It's been such a long time since we've posted anything to this blog...I know for me, that has more to do with the busyness of life than anything else.
But I thought it worth popping back in today to mention a couple of things that Madeleine L'Engle enthusiasts can rejoice over.
First is the marvelous novel When You Reach Me by Rebecca Stead. In January, it was honored with the Newbery Medal. I recently reviewed it here.
I loved the book for itself, but I also loved it for its homage to Madeleine. I think she would have truly enjoyed this story about an ordinary twelve year old girl named Miranda caught up in some extraordinary things. The fact that the book of Miranda's heart is Madeleine's own A Wrinkle in Time (itself a Newbery Medal winner from 1963)and that the story of Wrinkle is woven into the narrative at various moments, is such wonderful evidence of the way Madeleine's work continues to live on and inspire other generations of writers and readers.
And speaking of younger generations, Madeleine's granddaughter Lena has launched a blog here. Her first young adult novel will be published in the fall by Farrar, Straus, Giroux.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Prayers Under the Dining Room Table
My mom tells me that she once heard me, at the age of about four or five, grumbling. Nothing surprising about that, perhaps. :-) But I was apparently hiding under the dining room table (a favorite place of mine) and what she overheard was a complaining prayer: "Jesus, everybody's bein' mean to me!"
I chuckle about that now, but sometimes I feel a little bit in awe of my preschool age self who didn't hesitate to go to God with a grumbling complaint, even a self-centered one. It not only speaks of an early trust and intimacy (that God was real, that he was listening and that he cared) but I think it teaches me anew that sometimes it's important to get those "dining room table prayers" prayed, even though they're not always the most eloquent prayers. I think of it almost every time I get to Madeleine's word about prayer on p. 24 of WoW:
"Before I can listen to God in prayer, I must fumble through the prayers of words, of willful demands, the prayers of childish 'Gimmes,' of 'Help mes,' of 'I want...' Until I tell God what I want, I have no way of knowing whether or not I truly want it. Unless I ask God for something, I do not know whether or not it is something for which I ought to ask, and I cannot add, 'But if this is not your will for me, then your will is what I want, not mine.' The prayers of words cannot be eliminated. And I must pray them daily, whether I feel like praying or not. Otherwise, when God has something to say to me, I will not know how to listen. Until I have worked through self, I will not be enabled to get out of the way."
Such wise advice. I haven't always followed it, but whenever I read it, I find myself realizing that I should. I need to remember to pray those dining room table prayers, those prayers of a childish heart, knowing and trusting that God wants to meet me there, he hears them, and he wants me to pray them. And that in praying them, I not only grow closer to him, but I work through my own "stuff" (from more selfish needs to real, practical needs on down) and get to a place where I am cleared out and in a better place to listen. I am really thankful to know that God doesn't look down on our "childish" prayers, and that he understands that we need words (our own and others) like a lifeline sometimes, even if they're inadequate in the end to convey our deepest heart's desires or our purest praise. Maybe when we run out of words or get to the end of them, we value the depths of silence more.
And of course, Madeleine also says that writing, like prayer, is discipline... something we should do every day if we're to faithfully serve and faithfully use the gift we've been given. More food for thought...
I chuckle about that now, but sometimes I feel a little bit in awe of my preschool age self who didn't hesitate to go to God with a grumbling complaint, even a self-centered one. It not only speaks of an early trust and intimacy (that God was real, that he was listening and that he cared) but I think it teaches me anew that sometimes it's important to get those "dining room table prayers" prayed, even though they're not always the most eloquent prayers. I think of it almost every time I get to Madeleine's word about prayer on p. 24 of WoW:
"Before I can listen to God in prayer, I must fumble through the prayers of words, of willful demands, the prayers of childish 'Gimmes,' of 'Help mes,' of 'I want...' Until I tell God what I want, I have no way of knowing whether or not I truly want it. Unless I ask God for something, I do not know whether or not it is something for which I ought to ask, and I cannot add, 'But if this is not your will for me, then your will is what I want, not mine.' The prayers of words cannot be eliminated. And I must pray them daily, whether I feel like praying or not. Otherwise, when God has something to say to me, I will not know how to listen. Until I have worked through self, I will not be enabled to get out of the way."
Such wise advice. I haven't always followed it, but whenever I read it, I find myself realizing that I should. I need to remember to pray those dining room table prayers, those prayers of a childish heart, knowing and trusting that God wants to meet me there, he hears them, and he wants me to pray them. And that in praying them, I not only grow closer to him, but I work through my own "stuff" (from more selfish needs to real, practical needs on down) and get to a place where I am cleared out and in a better place to listen. I am really thankful to know that God doesn't look down on our "childish" prayers, and that he understands that we need words (our own and others) like a lifeline sometimes, even if they're inadequate in the end to convey our deepest heart's desires or our purest praise. Maybe when we run out of words or get to the end of them, we value the depths of silence more.
