Downturn Abbey

So, I love Downton Abbey. Passionately. I count down the days until Sunday each week; by Sunday, I’m counting down hours. I need my cousin Violet fix; I need to see Lady Mary’s exquisite eyebrows; I need the comforting crossness of Mrs. Patmore. I breathe a sigh of contentment after each episode, happy in British television goodness, recharged for the week ahead.

And this was why yesterday’s episodes were so disappointing. Downton Abbey, you can do better than this. The show was unbelievably maudlin and sloppy; it was as if the writers, having created several story lines, suddenly realized that the end of the season was looming and they needed to tie off some loose ends.  Unfortunately, instead of doing that neatly, they overdeveloped some story lines that should never have seen the light of filming and hacked and stapled together others.

Useless story line #1: The Canadian. Wha? And it wasn’t resolved in any kind of satisfying way; ’twas like a cake made without eggs (I’ve eaten part of one before so I know what I’m talking about). (Yes, this was in an earlier episode, but that still matters to this episode, because the writers could have spent time developing other story lines that instead got short shrift.)

Useless story line #2: Lord Grantham and Jane. Again, wha? Or, to quote my verbatim response the first time Lord Grantham laid one on the maid, WHAT THE HELL?!?! It wasn’t just that such a dalliance goes completely against everything we know about Lord Grantham’s character; it was also that the two actors had less than zero chemistry. I got the sense they were both steeling themselves before each interaction, thinking, OK, the script says we kiss here, so I guess I’ve gotta do it. Wholly and entirely awful. The only redeeming quality is that they didn’t actually sleep together.

Useless story line #3: Ethel. I liked her at first (or at least I enjoyed disliking her, pretentious chit that she was), and thought she had a decent story to tell, but she’s long since overstayed her welcome. And the horrid and domineering grandfather added nothing except discomfort.

In addition to having useless story lines, this episode tied nooses around its loose plot lines and then kicked them unceremoniously off the gallows.  No graceful deaths allowed, apparently.

Noose #1: Matthew’s recovery. I know someone who recently had knee surgery. After being off ONE of her legs for just a few weeks, she can do almost nothing with it. (This is a girl who has run multiple marathons.) She certainly can’t stand on it, even if she’s also standing on her other leg. And we’re supposed to believe that Matthew, who had been wheelchair-bound for months, suddenly finds himself standing–like, WHOA, dude!–because Lavinia drops a tray? No, no, no. This story line should have been developed more; much more believable–and satisfying–would have been watching Matthew struggle nobly to gain strength, first standing on shaking legs and gradually learning to walk. I do like the way the writers covered the doctor’s mistake, though; that was believable.

Noose #2: Lavinia. OK, maybe the Spanish flu carried off its victims quickly, and maybe Lavinia did lose the will to live after seeing Matthew and Mary (whether a more believable reaction would have been hurt anger rather than instant despairing resignation is another question [is Lavinia really this incredibly good?), but still–going from upright walking to death a few minutes or even hours later, but seeing nothing between, strains credulity. And Cora did a much better job portraying illness and discomfort in her non-death scene than Lavinia did when she met her tragic end. That she died holding Matthew’s hand is just the tacky ostrich feather in a hat Violet wouldn’t be caught dead wearing.

Then there were the general suckinesses–things that didn’t need to be seen, or could have been better.

General suckiness #1: Mr. and Mrs. Bates in their nuptial bed. Sure the sheets covered everything up to the shoulders, but did I really need to see Mr. Bates’s flabby upper arm? (Hint: NO.) (CANNOT UNSEE.) The position the two were in and the tidy arrangement of the sheets also bugged me; these two have been waiting years to get it on, people. They were entirely too calm. They might have been discussing silverware.

General suckiness #2: Cousin Isabel’s face at Lavinia’s deathbed. Actually, I don’t know if this counts as a suckiness, because it made me laugh. I don’t know that I’ve seen such over-the-top ridiculousness from an English person since Rowan Atkinson (whose Mr. Bean never fails to delight). I still collapse into giggles when I picture it in my head. I wonder if Isabel had prosthetic eyeballs; I don’t think they could have stood out more than her real ones.

General suckiness #3: Zombie Matthew. It wasn’t his acting–I think he did an OK job of portraying guilt-riddled despondency–but who was in charge of the makeup, and did they have to layer it on an inch thick? The vampires in Twilight were Oompa Loompas in comparison, and the black under Matthew’s eyes wouldn’t have been out of place on a football player. (Then, at the funeral, Matthew turns into a vampire–only without the Twilight sparklies.)

