightheartedly, no less--that abortion would inevitably die out because pro-lifers have more babies than pro-choicers, and eventually we'd vote them out. But what about all the children who are dying before then? Is their pain nothing to me? Distant, too.

Before I overthink this as I often do (and perhaps already have)--I have class at two o'clock--perhaps it isn't so important where I am now.

Perhaps the important thing is where I go. There will never be a time (here, anyway) when I am perfect in charity. So perhaps instead of examining my wretchedness--chief of sinners!--and dwelling in it, I should work to improve.

Does the mob on TV merit wailing that interferes with my schoolwork?

Well, no. But perhaps a brief moment to pray for them and recognize them as human--as made imago Dei--as alteri Christorum.

And the king answering shall say to them: Amen I say to you, as long as you did it to one of these my least brethren, you did it to me (Mt. 25:40).

That much I can do.

For him.

[addendum]

What I Think Of When You Call Someone Retarded

why be feminine?

A friend told me he had a question about femininity, and he asked me:

why does it matter to you? that you need to be feminine that is? OR better phrased why do you want to be feminine?

I hadn't thought to ask, but it was something I needed to think about. Here's what I've got:

Short answer: because I think too much. I want to know everything about people, and the differences between men and women fascinate me.

I felt like I was too much and not enough at the same time. I dressed sloppily but spent far too much time getting ready. I was willing to be helpful but not physically strong enough be any help. I hated shopping but owned too many things. I talked too much but didn't speak up when I ought. I cared too much about how my room looked but it was too messy. I couldn't merely balance on the fence because I'd already fallen off both sides of the fence. I couldn't keep up with my guy-friends because I was a woman, and I couldn't keep up with my girl-friends because I was trying to keep up with my guy-friends.

Short answer: being a guy wasn't working, and I didn't want to be a failure.

Last year, new to Hillsdale, I was a sucker for chivalry: open doors, carry books, anything. Chivalry said two things to me:

1. "I'm strong enough to keep you safe if something were to happen, and I care about you enough that I'm willing to."
2. "You're a woman, not a man, and that's exactly as it should be."

People at Hillsdale understood that men and women are different, and that it wasn't a better/worse difference. Here, I could find an answer.

I decided to stop trying to be a man, but I needed some sort of direction, somewhere to go. I was lost. Nobody writes anything like If for women. Sure, there's Proverbs 31, but I'm not a wife and probably won't be one for a while. And there has to be something to "woman" other than "wife"--otherwise maidens and widows and nuns are worthless.

But I didn't want to knit, shop, wear makeup, sew, wear skirts, fuss about how I look, be "cute," jabber on the phone, etc.

And I didn't want to give up what I love: football, climbing, strength, euchre, outside, tennis shoes, basketball, Tapico, etc. I spit, occasionally. And I want to fight.

Short answer: could I do that and still be a woman?

I was at a talk one Thursday where the (male) speaker said that what women want most from men is affirmation, and everyone nodded in blind agreement. I fumed. Why must "woman" always take a dative?

But it was affirmation I was seeking. I needed someone to tell me: it's a good thing that you want to be beautiful; you are beautiful. I needed someone to come find me and convince me I didn't need to hide. I needed to relax and think of other people instead of analyzing the masculinity or femininity of my actions. I needed to stop trying to prove that I was as fast and strong and ignorant of physical pain and competent at throwing a football as any of my guy-friends (because, as much as I tried, I wasn't).

Short answer: I was trying and failing at being a man. And of course I should fail at this: I'm a woman. But I fail at knitting and shopping as well. Must failure at knitting and shopping necessarily be directly proportional to failure as a woman?

Short answer: Because I didn't want to knit and I didn't want to fail.

In addition to this, I kept hearing that abortion is an offense against women. But why? That question was not satisfactorily answered. Women are nurturers and lifegivers--but I wanted to pummel someone. I wanted to throw someone behind me and fight for them. Women are mothers--but I'm not pregnant and don't plan on giving birth until at least nine months after I marry.

I don't understand women, or anyway, didn't. I'm getting better at it. It was (and still is, though to a lesser extent) incomprehensible to me how people could enjoy shoe shopping. And I looked down my nose at women who went climbing and played football, because look at them, they're just trying to be masculine. For some reason, I felt more compelled to out-strength, out-throw, out-virtus, out-dignitas these "masculine" women than to keep up with men. (Pride, anyone?)

Short answer: I needed to learn how to be feminine so that I might be humble.

I remember once catching myself in the middle of a Rosary, realizing I was praying to a woman, and I sobbed.

Short answer: I needed to learn how to be feminine so that I might be holy.

I'd pretty much given up on having close woman-friends because most women didn't enjoy anything I was interested in, and if they did, I felt threatened.

Short answer: I need woman-friends. Some things you just can't talk about in mixed company.

Here's an analogy I've often found helpful: a woman is like an ocean, beautiful and terrifying. And a man can admire from a distance, wade in a bit, sit on the dock with his feet in the water--but we want to be pursued. We want men to dive in and explore, not sit with his feet awkwardly in the water, afraid to jump in because he sees shark fins wandering about.

Here's what this means practically: men complain all the time that women hint at what they want instead of telling directly; women complain equally (though probably with far more words) that men don't pick up on their hints. Women don't really want men to read our minds; we want men to scour our facebook profiles, remember our passing comments, pay attention to us, and at the very least talk to our woman-friends to find out what we want. Trying and not getting it quite right is far better than not trying at all.

But fallen women forget about God and expect fallen men to do this perfectly. Therein lies the problem.

Some oceans know their beauty but fear that they won't be pursued, so they give up the chase and let the reward come too easily--and are then called s--ts and w----s and b----es.

Some oceans don't know their beauty and are afraid that pursuit will end in disappointment. They hide their beauty by keeping away from everyone or dressing sloppily or letting the sharks breed out of control. They put up defenses so they cannot be pursued.