And of course, Madeleine also says that writing, like prayer, is discipline... something we should do every day if we're to faithfully serve and faithfully use the gift we've been given. More food for thought...
Monday, October 13, 2008
"A Box Marked Children Only"
Reading along in Walking on Water the other day, I was struck anew by this paragraph:
"The artist, if he is not to forget how to listen, must retain the vision which includes angels and dragons and unicorns, and all the lovely creatures which our world would put in a box marked Children Only."
What else goes into that box on a regular basis, I wonder? It seems like we're okay with writing beautiful stories and stories of wonder for children, but for adults we think it all has to be pragmatic and "realistic." I put that last in quotes because I think what Madeleine is reminding of us here is that we need to broaden our vision of what's real to include things that are unseen or only usually talked about in the realm of imagination.
And there's the connection between listening and vision again...which we talked about in the earlier post.
"The artist, if he is not to forget how to listen, must retain the vision which includes angels and dragons and unicorns, and all the lovely creatures which our world would put in a box marked Children Only."
What else goes into that box on a regular basis, I wonder? It seems like we're okay with writing beautiful stories and stories of wonder for children, but for adults we think it all has to be pragmatic and "realistic." I put that last in quotes because I think what Madeleine is reminding of us here is that we need to broaden our vision of what's real to include things that are unseen or only usually talked about in the realm of imagination.
And there's the connection between listening and vision again...which we talked about in the earlier post.
Words...
It comes as no surprise to me that such an accomplished writer as L'Engle should have strong opinions when it comes to the variety of words available to authors. "We cannot Name or be Named without language," she says. Even more emphatically: "I might even go to the extreme of declaring that the deliberate diminution of vocabulary by a dictator, or an advertising copywriter, is anti-Christian." (37)
I find it interesting that she expresses such a strong preference for picking up vocabulary from context rather than stopping to look words up - rather the way she mentions that she never tries to jot down her dreams in the middle of the night. It jerks her away from the immediacy. I generally find that I don't stop to look words up either - unless I'm reading something online and find I just have to dash off to dictionary.com to find out what that word means. More often, though, I just absorb words and find myself using them.
Reading this section got me thinking about vocabulary, and I started jotting down some of the more colorful words sprinkled throughout the book. Just writing them is reinforcement, looking them up moreso. Here are a few...
divertissement, interstices, pellucid, salutary, piosity, temerity, vagaries, vicissitudes, castigating, salvific, indigents, licensiousness, ousia...
And the one that really made me sit up and take notice: pusillanimous (contemptibly fearful). Now there's a mouthful!
I find it interesting that she expresses such a strong preference for picking up vocabulary from context rather than stopping to look words up - rather the way she mentions that she never tries to jot down her dreams in the middle of the night. It jerks her away from the immediacy. I generally find that I don't stop to look words up either - unless I'm reading something online and find I just have to dash off to dictionary.com to find out what that word means. More often, though, I just absorb words and find myself using them.
Reading this section got me thinking about vocabulary, and I started jotting down some of the more colorful words sprinkled throughout the book. Just writing them is reinforcement, looking them up moreso. Here are a few...
divertissement, interstices, pellucid, salutary, piosity, temerity, vagaries, vicissitudes, castigating, salvific, indigents, licensiousness, ousia...
And the one that really made me sit up and take notice: pusillanimous (contemptibly fearful). Now there's a mouthful!
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Doing Nothing
I really like this:
"I've long since stopped feeling guilty about taking being time; it's something we all need for our spiritual health, and often we don't take enough of it." (2)
It reminds me of Christopher Robin's conversation with Winnie the Pooh at the end of House at Pooh Corner:
"What I like doing best is Nothing."
"How do you do Nothing?" asked Pooh, after he had wondered for a long time.
"Well, it's when people call out at you just as you're going off to do it 'What are you going to do, Christopher Robin?' and you say 'Oh, nothing,' and then you go and do it."
"Oh, I see," said Pooh.
"This is a nothing sort of thing that we're doing now."
"Oh, I see," said Pooh again.
"It means just going along, listening to all the things you can't hear, and not bothering."