There were good parts too. Sir Richard remained deliciously scurrilous, trying to bribe Anna to spy on Mary and then sidling his way back into Downton Abbey after the flu hit. (Too bad the flu didn’t carry him off; I hope against hope that Mary doesn’t actually marry him.) Sybil and Branson did a great job–I loved the way they stood up for their principles without being completely overbearing–and I enjoyed Lord Grantham’s response to their unwelcome announcement, though I did think he was a bit over-congenial at the end. I would expect him to be forgiving but in a grudging way for a while longer.

And Thomas. Finally he gets a chance to not be utterly detestable. I felt genuinely sorry for him when he found out he had been so thoroughly cheated, and his reaction was perfect. O’Brien, too, finally seems sympathetic. Guilt + poverty = win.

And Violet. Wonderful, wonderful Violet. “Don’t be defeatist, dear, it’s very middle class.” ”I do hope I’m interrupting something.” “I was watching her the other night, when you spoke of your wedding. She looked like Juliet on awakening in the tomb.” Her lines are as perfect as her hats.

So there’s just one episode left, and from the previews it looks like someone finally at least tries to give Sir Richard what’s coming to him. This is promising. I’ll be watching, Downton Abbey. Don’t turn yourself into a soap opera again.

 

 

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Pompeii

Many moons ago, when I was a lass of 15, I saw a documentary about Pompeii and decided I wanted to become an archaeologist. I loved the idea that I could at least partially reconstruct the life of a human just by looking at bones. Unfortunately for that dream, I soon discovered that archaeologists have to do, like, sciencey stuff (and probably math too [the horror!]). But the fascination with Pompeii and Herculaneum has lingered.

So I was thrilled when I found that Boston’s Museum of Science was featuring a Pompeii exhibit. Me being me I didn’t get my act together until yesterday (the exhibit ends Sunday), but I’m so glad I did. And even happier that the exhibit permitted non-flash photography.

I loved the bright colors in the fresco paintings, and the obvious skill of the artists:

 

The artifacts showed just as much craftsmanship:

How would you like to have to wear this? (Un)fortunately for you, only gladiators received this honor:

The exhibit included a life-size photograph of Pompeii’s excavated/reconstructed main street as it looks today:

I was surprised but charmed to find that vandalism is by no means a modern invention; the idea of a teenager chipping “Marcus loves Julia” into a wall makes that long-ago civilization feel less remote. Because images are silent, I always think that those civilizations were as well–or at least more stone-faced and stoic than ours. Turns out people had feelings and quirks back then too.

Click the pictures to increase their size and read the (admittedly blurry; hey, I was using my phone) text.

(One surprisingly prominent aspect of life in Pompeii I won’t be discussing here, because my grandmother reads this. Suffice it to say that sexual mores at that time were rather different from those of today. I suppose that when you wear clothes that have been bleached with human urine you have to find some way to enjoy yourself.)

But of course, the most intriguing–and haunting–items on display were the body casts.

The stories that went with the casts were fascinating:

In Herculaneum, another victim of Vesuvius, no body casts were possible. A pyroclastic surge of hot air and ash, traveling at up to 500 mph at a temperature of possibly 1500°F (though the Discovery Channel estimates it was only [only!] 900°F), incinerated all organic material instantly, leaving only skeletons:

The exhibit also included a four-minute video that showed a simulation of what would have been happening at various times during the day, from 8:00 a.m., when the day was beautiful and the small plume of smoke rising from Vesuvius looked more decorative than menacing; through the afternoon, when the air was filled with smoke and ash, debris fell from the sky, and basically everything that could burn caught fire; and eventually to the early hours of the next morning, when a final (?) pyroclastic surge killed Pompeii’s remaining inhabitants instantly. (I was relieved to read that, according to the Discovery Channel, they died of instantaneous thermal shock rather than slow suffocation.) The simulation showed a huge cloud of smoke and ash racing toward the “camera,” suddenly overtaking it and causing the screen to go black. It was very moving.

I can’t show the video here, obviously, but the exhibit did include this artist’s rendering of what the day may have looked like, though it doesn’t show the debris falling from the sky like superheated hail:

I cannot imagine how terror-struck I would be; I’m sure that it seemed that the world was ending. Scenes like this are only supposed to happen in bad horror movies.