Some oceans know they are loved totally and completely by God. They know he will always pursue them and that they are beautiful and that his pursuit will be well-rewarded. These oceans are fallen women, too--we all are, except for her--and they can enjoy compliments and pursuit from fallen men, but they don't rely on fallen men. They rely on God, who actually can and does follow through all the time.

Knitting and shoe shopping and jabbering on the phone are irrelevant to femininity. And that was my most important discovery.

why does it matter to you? that you need to be feminine that is? OR better phrased why do you want to be feminine?

Short answer: permission and freedom to be who I am.

Thanks for asking.

happy thanksgiving

I have received into my heart Jesus Christ, His Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity. I begin this day as a day in Heaven. He is in my soul the Divine Infant in the crib, the growing Boy at Nazareth, the Apostle acclaimed by crowds on the roads of Galilee, the Miracle-Worker Who performed such prodigies, the Martyr Who completed His Sacrifice on Calvary.

And now, O good Master, what shall I give Thee in exchange for Thy visit...?

I would like to pray to Thee with the burning words of Thy Mother and her court of Heaven, but I feel riveted to earthly things...

I would like to offer Thee courageous loyalty to my Baptismal Vows and Confirmation Graces but alas, I have so often been disloyal...

I would like, at least, to have a desire for the Christian life, but I allow myself to be discouraged by my failures...

O good Jesus, I have nothing to give Thee, and Thou hast given Everything; Thou hast given Thyself to me. I can only join my poor voice in the chorus of praise to Thee, rising out of all the works of Thy Creation here on earth...

With the fifteen hundred millions now living on earth, I shall praise Thy Mercy! May our voices unite with the billions of those who inhabited the earth before us, and out of whose dust the beauty of Nature perpetually rises to praise Thy Glory!

May an infinite concert of voices from cottages and palaces, from fields and forests, from towns and deserts, from workshops and cathedrals, from earth and from heaven, from time and from eternity arise to give my thanks unto Thee!


from my grandfather's WWII Navy missal, nihil obstat & imprimatur Jan. 6, 1938

what makes me smile

Last year I started a list of things that make me happy, and I've been updating it periodically. When I'm stressed over a paper, reading through the list calms me down. (I recommend this.)

I've been asked several times if there's an accompanying list of things that really bug me. I've been tempted to make one, and some of then have started to creep into this list (see #1, #40, #41, and #90). I haven't made one for three reasons: first, it wouldn't be good for me; second, it would serve no purpose; third, I think a lot of people would find it funny to go through the list and annoy me as much as possible ("you look so cute, Pet-Rides!").

So here are 156 things that make me smile, 156 things for which I'm thankful, 156 blessings I've counted thus far, 156 reasons beyond the ordinary big ones that I know God loves me.

(maybe take a look at #87)


1. wildflowers, flowers in the ground where they belong, especially when they’re not in a garden. wild geraniums. bloodroot. trillium. jack-in-the-pulpit. siberian squill. violets. crocuses. snowdrops. daisies. indian paintbrush.
2. my grandma’s big blue Croatian eyes, and any hint that I have them
3. the scent inside wintergreen leaves
4. the smell of incense and chrism
5. the story of Judith
6. having the immediate family all together in the same place
7. euchre
8. snow
9. Uncle Joe’s cabin
10. the B.C. Bar
11. campfires
12. canoeing on Grass Lake
13. seeing people smile, hearing people laugh, knowing that people are happy
14. live theater
15. violin music, played well
16. the intercession of Sts. Anthony and Michael
17. when the first-graders sing the refrain to “Canticle of the Sun”
18. honesty
19. sunrises
20. good nature photography
21. the pin oak that holds its leaves tenaciously until mid-April
22. big chairs that are just the right size to curl up in
23. the brown chair in the basement
24. Emily’s adamant denial of her suth’n twaang
25. comfortable jeans
26. hoodies
27. getting clothes from Emily
28. hot chocolate
29. wool socks
30. white pines
31. ferns
32. deer
33. the misshapen white pine in the meadow at the cabin
34. languages
35. how language and psychology connect
36. hearing people talk about what they love, even if I’m not that interested
37. football
38. UM football
39. Tony Smela’s grin that graces every camera he finds (“graces” is stretching it…)
40. dogs, but not the small puny ones you can punt across the room
41. practical jokes, but only if they’re more funny than annoying
42. marching bands
43. backaches after shoveling snow
44. the blue-purple dark in early evening on fresh snow
45. the dull ache of soreness that means muscles are getting stronger
46. Polaris water
47. random phrases in other languages
48. large quantities of boring black and blue pens
49. the Mackinac bridge
50. George’s Russian hat
51. messages on my dry-erase board
52. actually, messages almost anywhere
53. epic similes/metaphors
54. Fox in Socks and tweedle beetles
55. all the dents, nicks, chips, etc. in our crèche
56. Maple Leaf Rag
57. Cheese Broccoli (the song)
58. when people ask so I can answer “with silver bells and cockle shells and pretty maids all in a row”
59. etymological discoveries
60. when men love Mary (mother of God)
61. jokes that make me feel smart
62. Roget. Words. Good words.
63. Dr. Burke humor.
64. olive oil on focaccia bread
65. playing football in the snow
66. making fun of Tony Bosak (but endearingly)
67. treehouse #7
68. climbing. rappelling. the pretty rope.
69. the smell of fresh dirt.
70. rhythmic poetry. “The Bells.” “Annabel Lee.”
71. Wheat Chex with honey
72. when I’m sleeping or pretending to sleep or trying to sleep and someone comes over and puts a blanket or coat or something on me
73. asparagus ferns
74. wearing other people’s clothing, but usually only if it belongs to a sibling, because otherwise it’s kind of weird
75. the awesome blue hat Amanda made
76. Kennedy, Calvin, and George: “hammerzeit”
77. Tony hugs (Tony Smela)
78. getting lost in dictionaries
79. when people tell me something that they know I’ll find interesting
80. gory crucifixes
81. when the etymology of a word turns out to be awesome
82. Thai lessons from Garrett
83. when men respect women for being women and not just for being people
84. Grimms’ Tales
85. puns
86. finding out I don’t have as much work to do as I thought I did
87. after it rains, the maple footprints on cement
88. Mu Alpha hats
89. chocolate scotcheroos
90. Petrides pronounced correctly
91. Grandpa’s “muskatelli” and Uncle Leo’s “mostacowie” for “mostaccioli”
92. Uncle Leo’s “Mark two!” and “passage” and slamming the cards on the table playing euchre
93. leafless trees silhouetted against a sunrise or sunset
94. clear blue winter skies over fresh snow
95. Bubble Bobble
96. fires, contained: a candle, a fireplace, a firepit
97. feeling warm sun
98. giant dictionaries in libraries
99. the smell of cedar
100. the smell of distant fast food during winter
101. making Calvin lose the game
102. bells
103. the clinking sound of Rosaries coming out
104. usually the last thing Seamus says before someone yells at him to shut up
105. the electric excitement of a thunderstorm
106. the electric excitement of the first snow
107. the smell of new t-shirts
108. integritive
109. the sound of water hitting the leaves of houseplants
110. the smell of coffee
111. the intercession of St. Thomas Aquinas
112. pilfering in good fun
113. ashes
114. George singing/humming Celtic songs
115. when people ask me what “velleity” means, then are too lazy to go look it up
116. Seth with ice cream in a waffle cone
117. rotating smileys on gmail chat
118. the sizzling sound of PAAS egg dye and the accompanying scent of vinegar
119. the Greek egg-cracking game
120. the clinking of censer and chain
121. dressing up in clothing several times my size, especially shoes
122. homemade chocolate chip cookies
123. cookie dough
124. ultimate Frisbee
125. the smell of freshly-cut grass
126. bird songs
127. Georgia whistling
128. Nathan’s Kat
129. Brandon’s injuries
130. sailing
131. Jason’s courtesy
132. sleeping in the boathouse
133. friendship: Kennedy and Calvin. Andrew and Evan. Sam and Ian.
134. scoutcraft fires
135. eco-con fires
136. pyrodex
137. the esophagal warmth from drinking hot chocolate in the cold
138. Jason’s “yes ma’am” and “no ma’am” and “aye aye ma’am”
139. wind through my hair
140. Red Wings hockey
141. useful, efficient, and sturdy knots and lashings, especially the mooring hitch
142. stained glass windows
143. Marine recruiters
144. Marines in blues
145. waffles
146. after a day of hard (physical) work, falling asleep as soon as my head touches the pillow
147. sleeping on the floor
148. Scottish dancing
149. swing dancing
150. Chevy trucks, especially the ones at camp
151. up north
152. lead army men
153. swimming where the fish pee
154. sunrises
155. Jeff’s hick-speek
156. Jason’s footprints all over campus