Just as Christopher Robin later bemoans the fact that he won't be able to do Nothing nearly so much anymore because of the grown-up expectations about to be placed upon him, L'Engle mourns the frequent loss of a sense of childlike joy and wonder. Pooh is a master of doing Nothing, yet he is also the most artistic of the inhabitants of the Hundred-Acre Wood. His "poohetry" stems from his willingness to quietly go along, enjoying the world around him. He doesn't stress out about being productive; it's an organic process.
I sometimes find it hard to take the time to "do Nothing"; I always seem to feel the pressure of time even when I don't have any particular deadlines - one bother that plush Pooh is immune to! But doing Nothing is a very worthwhile exercise, especially if it's of the outdoor variety on a beautiful day like today. Of course, it never hurts to have a pencil and notepad in hand just in case Nothing yields Something...
"I've long since stopped feeling guilty about taking being time; it's something we all need for our spiritual health, and often we don't take enough of it." (2)
It reminds me of Christopher Robin's conversation with Winnie the Pooh at the end of House at Pooh Corner:
"What I like doing best is Nothing."
"How do you do Nothing?" asked Pooh, after he had wondered for a long time.
"Well, it's when people call out at you just as you're going off to do it 'What are you going to do, Christopher Robin?' and you say 'Oh, nothing,' and then you go and do it."
"Oh, I see," said Pooh.
"This is a nothing sort of thing that we're doing now."
"Oh, I see," said Pooh again.
"It means just going along, listening to all the things you can't hear, and not bothering."
Just as Christopher Robin later bemoans the fact that he won't be able to do Nothing nearly so much anymore because of the grown-up expectations about to be placed upon him, L'Engle mourns the frequent loss of a sense of childlike joy and wonder. Pooh is a master of doing Nothing, yet he is also the most artistic of the inhabitants of the Hundred-Acre Wood. His "poohetry" stems from his willingness to quietly go along, enjoying the world around him. He doesn't stress out about being productive; it's an organic process.
I sometimes find it hard to take the time to "do Nothing"; I always seem to feel the pressure of time even when I don't have any particular deadlines - one bother that plush Pooh is immune to! But doing Nothing is a very worthwhile exercise, especially if it's of the outdoor variety on a beautiful day like today. Of course, it never hurts to have a pencil and notepad in hand just in case Nothing yields Something...
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Writing on a Deadline
I can relate so well to the frustration Christian singer-songwriter Nichole Nordeman describes in the Foreward; not sure if it's in your edition or not, but she talks about being forced to write at a time when she was incredibly uninspired and this book making the difference in getting her real creative juices flowing again.
Deadlines have always stressed me out. Then again, they've also kept me going. I always seem to manage when it's an essay for school or a certain number of reviews or a newspaper article, though I do a fair bit of fretting. But writing stories, poems and that kind of thing gives me a lot more trouble, and if it's a self-imposed deadline, chances are I just let it slide, since I can't seem to stick with it, especially if it's one long project, such as a novel, rather than a collection of several short projects, like my self-imposed parody challenge. I finished that, but I've got a book I started wriitng about five years ago that's nowhere near completion. It's got a few chapters but no sense of direction, and I've been totally stalled on it for a year or two.
What do you do to defeat writer's block? At what point do you decide that a particular project just isn't going anywhere? And do you find you write more effectively when a deadline is imposed upon you by others or when you set your own? I'm really ready to tackle some poetry and fiction again. Hopefully Walking on Water will help me to get my juices flowing too!
Deadlines have always stressed me out. Then again, they've also kept me going. I always seem to manage when it's an essay for school or a certain number of reviews or a newspaper article, though I do a fair bit of fretting. But writing stories, poems and that kind of thing gives me a lot more trouble, and if it's a self-imposed deadline, chances are I just let it slide, since I can't seem to stick with it, especially if it's one long project, such as a novel, rather than a collection of several short projects, like my self-imposed parody challenge. I finished that, but I've got a book I started wriitng about five years ago that's nowhere near completion. It's got a few chapters but no sense of direction, and I've been totally stalled on it for a year or two.
What do you do to defeat writer's block? At what point do you decide that a particular project just isn't going anywhere? And do you find you write more effectively when a deadline is imposed upon you by others or when you set your own? I'm really ready to tackle some poetry and fiction again. Hopefully Walking on Water will help me to get my juices flowing too!
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Walking on Water: First Thoughts
Well, we've not gotten very far with this blog so far. :-) I still can't believe summer is over and gone...and September seems to be galloping by at an alarming rate too!
I'm glad we've decided to read Walking on Water next. It's long been one of my very favorite of Madeleine's books, and one of my favorite books on faith and creativity period.