The exhibit ended with a “volcanoes today” section, showing pictures of devastation wrought by relatively recent volcanic eruptions and of volcanoes set to erupt anytime (including Mt. Rainier, whose figurative shadow I lived in for a while, and whose figurative shadow still darkens the abode of some of my favorite relatives [shout-out to the Ninjabread Men!]). I left feeling a sense of awe that nature is as powerful as it is; my myopic worldview tends to focus on, well, my myopic view of my tiny world. I see how much effort it takes to move a relatively small mound of earth with great big machines; I’m amazed when a machine generates 90 mph of wind in a 10-foot-in-diameter column so I can go indoor skydiving. A force that generates this kind of power, not just over a 10-foot-in-diameter column but over hundreds of miles, and that has enough power to blow tons (!) of rock 19 miles (!) into the sky is absolutely unfathomable to me. Good thing I’m not in charge of it.

 

 

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Holy roller coaster

Wow. It’s been a while since I’ve written, and that last post was definitely on the pained side, no? Life has been one hell of a roller coaster since then; one one hand, I went to the Holy Land (!!!); on the other, I’ve had to deal with a Roommate from Hell (hereafter RfH), and as I’m a sensitive sort of person these dealings have torn me from sleep with annoying frequency (when I’ve been able to get to sleep in the first place). But I’m currently investigating other housing options (one of my roommates is an absolute treasure, and I’m looking forward to living with her again once RfH moves out), so nightmare-free and uninterrupted sleep will hopefully return soon.

But first things first. LOOK AT THIS ADORABLENESS!!

Do not adjust your screens, ladies and gentlemen–this picture is right side up. (I know–it took me a minute too.) Bebbeh J is merely enjoying the antics of his uncle MGP; check out how chill he is. “Nuthin’ much going on over here. Just my uncle holding me upside down. Got some pears? I loves me some pears.”

Upcoming posts will describe adventures in the Mediterranean (including the mentally unstable shrieking dude at the Garden Tomb), the trip home for Christmas (and the absolute joy of face-eating kisses from a seven-month-old), the travails of living with RfH (SRSLY?!), the Week of Four Trials in early December (really four and a half or five), and thoughts about developing a relationship with God (a.k.a. Spirituality for the Recalcitrant). (I’m saying this so I’ll have some accountability; someone hold me to my promises, OK?)

And finally:

Lookit the belleh on that bebbeh! He’s definitely related to me.

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God is nicer than you think

So I’ve had a huge chip on my shoulder lately. I’ve been mad at all kinds of things, perhaps most of all at what has been a disappointing fall so far: the weather has been warm, without the usual delicious crisp autumnal chill, and the leaves aren’t bursting into glorious color the way they usually do (we should be surrounded by dazzling crimsons and oranges and yellows by now). Facing the human steamroller behavior of someone I interact with regularly and feeling obligated to try things I’m terrible at haven’t helped. I’ve been letting God know how I feel pretty frequently, mostly silently, but loudly and with plenty of four-letter words one miserably drizzly evening.

Whence cometh the rancor? I made a major decision recently that was incredibly difficult. It’s been a long time in coming; for years I’ve been driving myself crazy trying to keep one foot in each of two camps. It’s a decision with important consequences, equally positive and negative, though the positive ones are in the future (right now they feel like they’re faaaaar in the future)  and the negative are immediate, far-reaching, and tremendously painful. These negative effects have had me absolutely furious. So when I was yelling at God about the leaves–well, it wasn’t really about the leaves.

I was talking with my counselor about this last Wednesday, complaining about the feelings of anger that I felt stemmed from my own lack of maturity. I was annoyed with myself because I couldn’t just “suck it up” and be a big girl. I’ve heard over and over, including from the pulpit, that if one has an Attitude of Gratitude one will feel grateful for one’s trials; that pain means yer doin’ it wrong; that an eternal perspective would cure my petulance if I were a more righteous sort of person. Hence frustration at being frustrated. And a belief that God was sick of me acting like a two-year-old.

But after a few minutes my counselor looked at me and asked, gently, “Are you familiar with the stages of grief?” That made me pause for a minute. She continued, “Anger is one of those stages–it sounds to me like you’re grieving.” Like, whoa. She then said that she supported my decision, adding that she thinks it will be very helpful in the long run–and then added, “It’s a loss, Sylvia–this is a loss. You can grieve.”