because I wasted so much time whining today

Of course


he loves me.

...


Who'm I kidding?

I know he wants me to love him: he pursues me relentlessly. He isn't afraid of me, doesn't sit there with his feet dangling in the water like I'm too much for him, but dives in and knows everything about me. He listens when I talk to him or at him--he pays attention and learns what's buried, hidden deep inside my heart.

He created me beautiful but I was conceived deformed, tainted, diseased with a fetish for getting myself into trouble. He never tires of saving me from the stupid nonsense I get myself into. He forgives me when I ask him to.

And ultimately it came to this: he heard a threat that we would be apart for all of eternity, so he emptied himself, taking the form of a slave and becoming like us in all ways (except sin)--and how glorious! His mercy stood between me and death, stood separating me from death, and he destroyed the one who threatened me. He risked his life for my sake--and he died.

I wept until I had emptied myself, wept knowing I was empty of any way to repay him, wept for my sheer unworthiness of this total, self-emptying love. Wept that I had not made amends for the last few times I denied him. Wept that I had failed him so many times and he fulfilled what I would not have dared to ask him.

Water flowed from my eyes and from his side. Blood splashed on the ground, washing me, making me clean. Whole. Glorious.

I felt a hand on my cheek and a thumb gently wiping my tears. The fingers under my chin strengthened and lifted it up. I raised my eyes and looked up through the warm tears that clung to my eyelashes. I saw him. Alive. He had survived death. He had died so that I could live and he came out alive.

He helped me to my feet and I laid my head against his chest. The strength of his arms surrounded me and I closed my eyes, breathing in the sweet scent of burial perfumes. And there I rested. Safe.

addendum

to: success, gratia Dei

I looked at the comments and realized I needed to clarify a few things:

“Why must ‘woman’ always take a dative?”
Proverbs 31 is great, except I’m not a wife. I think I’ve done a decent job at being a good daughter, a good sister, a good friend. Probably my parents and siblings and friends are the best judge of that, respectively, but I think it’s fair to say that I haven’t done a horrible job. But I wanted to learn how to be a good woman.

I suspected C&A was right about X being especially feminine because C&A has always struck me as very masculine (he doesn’t play football, by the way). C&A has a good head on his shoulders and I can pretty much trust what he says.

As far as I know I’m not boyfriend-hunting. I don’t think I am.

I’ve been talking about this to anyone who will listen, and even some people who won’t. And I’ve been looking for common threads and things like--what do prostitutes, homeless women, rich “daddy’s money” women, woman athletes, women who knit, fairy tale women, women in literature, nuns, mothers, etc. all have in common? because that’s something that’s probably ontologically true of women.

Anonymous, you wrote that Augustine and the Bible “very clearly state many such things.” If you happen to look back here and you can point me in a more specific direction, that would be wonderful.

Femininity is not merely in the eye of the beholder. I don’t know if you can really define it, but it’s definitely not merely in the eye of the beholder. “God created man in his image; in the divine image he created him; male and female he created them” (Gen. 1:27). God made us as men or as women.

Now, a man might think “I love women who are athletes” and another man might think “I love women who cook.” Of course different men are going to look for different things in women. But it isn’t the man’s eye that makes the woman feminine--it’s how much she knows she is loved. And the only love we can rely on 100% is God’s love. Even wonderful men fail occasionally. So we have to lean on Christ--as I heard on the radio, lean on Him so far that if he weren’t there, you would fall over.