I just started re-reading the other day. I'm only a few pages in, but I keep pausing and smiling because I have so very many favorite quotes. Not just quotes by Madeleine herself either. I was realizing how many other quotes and poems she introduced me to. I read this book for the first time in 1987 and I'm pretty sure it was my introduction to Coleridge's "willing suspension of belief," for instance. I know it was also the first place I'd ever read e.e. cumming's wonderful poem beginning "i who have died am alive again today..."
But some of the things Madeleine herself said were very important to me the first time I ever read them, and have remained so. They've sort of embedded themselves in my heart and mind and become touchstones for me as I try to continue to live out a writing life, one that is connected (I hope deeply) to my living out of my faith.
One of those important quotes comes on p. 18 (of my 1980 edition published by Shaw) when Madeleine writes:
"Obedience is an unpopular word nowadays, but the artist must be obedient to the work, whether it be a symphony, a painting, or a story for a small child. I believe that each work of art, whether it is a work of great genius, or something very small, comes to the artist and says 'Here I am. Enflesh me. Give birth to me.' And the artist either says, 'My soul doth magnify the Lord,' and willingly becomes the bearer of the work, or refuses; but the obedient response is not necessarily a conscious one, and not everyone has the humble, courageous obedience of Mary."
To "willingly become the bearer of the work." That has been a ribbon I've carried from this book for a long time. To obediently respond to God's call on our lives...any call, but specifically here, the creative call. To write a story or craft a poem not just for fun (though it can be delightful) and not primarily to serve myself or my own purposes, but because the work presents itself as something that needs to be written. It feels grandiose to say that God calls us to create/write whatever that work is, and to do it lovingly and well, but I think at the deepest level, that's what Madeleine is saying here. It feels very freeing to me that she sees this as a fundamental truth underlying ALL creative work, not just inspired works of clear genius.
I've absorbed this thought for such a long time that I think it effects the way I look at certain works of art. If they're made well and lovingly, crafted carefully, then I think the author has borne the work well....
I seem to be rambling, but it's late and I'm tired. And I've already been interrupted once by a power outage...we're getting some high winds out there tonight! So I'll just leave this with one more thought/question: if artists/writers are birth-givers, can we stretch the metaphor to say those that teach, mentor and encourage other artists/writers are midwives?
I'm glad we've decided to read Walking on Water next. It's long been one of my very favorite of Madeleine's books, and one of my favorite books on faith and creativity period.
I just started re-reading the other day. I'm only a few pages in, but I keep pausing and smiling because I have so very many favorite quotes. Not just quotes by Madeleine herself either. I was realizing how many other quotes and poems she introduced me to. I read this book for the first time in 1987 and I'm pretty sure it was my introduction to Coleridge's "willing suspension of belief," for instance. I know it was also the first place I'd ever read e.e. cumming's wonderful poem beginning "i who have died am alive again today..."
But some of the things Madeleine herself said were very important to me the first time I ever read them, and have remained so. They've sort of embedded themselves in my heart and mind and become touchstones for me as I try to continue to live out a writing life, one that is connected (I hope deeply) to my living out of my faith.
One of those important quotes comes on p. 18 (of my 1980 edition published by Shaw) when Madeleine writes:
"Obedience is an unpopular word nowadays, but the artist must be obedient to the work, whether it be a symphony, a painting, or a story for a small child. I believe that each work of art, whether it is a work of great genius, or something very small, comes to the artist and says 'Here I am. Enflesh me. Give birth to me.' And the artist either says, 'My soul doth magnify the Lord,' and willingly becomes the bearer of the work, or refuses; but the obedient response is not necessarily a conscious one, and not everyone has the humble, courageous obedience of Mary."
To "willingly become the bearer of the work." That has been a ribbon I've carried from this book for a long time. To obediently respond to God's call on our lives...any call, but specifically here, the creative call. To write a story or craft a poem not just for fun (though it can be delightful) and not primarily to serve myself or my own purposes, but because the work presents itself as something that needs to be written. It feels grandiose to say that God calls us to create/write whatever that work is, and to do it lovingly and well, but I think at the deepest level, that's what Madeleine is saying here. It feels very freeing to me that she sees this as a fundamental truth underlying ALL creative work, not just inspired works of clear genius.
I've absorbed this thought for such a long time that I think it effects the way I look at certain works of art. If they're made well and lovingly, crafted carefully, then I think the author has borne the work well....
I seem to be rambling, but it's late and I'm tired. And I've already been interrupted once by a power outage...we're getting some high winds out there tonight! So I'll just leave this with one more thought/question: if artists/writers are birth-givers, can we stretch the metaphor to say those that teach, mentor and encourage other artists/writers are midwives?
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