Apparently that was all my soul needed to hear. Suddenly so many things made sense; I had a visual of puzzle pieces dropping from the sky and snapping into place. This is a loss and I am grieving. The floodgates opened and I cried for the rest of the session, then sat in my car, sobbing, for another 45 minutes. As other circumstances came to mind, feeling like final nails being hammered into an unseen coffin, the sobbing was almost convulsive at times. Thoughts of “This is a loss and I am grieving” alternated with “Oh, my God” over and over. Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?

Realizing that I was grieving cast the situation in an entirely new light. It made me understand both the situation and God better. I had a distinct impression that God hadn’t thought I was acting like a two-year-old all along–that He understands much better than I do the pain of loss and the feeling that multiple doors are simultaneously and permanently slamming. God was OK with my swearing and fury and bitterness toward everyone I saw. He didn’t even give me a lovingly stern “It’s OK this time, but don’t do it again” warning. Instead, I felt that he said, “You’re grieving. Acting out of anger is expected. Of course the ultimate rules haven’t been relaxed, but this is what the Atonement is for.” (He may have even said, “Scream at me a little more. I can take it.” At least, that’s the way I’ve decided to remember things.)

So it turns out that my God isn’t a punishing or withholding God after all, but a merciful, loving, kind, understanding God. I think the adversary takes the lessons that are least applicable to me and tries to throttle me with them. I’ve long been terrified of accepting any imperfection in myself because if I thought I would then swing to the other extreme and become a thoughtless spiritual freeloader of the “eat, drink, and be merry” or prodigal son variety. But even the prodigal son received forgiveness, and Jesus told the woman taken in adultery, “Neither do I condemn thee.” Perhaps I don’t have to worry so much about being perfect, or “mature,” or whatever. Maybe the Atonement covers all that stuff.

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Fishies in the sky with cubic zirconia

So this will mostly be a picture post recounting a few highlights of the past couple of months. I bought a few Groupons back in the spring and, of course, procrastinated the day of their redemption until it was almost everlastingly too late. Fortunately I realized this just in time and managed to schedule several of them for August/September.

For the first I only have one picture:

In case what I’m doing isn’t immediately obvious, I’m skydiving. Inside. (Outside skydiving is also fun, but I haven’t seen a Groupon for it yet this year. If I do, I’ll definitely go again.) It was cool to experience the power of 90-mph winds about 18 hours before Hurricane Irene was due to slam into us; I hadn’t had a reference for what really strong winds can do. I went home and moved the grill, all the trash cans, and everything else that could have been used as a projectile into the basement, just in case. (As it turned out, Irene was just a tropical storm when she blew into Boston, and we just got some wind and rain where I am. Our power didn’t even flicker. But I’m OK with that.)

Irene was kind enough to sweep all clouds out of the area as she left, so when I went for a sunset hot air balloon ride two days later, the weather was just plain beautiful.

(See the blue sky behind the balloon? I was IN that.)

I personally thought that a “splash and dash” (the technical term for letting the balloon basket hit the water before rising again) would have been wicked awesome, but the owner explained that the basket wouldn’t have time to dry out. So we had to be content with staying about three inches above the lake. Bummer.

A week and a half later, the sky above New Hampshire was again an incredible cerulean blue as my friend E?S and I set off into the wild blue yonder above Lake Winnipesaukee (wih-nih-puh-SAW-kee) in a gorgeous biplane (!!). The plane was built in 1991 using 1930s-style materials (yes, that propeller is made of wood).

The last aeronautical adventure took place yesterday, when I (kind of) got to help fly the smallest helicopter you’ve ever seen:

It’s basically an escape pod with a couple of propellers and a tail. Notice that there is no door. This was true during the flight as well, which was a little disconcerting at first.

Fishies the Pilot!

I just got to move the cyclic (think of it as the “joystick”–what makes the helicopter go up, down, left, or right) a bit. I wasn’t very good at first and kept accidentally pointing the helicopter at the clouds, but I got the hang of it. We flew over Gillette Stadium, which will soon be filled with fans of the New England Patriots:

I admitted to the pilot that I don’t know anything about football, and she was amazed–especially since I’m from the South. It’s true. I honestly have no idea what happens (or is supposed to) in most of the game. Touchdowns are good, as are extra points, and sometimes a team can score something that gives them just 3 points instead of 6. Beyond that I know nothing (please don’t try to enlighten me; on this subject I remain contentedly benighted).