(For the sake of fairness and accuracy, I’ll include that the reverse is also true: different women like different men, but it isn’t the woman’s eye that makes the man manly. The only love anyone can rely on 100% is God’s love, and even wonderful women fail occasionally.)

You do need to jump outside the box and go on adventures and learn something new--it seems cowardly to me to live a completely safe life. (“Well, if I wanted to have a safe life, I guess I wouldn’t have married a man who studies rocks.” --Betty Armstrong, “The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra”) But whatever risks you take, whatever adventures you go on, however many dirt bikes you crash, wherever your grandpa’s jeep or your plane tickets take you, remember this: you are a warrior princess, one who totally and completely captivates your Savior. Strong. Fierce. Loyal. Kind. Beautiful. Captivating.

Judith is my hero.

happy veterans day

I had planned on doing my laundry and taking a nap after lunch (no class until 2:30 and little sleep the night before), but the Marine recruiters were here today. Two of them in charlies, one of them I recognized. I called my grandpa and Mike to wish them a happy veterans day. I sat in AJ's reading Pearl and Chase & Phillips.

The one I recognized came over after a bit and said hello, how are you, asked why I didn't come over and say hello. "Is it because Louis isn't here?" Well, no, it wasn't. We chatted for a short while but not about anything important. He saw my mile swim patch and said he wasn't sure he could swim a mile. I told him it took me an hour and a half and I fell down trying to stand up at the end, and if you ask me to run a mile I couldn't do it.

Nothing exciting. They're cool guys, though.

Let the record show that Mary doesn't actually have a crush on the Marine recruiters.

I called David T. and had a really awkward conversation.
--Hello?
--Hi, David T.?
--Yes.
--This is Mary Petrides from camp. I just wanted to say happy veterans day.
--Pardon?
--This is Mary Petrides from Tapico.
--Okay.?
--I just wanted to say happy veterans day.
--Thank you.
--You're welcome.
(awkward pause)
--Thank you. (awkward pause) Bye.
--Bye.

success, gratia Dei

I'm not sure if these people really want their names used, so I'm going to encode them. If they want to disclose their identity, they are welcome to do so.

My quest: to figure out how to be a good woman. to figure out what it means to be a good woman. to figure out what femininity is.

C&A kept telling me if I want to figure it out, I have to talk to women about it. He kept getting frustrated, because I kept asking him and probably wasn't listening nearly as well as I thought I was. I told him I didn't really have any woman friends I could really talk to about this because it was so much easier to hang out with guys, so that's what I did mostly. He pointed me to X, and told me I should talk to her. She, he said, understood femininity very well.

I don't know what it was, but there was a barrier. I couldn't talk to X without cringing and feeling like a failure. I kept trying, and C&A couldn't understand what the barrier was. And I couldn't explain it to him, because I didn't understand it either.

BYM and I would talk at length about masculinity and femininity. I learned more from these discussions than anywhere else, as far as I know. We'd discuss things like: I love football and I want to be strong; can I be feminine and still do that? Do I have to sew and crochet and enjoy shopping in order to be feminine? And we would conclude things like: men who lift weights every day because they have to prove their manliness seem like wusses compared to men who are confident in their manliness but maybe not as physically strong. Similarly, women who smear on layers of makeup in order to be beautiful seem ugly compared to women who are confident in their own beauty but maybe not as beautiful.

I told BYM that I predicted X and JF would be the next couple, but he wasn't so sure.

He said she was taking on the role of little sister because that's what JF needed.

C&A pursued her quite a bit last year--it was kind of obvious even if I hadn't overheard what I did. Someone described her as "darn careful." They didn't date, as far as I know.

I went to dinner and watched people, including X, JF, and one or two dating couples. Something clicked. I went to adoration at St. Anthony's after dinner and started writing. About 7:30, something else clicked.

It really is an issue of confidence, but it isn't self-confidence.

BYM was right: if you're going to be fully masculine or fully feminine, you kind of have to let it happen accidentally. And if you're confident, you aren't going to be artificially manipulating your behavior.

C&A found X so completely feminine because she had this confidence. I wouldn't call it confidence, though--it's very gentle. Not wishy-washy, though. And not necessarily quiet, but definitely not obnoxious.

I can't see her fighting. I can't see her cowering. If she were attacked, I don't know what she'd do. I can't see her afraid. She'd probably try to get away as best she could, but she'd probably be killed. And if she weren't, she'd go back and make sure the guy who attacked her is okay. She wouldn't have to forgive him because she wouldn't be offended.

I remember when I was little (you hush. I've grown some.), my mom told me that God is King and Father. I remember doing the math in my head, and when I had it all sorted out, I asked her if that made me a princess. And she said yes. I was utterly delighted.

But it's something I've forgotten.

MC tells me about CM, a girl who drops her 5-inch skirt any chance she gets. MC tells me she keeps asking him to come see her, but he doesn't want to go. She'll ploy him into having sex with her, and he wants to date a girl who will at least make him work to have sex with her. I had no problem identifying and explaining the problem. CM had no self-confidence, or anyway very little. Women want to be pursued, but she didn't think she was worth pursuing or didn't think any man would pursue her. So she gave up the chase and let herself be caught--and if no one would catch her, she would jump into their hands and hold on with the grip as strong as a two-year-old's.

I think I did the same thing with MCS last year, though not to the same extent. I was boyfriend-hunting, to an extent, though not entirely consciously. Part of it was that I was pretty sure I had a religious vocation but priests kept telling me to date, so I figured I'd have a boyfriend in college then after I graduate go find an order. (Fr. Bob always tells me that the best way to make God laugh is to make plans.) Part of it is something I think all, or anyway most, freshmen go through: you're thrown into a huge group of people you've never met, and maybe one of them...

But I wanted to be pursued, and I was afraid that I wouldn't be. And how do you "be pursued" anyway? You don't do anything. So I made it easy. And I ignored red flags and made it too easy. The whole thing was entirely chaste, physically speaking: there was no sex, there was no uncovering or touching certain body parts. But I got him to ask me out.

