Snippets: A Circle of Quiet

Over a year ago, I stumbled on Madeleine L’Engle’s “A Circle of Quiet” in the basement of a used bookstore in Chicago. It’s something of a journal, and it appealed to me because sometimes, I don’t want story. I just want a person who will talk to me, say good and interesting things, make me think and feel alive.

It shouldn’t surprise that a lovely story teller has many other wonderful thoughts, about writing, about growth, about selfhood, about love. And I think the most moving part is that for everything I underline, thinking “She is so wise,” there is another that I underline, thinking “Wow, I have that flaw, too.” She’s honest, accessible, and lives with insight and a sense of humor. What’s not to love?

In lieu of underlining the crap out of my copy, I’m going to keep some of my favorite bits here. I fully intend to add more as I keep reading, and who knows, maybe I’ll even do it.

The moment that humility becomes self-conscious, it becomes hubris. One cannot be humble and aware of oneself at the same time. Therefore, the act of creating–painting a picture, singing a song, writing a story–is a humble act? This was a new thought to me. Humility is throwing oneself away in complete concentration on something or someone else.

∞

If I thought I had to say it better than anybody else, I’d never start. Better or worse is immaterial. The thing is that it has to be said, by me. We each have to say it, to say it in our own way. Not of our own will, but as it comes out through us. Good or bad, great or little: that isn’t what human creation is about. It is that we have to try.

∞

Mostly, no matter how inadequate my playing, the music is all that matters: I am outside time, outside self, in play, in joy. When we can play with the unself-conscious concentration of a child, this is: art: prayer: love.

Oh My God, Charlie Darwin

This is the title track of The Low Anthem’s latest album, and it’s fast becoming my morning hymn, my yoga music, my it’s-dark-outside transition into the waking, living world. A trio of acoustic guitar, vintage pump organ, and clarinet (and probably some other instruments as you go along), with beautiful vocal harmonies, their music feels folksy and reverent and modern. I like them very much.

Today I found this video, a little outdoor recording of “To the Ghosts Who Write History Books.” I like them as much raw as in studio (maybe more). Lyrics to both below.

Charlie Darwin

Set the sails I feel the winds a’stirring
Toward the bright horizon set the way
Cast your reckless dreams upon our Mayflower
Haven from the world and her decay

And who could heed the words of Charlie Darwin
Fighting for a system built to fail
Spooning water from their broken vessels
As far as I can see there is no land

Oh my god, the waters all around us
Oh my god, it’s all around

And who could heed the words of Charlie Darwin
The lords of war just profit from decay
And trade their children’s promise for the jingle
The way we trade our hard earned time for pay

Oh my god, the waters cold and shapeless
Oh my god, it’s all around
Oh my god, life is cold and formless
Oh my god, it’s all around

To the Ghosts Who Write History Books

To them ghosts that write history books
To them ghosts that write songs
Everyone asks would you write one about me

To them ghosts in the train yard
All them ghosts in my drink
Your money’s no good here just write one about me

And when you go, where the winds are strong
When you go where flowers bend
Please take along all the best of my luck and come back unchanged
Your demons all tamed
Your flowers uncut

And when you go where the winds are strong
Where soldiers carve their stones
Please take along all the best of my luck and come back unchanged
Your demons all tamed
Your flowers uncut

To them ghosts that write history books
To them ghosts that write songs
Everyone asks would you write one about me

To them ghosts in the train yard
All them ghosts in my drink
Your money’s no good here just write one about me

Left-hander.

Found sentence:

Other items which are inconvenient for left-handers include tin-openers, potato peelers, corkscrews, rulers, number keys on keyboards, watches, chequebooks, boomerangs, measuring cups and pencil sharpeners.

Phil Mickelson’s a rightie who swings left. I knew a guy in high school who trained his hands to write equally well. And, less impressively, I’ve learned to skip down steps on the opposite lead foot.

I suppose we’re meant to spend our energies on other obstacles. After all, the un- and re-learning means nothing to our hands and feet and, if anything, just slows us down. But there’s something of determination, and patience, and hope in re-routing things so tiny. Change is possible!

They are my context.

Today I painted a bedroom for my parents, blue, the last room of the house to make the switch to color. My back is sore from the work and the drive, but I couldn’t be happier. In high school, when things were really bad, Mom swore I’d like (or “stop hating” ) her when I grew up, and of course she was right. I’ve never had so much appreciation for them, both as parents and as people. Quirky and bickery? God yes. But also generous, hard-working, intelligent, and genuinely interested (and interesting). Everything and everyone means more in context, and I feel so lucky that they are mine.

Coffee shop message from an old woman, red hatted and with cane:

Fifteen years ago today a doctor told me I’d be dead of a brain tumor. It’s in there but it’s not growing, and look at me here today. Sons of bitches! Who are they to tell you when you’re gonna die? We don’t know, nobody knows. I could go home and choke to death on a Twinkie! So we smoke and drink vodka and do everything they tell us we’re not supposed to do because we’re all gonna die anyway. Fifteen years! I showed them! Everybody dies.