Despite the clouds, it was a lovely day to fly over the lakes and forests south of Boston:

This was my last aviation-related Groupon; I went on a Groupon fast back in the spring, when I’d already bought a whole bunch of them and knew I wouldn’t have time to redeem any more. So my posts for the next while may be boring. In which case, my imaginary readers can peruse my weblog as a cure for insomnia…

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Fishies out of water (or, ISFJ FTW)

Sometimes, when I’ve been feeling happy for a while, a feeling creeps in that says I’m in danger of becoming complacent. You’re becoming boring, it says; you’re not living up to your potential. So I decide that I need to change things up a little bit–meet new people, try new adventures. Maybe try to fit in a bit more with what I see as culturally desirable; try to become the sort of person who can “work a room,” or at least not stand frozen with a tight feeling in my chest and my mind spinning blankly as I survey a large group of people. Sometimes I even forget who I am and think that I’m making or have made great strides toward extroversion.

And so I go on a tri-ward campout with 200 people.

And spend the subsequent few days recovering.

It’s frustrating, sometimes, not to be able to do the things I see others doing and even enjoying. Surrounded by people who thrive on camp competitions (this year’s events included the Monkey Launch and kind of a human Boggle) and standing awkwardly amid throngs of loudly cheering teammates, it’s easy to forget that other introverts do exist, and to feel like the whack job with no sense of humor or team spirit. (I’ve since figured out that other introverts may, in fact, be there–but they’re so overwhelmed by the chaos and noise that they don’t feel like talking to anyone, either.)

Fortunately, God watches out for me. Someone I didn’t know all that well followed a prompting and asked me to go on a walk to a beautiful, quiet place by the lake when it became obvious that the environment was too much for me. For the rest of the time I was there, I enjoyed the wonderfully understanding company of several introvert friends who, knowing their limits, had wisely arrived much later than I had and thus hadn’t yet been overstimulated to the point of meltdown.

So as I mentioned, I’ve been convalescing for the past couple of days. I’ve re-read Jonathan Rauch’s brilliant essay Caring for Your Introvert and had some great talks with some terrific friends. I’ve promised one of these friends that I won’t attend the campout next year. I’ve caught up on sleep. And God has reminded me that he loves me for the ISFJ that I am, that he doesn’t want me to compare myself to others or fret that I’m going to miss out on something because I’m not outgoing or interesting enough, that I really do love my life these days, and that, though maybe I don’t have a vast circle of party-person friends, the ones I do have are absolutely wonderful.

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Summertime… and the living is busy

Nothing insightful to say this evenin’, dearest imaginary readers.* I just wanted to explain, in just over 20,000 words,** why I’ve not written much for the past few months.

In June I went to Philadelphia with some friends. We did the usual touristy stuff, which was fine, as we were all in fact tourists. (We also took an impromptu tour of the Hood in Camden, NJ; I took no photographs of that adventure, as we just wanted to get ourselves out of that area without suffering high-speed lead poisoning, ifyouknowhatImean.)

In the City of Brotherly Love I got  some good advice from a bumper sticker (the fountain of all true wisdom):

Later that night we got ice cream from a real old-fashioned eatery with a real old-fashioned sodie-pop fountain!

Independence Hall was under construction, but Philadelphia didn’t want to deprive its visitors of photo opportunities:

The Liberty Bell was also in need of repairs, but Philadelphia didn’t try to fix this one for the tourists:

We also visited the Mütter Museum, which everyone in my family, at least, would find…

No pictures were allowed in the museum, unfortunately, so you’ll have to go yourselves. One of my favorite exhibits had two skeletons; the one on the left was a normal skeleton; the one on the right was the skeleton of a woman who had worn a corset all her life. SRSLY–who thought corsets were a good idea?! I bet the inventor had a Y chromosome; nobody with two X chromosomes would be that insane.

We went to the Cubs vs. Phillies game. The Phillies won, so the (non-authentic replica of the) Liberty Bell in the background rang:

The weekend after Philadelphia I had tickets to 6 Flags over New England, so I rustled up my awesome friend A?T and we set out to wait in interminable lines enjoy some roller coasters.

This was the first thing we did:

Bizarro was one of our favorites:

Note to future amusement park attendees: The best time to ride roller coasters seems to be in the late afternoon/early evening, when everyone else is eating or has already gone home. The lines were much shorter. Would that we had been privy to this information before our trip, but hey, now we know, right?