X didn't do that. Here's the thing about her: she has her focus right. She knows she's a princess, knows she's loved utterly and completely by God, knows she's totally captivating, knows she's beautiful. She knows it as well as she knows that her shoes are on the right feet--she doesn't have to think about it.

That's what it means to be feminine.

To know that you're a princess. That you're totally captivating. That you're loved, fully, completely, unconditionally. To know that He will chase after you as long as you keep running, and when He catches you He will never let you go. To know that you are totally and completely safe with Him.

To know it the same way that you know to put toothpaste on your toothbrush before you stick it in your mouth. To know it better than the back of your hand. To know it so well you don't have to think about it. To know it so well that it doesn't bother you that other people do it well--that maybe it bothers you that other people don't know it well and you want to show them.

To keep your focus on Him because He will never fail you. Will never betray your trust. Will never lose strength. Will always defend and protect you. Will always find you completely beautiful. Will always find you captivating. Will always pursue you. Will never let you go.

Will set you free.

[addendum]

halloween costume

Dear Rushka, who are you?

Who was your hero when you were a boy?

What color are the walls in your bedroom?

Were you one of the cool kids in kindergarten, or did your classmates make fun of you? What did they make fun of you for?

Did you live with both your parents? Do you remember the day they divorced, or the day one of them died?

What were you doing when you first felt your voice crack?

How many siblings did you have? Who was your best friend?

What was your Halloween costume in seventh grade?

Did you play football? Were you cut from the basketball team? Did you quit the cross country team your senior year?

Why?

What kind of music made you dance inside?

Did you ever look at a sunset and long to be part of it?

What did you eat for your last meal at home?

Did you go to college? What did you do on weekends? What did you major in? What fascinated you?

Why the Marines?

How old were you when you left for basic? What did you miss most about home?

What were you thinking the first time you stepped into your uniform? Is your name spelled right on the back pocket?

Did you ever think it would hang in someone’s garage for four dollars amid the hammers and knick knacks and doilies they cleaned out before they moved?

What happened on your first birthday as a Marine? Did you have a girlfriend? Did she write?

How did you make her smile the last time you saw her?

Where you afraid when you went overseas? Were you brave, too?

Did you find a way to laugh sometimes? Did you ever feel your heart rip out of your chest? Did you cry? Were you strong, too?

What was the first thing you thought of when you woke up that morning?

Did you know what would happen?

How did they get you home?

Who folded your flag?

Are you wearing your blues?

Can you hear me?

Who are you, Rushka?

why don't *you* die, then?

Fresh Hopes and Concerns As Fetal DNA Tests Advance
By Rob Stein
Washington Post Staff Writer
Sunday, October 26, 2008; Page A01

Doctors have started using powerful new DNA tests to screen fetuses for a wider range of genetic abnormalities, spotting more problem pregnancies early but stirring fears that the results will increase abortions as well as confuse and needlessly alarm many couples.

Sometimes I wonder how you can extract DNA from a fetus, test it for genetic abnormalities, and not recognize it as human.

According to the article, Arthur L. Beaudet is the chair of Baylor's Department of Molecular and Human Genetics. The article quotes him:

"Some of these disorders are quite burdensome. They require lifelong nursing care. In some cases these children never walk, never talk, never feed themselves," Beaudet said. "It can have a major impact on the family. People say, 'I wish you had given me the opportunity to know ahead of time. It's really destroyed our lives.' That's why women want to know."

This is really not cool.

I understand that love is difficult. I utterly fail at it all the time. But why must we be cowards? Why can't we step up, be courageous, and love people who are difficult to love?

thoughts while cramming for a current events quiz

Friday, October 24, 2008
Gender equality in military debated
Women cannot hold some posts in U.S. forces, angering advocates of same treatment for sexes.
Jerome L. Sherman / Pittsburgh Post-Gazette

I'm going to let Jason (the Marine) speak. Quotes (with permission) are directly from gmail chat or aim, cleaned for grammar and language.

Women aren't allowed on submarines: "they're not allowed to surface for 3 months. Think of all the guys on board of a sub not allowed to be surfaced with women there."

Women aren't allowed in infantry or cavalry, "basically not allowed in combat." Jason said "You know how bad I feel when women get hit? Imagine how bad I'd feel if they get shot, blown up, anything of that sort." Do most Marines feel that way? "Most of them do. However, there are a lot of female Marines that can kick f---in a--. And all Marines are allowed in combat if there's an attack, so female Marines have fought and died. They're put through the exact same test as the men."

"These women aren't asking for special privileges," said Manning, a Navy veteran. "We think women and men should be allowed to do any job they are physically qualified to do."

What Manning--and most people--miss is that this isn't an issue of physical strength. Sure, men tend to be physically stronger, but there are plenty of women who are physically stronger than plenty of men. Those men who are lower on the "physical strength" scale aren't going to join the Marines. Keeping women from combat has nothing to do with lack of physical strength. This is the United States Marine Corps--if you're not physically strong, you're not going to finish basic training, regardless of sex.

I sent this quote to Jason, and he said "Women can kill people like the best of 'em. Just when they start getting hurt, people freak out." What do you mean by "freak out"? Jason said "If you and I were getting shot at, and you got shot, I would freak out and be more concerned about helping you than shooting back." Are a lot of Marines like this?

"Like this? It's why they don't allow it."

Jason continued: "Also, you have to get into some pretty dirty situations in the field, including field hygiene, involving quickly pulling down clothes, using baby wipes to clean the four important parts, and getting clothed again in less than a minute."

Why are people so upset about it? "They don't want to see women dying. It would be all over the TV. And women would be targeted."

And what about basic training? Men and women go through the same training, Jason said, but they're separated. "Three months of intense training and spewing testosterone can make you really want a woman, and if they're in easy access that can lead to huge problems," Jason said.

No need to be insulted.

Prominent former priest convicted of abusing boy

It really upsets me that the rest of us get a bad name because of the actions of a few. This isn't what the Catholic Church teaches.

It really upsets me when people get angry at the church or hate the church or leave the church because of the actions of a few. This isn't what the Catholic Church is.

It really upsets me when people say or assume or joke that all priests are like this. Most of them are not. Most of them are really awesome.

No takers for contest that requires abstinence
The Associated Press
Thursday, October 23, 2008; 8:56 PM
ATLANTA -- A contest that would pay $10,000 to an engaged couple, as long as they abstain from premarital sex, hasn't gotten any takers. The deadline for the Marriage for a Lifetime contest is Oct. 31. The prize includes free flowers, invitations and other wedding treats.

I thought this was interesting. But it bugs me that they portray chastity as something no one lives by. I know tons of people who live this way--no sex outside marriage. I'm wondering why the contest wasn't advertized more.

Friday, October 24, 2008
Today's talkers
Virtual 'slaying,' real charges
Mari Yamaguchi / Associated Press

TOKYO -- A 43-year-old player in a virtual game world became so angry about her sudden divorce from her online husband that she logged on with his password and killed his digital persona, police said Thursday.
Go outside, meet real people, communicate in reality.

forgiveness

I was ready for the fight but not ready for it to take place over the internet. He denied everything and refused to apologize and for the second night in a row I went to bed angry. Thumbing through my Rosary, my mind snagged on the line "forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us." How could I be forgiven for anything if I wasn't willing to forgive him?

In my head I played out a scene where I yell at him and everybody hears and says "look, dude, she's right." I interrupted it with panicked pleas to Christ to help me forgive him and my mind wandered back to yelling at him. I interrupted it with desperate cries to St. Michael to defend me and my mind wandered back to yelling at him. I was already exhausted when I went to bed and I had no energy for this battle. I was awake far later than I had intended.

I woke up in the morning and opened my Bible and there was Matthew 18.

I fought on the walk to Mass. I fought during Mass. I fought when everyone else got up to receive the Eucharist. And I knew there were thousands of people fighting for me.

I knew where to find him, and I waited there for him. I prayed that I would say the right things and that the wrong things would slip my mind. I prayed that his mind would be open and that he would hear what he needed to hear. I felt a fear crawl up and fidget inside my stomach. I recognized the fear: I must be doing the right thing.

I waited.

He came. He saw me. I apologized.

I told him I shouldn't have gotten into that kind of discussion over the internet. I don't think I said anything that wasn't true, but I wouldn't have said it as harshly had I said it in person. I spoke quietly.

He calmly denied everything I had accused him of.

The silence was awkward. After a minute, he disappeared, I think to the bathroom. I picked up my books and left. Once the adrenaline wore off and I was safely out of his sight, I felt my heart shine. Dance. Glow. Sing. Burst.

I had forgiven him.

I tossed my books on a table and ran outside, laughing. I climbed a tree. Giddy. I called Seth and left him a message.

"Seth, I forgave him, I forgave him. He's still an idiot but it's okay because I forgave him. God is wonderful and so are all the saints and thank you for praying for me."

sovereignty

Thursday in Jackson’s class--the ENG-310 with the horrendously long name: Anglo-Saxon and Medieval British Literature--Dr. Jackson told us something about wills and submission:

1. In order to have submit your will to someone else, you must have a will. (This is a tautology.)

2. Submitting your will to someone else is the greatest expression of sovereignty.

I don't know if he's right or not, but I've been thinking. (For a shorter version, skip to "what I learned.")

examples from literature

Last year in another English class with a horrendously long name--Freshman Rhetoric and Great Books II--we read Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky. The book is full of suffering, and toward the end, Svidrigailov attempts to rape Dunya. Sparknotes summarizes the scene (part V chapter V) like this:

Svidrigailov lures Dunya to his room...While Dunya becomes faint with anger and confusion, Svidrigailov offers to help Raskolnikov [her brother] avoid punishment if she will marry him. In horror, she runs to the door, only to discover that Svidrigailov has locked it. He threatens to rape her, warning that he can report her brother if she reports him. She pulls out a revolver, threatens him with it, and accuses him of poisoning his late wife. He dares her to fire, and she does, twice, but manages only to graze his temple. Svidrigailov moves to embrace her but, realizing that she will never love him, lets her go. Putting the revolver in his pocket, he goes out shortly thereafter.

Sparknotes doesn't do the scene justice, and I would quote from the book but it's elsewhere, probably Louisville. Sparknotes misses something key: Dunya drops the revolver. We discussed this in class. Dunya drops the revolver, making herself completely vulnerable to Svidrigailov. A moment passes where nothing happens. Svidrigailov stares at the revolver on the ground, one shot left in it. Silence. Svidrigailov runs out of the room.

Something about Dunya's voluntary, willful vulnerability scared the [feces] out of Svidrigailov, and he ran away.

He threatened to rape her--what better way to assert your will, violently, on someone else? The door was locked and, once she dropped the revolver, there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop him. But she was in control of the situation. She submitted her will, and, inasmuch as these things are won and lost, Dunya won.

Something similar happens in the Beowulf movie, and I will tell you and spoil it in order to prevent you from watching the movie. A warrior is about to kill Beowulf (the hero), so Beowulf rips off his armor, piece by piece, walks over and says go ahead, kill me. And the warrior can't do it.

In Jackson's class, we're reading the Canterbury Tales, and today we discussed the Wife of Bath's Tale and the Clerk's Tale.

A superficial reading of the Wife of Bath's Tale says the tale is about what women want most. The Wife of Bath has had an unfortunate number of husbands and--well, she's very beautiful--she uses sex to get what she wants from her current husband. Meta touta, a knight rapes a maiden and the queen's council sentences him to death unless he can figure out what women want most. He eventually finds the Wife of Bath, who by this time is old and ugly. She tells him that she'll answer his question if he promises to comply with her first request. The knight agrees, the Wife whispers in his ear, the knight tells the queen that women's greatest desire is sovereignty, and the Wife requests that the knight marry her. He does so, reluctantly, and in bed that night she gives him two options: she can be ugly and faithful or beautiful with no guarantees about who she's sleeping with. He lets her decide (giving her sovereignty) and she becomes beautiful and faithful (exactly what he wants).