July then arrived, featuring, of course, Independence Day. Some friends came up from DC and I played Ultimate Boston Tour Guide Extraordinaire. Fortunately Boston makes performing such an office relatively easy. First off, we ran into some unexpected visitors while we walked the Freedom Trail:

Honestly, we had no idea this was going to happen. We were in the Park Street Church when we heard the drums and fifes outside and came out to find the parade. Have I mentioned that I freaking love this place?

On Sunday we went to the (free) Boston Pops dress rehearsal with 300,000 of our closest friends. We got there relatively late but managed to get a decent spot thanks to one of the extroverts among us (they’re so useful sometimes!). (And yes, a seat this far back definitely counts as a “decent spot.”)

One of my 300,000 friends (actually, she’s in the top 50,000):

We rowed out in a canoe to watch the fireworks from the river, which I had never done before, and which was AWESOME. A couple of other people had the same idea, so it took a few minutes to return our canoe:

Shortly after the Fourth of July one of my other favorite people came to visit from Finland, along with his wife. It was good to have part of the ol’ gang back together again, if only for a couple of days.

A few weeks later I moved. Moving is one of the most thoroughly un-fun events in the world, but someone did brighten my new apartment anonymously:

I went for a walk the week after I moved in, and found that Cambridge has a delightful array of randomness:

I always jump in this circle with both feet when I walk past it, which happens frequently as it’s very close to my apartment:

A week later I went with some friends to Tanglewood–it was Film Night and John Williams was conducting the Boston Pops, with Morgan Freeman guest narrating one of the pieces. Look reeeeeeally closely at the lighted area. See both of them, in front of the orchestra?

They’re there. Really they are.

Some other really great adventures began the next weekend, but as those adventures are themèd and one of the themèd adventures remains to be had, AND as this post is ridiculously long, you, my dearest imaginary readers, will unfortunately have to wait another couple of weeks. Perhaps in the meantime I can recount the story of a truly EPIC rejection that occurred when I summoned the courage to attend a midsingles conference in Washington, DC in July.  (I have been definitively crossed off a list, henceforth and forever, amen and amen; thus far I’ve been able to bear the disappointment quite cheerfully.) Watch for it…

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*Neither of hit counters for this site works, which is kind of frustrating for me (but could be nice for stalkers, I suppose).

**1 picture = 1,000 words.

 

 

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Putting off the natural Fishies

Mosiah 3:19:

19 For the ^anatural ^bman is an ^cenemy to God, and has been from the ^dfall of Adam, and will be, forever and ever…

Were this written specifically for, say, me, it would read, “For the natural Fishies is an enemy to everyone.” When I succumb to myself, I’m an enemy to God, of course. The natural me wants to think that this doesn’t matter—after all, I don’t have to interact with God directly on a daily basis; I’m not trying to impress Him. (The subconscious thinking goes, So what if God thinks I’m a jerk? He’s not in my potential friendship/dating pool.) The thing is, though, that when I’m an enemy to God, I’m an enemy to everyone else, too.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately as I’ve moved into a new apartment, as I’ve had an incredibly painful conversation with someone I cared about very deeply, and as a new roommate is moving in—a roommate who already has multiple graduate degrees from Ivy League universities and is a noted scholar in her field. The natural Fishies does not respond to new or potentially stressful situations (“stressful” defined as “anything that she doesn’t like”) with much equanimity. The natural Fishies is fraught with insecurities that engender prideful resentment; resentment builds walls faster than all the trumpeters of Israel can tear them down (with or without the six days of pre-musical marching).

Thus there’s little hope for the natural Fishies. However, the verse goes on to say that the natural man/Fishies  can overcome this enmity toward the world at large if he (or she) “yields to the enticings of the Holy Spirit, and putteth off the natural man and becometh a saint through the atonement of Christ the Lord, and becometh as a child, submissive, meek, humble, patient, full of love, willing to submit to all things which the Lord seeth fit to inflict upon him, even as a child doth submit to his father.” Of these qualities, I tend to zero in on “humble” as all-encompassing. Someone who is humble is submissive, meek, patient, et cetera.

So, to be humble = kill multiple birds with one stone. Great! I can totally do humility. I think I suck at a lot of things. Drawing, for one. (Except cartoon rabbit heads, at which I am very very good.) Math, for another. And I can’t fix anything.