The Clerk's Tale also deals with the issue of sovereignty. The Marquis chooses the daughter of the poorest man in the poorest village to be his wife. She agrees to obey his every wish (whether he makes her laugh or suffer) and to be always happy and never grumble. They have a daughter and he decides to tempt her: he takes away her daughter and leads her to believe her daughter is dead; she bears him a son and he does the same; he sends her back to her father with nothing; he announces that he's to remarry and asks her to plan the wedding. She doesn't bat an eye, doesn't weep, just lets him do what he wants. In the end he marries her again.

what i knew and what i learned

Marriages work best when the husband and wife both submit their wills to each other.

If both parties go into a marriage selfishly, she she will be either manipulative and controlling or passive and clingy; he will be either abusive or a pushover.

There's a difference between being passive and submitting your will. I can't explain it (I tried and failed), but anyone can tell the difference between a man who is genuinely courteous and a man who is genuinely a pushover. A courteous man will do what the woman asks because he wants to please her; a pushover will do what the woman asks because he's afraid of not pleasing her. Or because he wants something.

Courteous men are wonderful, and the mark of a courteous man is that he submits his will without being passive (I think).

I've been topsy-turvy for at least a year trying to figure out how to be a good woman. Ask me how to be a good man, and I would tell you to go read "If" by Rudyard Kipling and the Boy Scout Law. But nobody writes those sorts of things for women.

But the answer is simple. To be a good man, what you have to do is submit your will. To be a good woman, what you have to do is submit your will.

Submit your will. That's all. It's simply a matter of pride.

Simple, but not easy.

I complain that I can't be "helpful" at Hillsdale but I think I'm really complaining that I can't show off how physically strong I am (not that it's much).

I get really offended at woman jokes, but honestly? that's a matter of pride, too.

I get upset when they need volunteers and they have men move tables and women bring food out. That's completely pride.

Submit your will.

First to God.

Second to other people.

But submit it. Humble yourself.

nothing too exciting

workout

Marcellus, who worked ranger staff at camp, was shocked to discover that I go to college.

"You've got an education and you're still doing physical labor?" he asked me.

I didn't know how to respond. Is education a way to avoid physical labor? Is physical labor lower than white collar work?

Saturday mornings at camp are equipment moves. Nick said "It's like getting paid to go to the gym."

I wonder.

Am I going to grow up and get a white-collar job where I don't have to do physical labor then spend my white-collar money on a gym membership because I sit at a desk all day and get out of shape?

army men photos

how we made the army men

I had a request for army man photos, and they will be here right after I show you our dinner. Bob killed a year-old doe on Monday, picked vine-ripened Byron tomatoes on Wednesday, and we feasted Thursday night. We didn't have any spice, so Bob crushed some pringles and added those. I don't even like tomatoes and they were good. Bob Ferberger is a good cook. Jason Middleton is a good tomato washer.






And as requested, the army men. I haven't had a chance to trim or paint them, so they're still a little rough. If anyone knows where I can find enamel paint in very small amounts for cheap, please let me know. (The duck is from the library's table at the Source.)




I thought the backdrop fitting--the flag is from my great-uncle Nick's casket. A real Army man.





These guys (lying down, below) are a little weird. They only have one leg and foot each. Past their waists, it's sort of like a mermaid except with a shoe instead of a tail.





This guy is supposed to have a rifle, but the end if it broke off, so it looks more like a pistol. Bob, Jason, Mike and I thought the way he's standing to shoot looks kind of funny. The only part of the conversation I'm willing to post online is that Jason (the Marine) said he must be a Navy man.




The mold for this guy didn't work very well. This might be the first successful version of him.





This one isn't a guy at all but she found someone's old Marine BDUs at a garage sale.

fall break part 2: mining

Nick told me he found five pounds in an hour. I didn't believe him: I said "Nick, you're a liar." So I went out and found fifteen pounds in an hour. I came back and said "Nick, you're not a liar, you're a f--kin' slacker."
--Mike Beratta


The rifle range has been open since 1966 (I think) and until now no one has thought to mine it for lead. When kids shoot .22s they have to return the brass casings which are then exchanged for a couple bucks, but when the bullets hit the targets or the birm or the clays, we just leave them there.

Well, not anymore. Mike had over 100 pounds of lead by the time we got to camp, and he took us to the rifle range--about a half mile from the parade field--to mine some more.




During the summer, staffers from shooting and eco-con (when they teach astronomy) tell stories: the rifle range looks like a sandy crater, and gullible campers easily believe that a meteor landed there a few years ago. You have to go down a sandy hill to get to the blockhouse and shooting pavilion, then you shoot right into a sandy birm opposite. (I can't find "birm" in any dictionary, and I've never heard the word outside this context. The birm is the sandy wall you shoot into.) We went to the birm and Mike showed us the mine.

There was no ominous, clanky elevator descent inside the earth, no black lungs, no fog of soot--just a couple pig buckets, a shovel, and a wooden-framed screen.

We shoveled sand onto the screen and sieved it through, leaving rocks, clay pigeon fragments, sticks, marijuana, maple leaves, and bullets.




We did some sorting at the birm--removed anything big or alive. Everything else we dumped into a pig bucket.
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The orange shards are clay pigeon fragments. If you look closely, you can see bullets. Some are smashed; some are not.
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Mike drove us to the shop. During the summer, he gave us talks on limiting the amount of people on a golf cart, but all four of us piled on with our buckets of lead and rocks. Levi came with us.



Bob and Mike rinsed off the rocks and lead while Jason and I drove back to the range to drop off a pan of rocks. When Jason and I returned, we had a table of wet rocks and lead to sort.

It was a Kalkaska October evening, and by the time we were done, our hands were numb. I went to the shop bathroom to rinse off my hands, and Mike called to me over his shoulder:

"Make sure you put the seat back up when you're done."

I had already kicked it back up.
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We had a nice bucket of lead. I had to crouch down and push up with my legs to lift it.
Bob tried lifting it by the handle and it snapped and broke, spilling lead all over the shop floor.
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A handful or two of lead went into the ladle and we melted it with the gas torch. Tapping on the side of the ladle would bring any leftover dirt to the top: the lead, heavier, would sink. Within a couple minutes, we had a ladle of pure lead to pour into the molds.
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The round molds worked pretty well;
the army man molds had to be heated and sometimes they wouldn't work. I used Mike's pocket knife to trim an army man and ended up taking his arm off. We put the broken army men back into the ladle and melted them down again.

Then all that was left to do was trim the edges.

fall break part 1

THE PLAN:

Nathan from Hillsdale drives me to MSU on Wednesday. We get there about four. I hang out with Jacob until Jason is done with LCC class at 6. Jason picks me up at MSU, picks Bob up in Byron, and we drive up to camp. We stay there until Tony picks me up Friday afternoon.

THE EXECUTION:

Reunion

Nathan dropped me off at the bus stop at MSU and drove off before Jacob got there. I set my stuff on the bench and stood looking for him. Not 15 seconds had passed when I heard his voice: "behind you." I went to give him a hug and I was two feet off the ground, in his arms. I'd forgotten how strong he was (how?).

"It's so good to see another staff member," he told me, his smile so wide I thought it would break his face. I knew there were thrills of delight shooting through his body--he was in a Class B uniform and he hugged me without permission. He was giddy when he saw that I tautline-hitched my sleeping bag to my duffel bag with climbing rope.

I forgot how much I missed him.

MSU

The lounge in the student union was much quieter than Grewcock. We chatted for a bit, then I started talking to students about food safety for my "man on the street" story for my journalism class.

The first girl I talked to was a second-year grad student, and I wasn't at Hillsdale.

The second girl I talked to told me the FDA should do something to keep our food safe, and I definitely wasn't at Hillsdale.

We put my stuff up in Jacob's room--his dorm is larger than my sophomore class--and wandered around campus for a bit. Campus was beautiful. They allow--and even encourage--you to recycle. And I found this:


And as much as I whine about fancy-schmancy donor-schmoozing nonsense at Hillsdale, MSU's bathrooms were kind of gross and I'm glad ours are nice. But, Hillsdale, I can flush the toilet myself.

We got a phone call from Jason and he was on his way. We were going to meet him at the international center.

Reunion

I set my bag on the ground.

I used to tie my toes in knots to prevent myself from running across the room and tackle-hugging when I meet people I haven't seen in a while. I always thought it was annoying--probably because it's a very feminine way of greeting people--but I remember talking to Jason about it and he said he loves the tackle-hug reunion. I believed him. Jason loves women and is kind of a sucker for anything feminine. Few men are completely comfortable with telling any woman that she's beautiful; few men can do so without hitting on her or being creepy. Jason is one of those few.

He was wearing a gray hoodie and his staff hat (cover). He had his eyes down and he walked straight, stoically. It took me a bit to recognize him. And when I did he had two doors to go through and four steps to go up, so the tackle-hug thing didn't really work. I had to pause before going down the steps so I couldn't get enough momentum. I caught him about halfway up the steps, gave him a hug, and sort of walked him back down the steps.

Jacob told Jason to show us his pride and joy, and he pointed: "it's right there." It was beautiful.



Pizza and Ice Cream



Departure

Jacob carried my bag and he was thrilled to have something productive to do. We got my stuff loaded into Jason's car and it was time to go.

Jacob gave Jason a talk on taking care of me. "Watch her," he said.

"Just, not while I'm getting dressed," I added.

I gave Jacob a hug before I got into the car and when we let go I felt like my heart snagged on something came ripping out of my body.

I forgot how much I missed Jacob. I almost yelled after him when he walked away.

Drive

Jason is a good driver. I felt very safe in his car.

Reunion

We didn't have Bob's address, but we knew it was the blue house after the field in the outskirts of Byron. We tried calling him but he didn't get service.

We found his house, said hello, and loaded up his gear.

"You're bringing your rifle with you?" Jason asked.

"I always bring at least one gun with me when I go up north," Bob replied.

Jason looked at me. "I hope," he said.

I called Mike and he said we could crash in treehouses. We wouldn't be at camp until after midnight, and no one else was on camp.

Drive

I looked out the window and saw Cassiopeia--something I learned at camp this summer.

We stopped in Sterling for caffeine. Jason winced when we got out of the car.

"What's that smell?" he asked.

"Look." Bob pointed across the street.

Cows.

Arrival

Jason turned his brights on once we got on the dirt road. Leaves scattered the path--red leaves, I think--and a breeze brought a maple shower onto the car. I thought of a flower girl spreading petals across the aisle for the bride to walk on. It felt like: someone made this path for us and they were awaiting our arrival. We were late, but we were coming home, and someone was waiting for us.

I felt a hush as we drove past the twelve wooden signs on the way into camp: trustworthy. loyal. helpful. friendly. courteous. kind. obedient. cheerful. thrifty. brave. clean. reverent.

We drove around to treehouses 6 and 7. Bob and Jason set up in the Lizard Lounge; I slept across in Robin's Rainbow Room. Their cabiny smell surprised me. I never noticed it during the summer.

I was cold.

Happy to be home.

Morning
I woke up before the guys did and

Sometimes over Christmas I'll wake up early in the morning--just early enough to see the sun sparkle the innocent, fresh new snow that fell overnight. No one else is awake and I feel like this beauty was created just for me. And it makes me feel special and happy and giddy inside.

When I woke up that morning, alone in the treehouse, I felt the same. Everything was beautiful.


I walked around by the boathouse and OA dock then out to the burned area and Three Bs. Everything was delightfully beautiful, but my camera couldn't see much of it.





I knocked on the door of the Lizard Lounge around 10 a.m. We packed our things into Jason's van and we went over to Mike's house.

At Mike's House

Mike offered us instant oatmeal. None of us took the blueberry oatmeal, and he told us afterward he was hoping we would because he didn't like the blueberry.

We chatted.

He showed us the mines.