But the problem is that this isn’t humility. C. S. Lewis defines humility not as a “low opinion” of oneself but “self-forgetfulness” (see Screwtape Letter 14). The natural me rails against this idea; after all, if I forget about myself, who’s going to take care of me? (Or, rather, who’s going to make sure I get what I want?) Or worse—if I forget about myself, does that mean I’ll have to, like, pay attention other people? To see them as real people, with real feelings, who are just as important as I am?

It’s a tough order, to be sure. Humility as applied to daily living is really, really hard work. Pride creeps in everywhere—when someone else makes my brilliant comment in Sunday School and I become frustrated; when the conversation turns to international travel and I feel the need to mention visiting Zimbabwe; when a less-popular ward member strikes up a conversation and I desperately start thinking of ways to escape. If I want to have humility, I’ll have to actively seek the Spirit so that I can catch feelings and thoughts as they arise. I’ll have to remember to relax during church—do I really think I’ll miss out on a life-changing friendship or relationship because I missed my one chance to make an impressive comment? I’ll have to remember not to drop names of people I know or countries I’ve visited unless the conversation actually calls for them. I’ll have to actively change my train of thought from “how can I get out of this conversation?” when I’m talking to someone I don’t particularly like (or “yeah, but I bet she can’t do x” when I’m talking to someone more educated, talented, or attractive than I am) to “how can I show God’s love to this person?” I’ll have to forget about myself and seek to help others.

Holy cow, this will take a lot of work. Which means that the most humble people I know have probably worked extremely hard to become so. I don’t know if I’m that diligent, or sometimes if I even want to be. But these are also the happiest, and, not a-tall coincidentally, the most Christlike people I know—which helps them to serve others effectively. In my better moments, that’s what I most want too.

 

*One of my favorite quotations is from Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead:

When you encounter another person, when you have dealings with anyone at all, it is as if a question is being put to you. So you must think, What is the Lord asking of me in this moment, in this situation? If you confront insult or antagonism, your first impulse will be to respond in kind. But if you think, as it were, This is an emissary sent from the Lord, and some benefit is intended for me… you are free to act by your own lights. You are freed at the same time of the impulse to hate or resent that person. He would probably laugh at the thought that the Lord sent him to you for your benefit (and his), but that is the perfection of the disguise, his own ignorance of it.

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I’m an aunt! (as of three months ago now…)

Lots of things to write about, but I don’t feel like I can write about any of them until I’ve covered the most important thing to happen in the past few years, which is:

The birth of a nephew!

JLP was born May 16 and is the most freaking adorable little ball of pudge I’ve ever seen. I love his seriously chubby cheeks. The day after he was born I bought a plane ticket home for the next week, so I got to meet him when he was 10 days old, and all I did (or wanted to do) for the entire weekend was hold the baby. Even after he peed on me (four times; no diaper is a match for this super-soaker kid). Sigh. Suddenly I’ve become one of those annoying people who keeps showing others pictures of their small relatives, but I just can’t help it, you know?

Speaking of pictures:

(this is the one I printed and framed and set as my desktop wallpaper)

These days JLP looks uncannily like my older brother as a baby–at least from the (far too few [hint hint]) pictures I’ve seen. It’s hard to not just buy plane tickets and fly down there; however, as this isn’t feasible at the moment I’ve contented myself with creating a line item in my monthly budget dedicated to spoiling him. He has to know who his favorite aunt is, after all. (Sorry, KLPH, it’s not gonna be you.)

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The Samaritan woman would have shopped at Walmart

My belovèd little baby sister* sent me a message this week about members of her ward in the Dallas area getting political in Church meetings. (She, like me, isn’t particularly political but is definitely left of center; Texas has a well-deserved reputation as a red state.) It indirectly made me think of members who may have an attitude of ”well, we wouldn’t want a Democrat in our ward anyway.” That made me think of the idea that many people (myself sometimes included) have of who would make a good member of the Church, and that led me to think of the Samaritan woman that Jesus met at the well.

Religious art generally depicts this woman as physically beautiful and generally virtuous-looking (see http://goo.gl/MLfwV, http://goo.gl/JxYM9, and http://goo.gl/EYQUz). She has flawless skin and a rapt, accepting expression. She’s dressed nicely. She probably speaks well, free of jarring regional accent. She looks like a Relief Society president or an innocent young mother.

But is this accurate? Personally, given her history and her remarks during and after her conversation with Jesus, I’m inclined to think she’s one of Those People who some of us wouldn’t want to associate with. In reality, she’s probably poor. After years of hard living she probably has some teeth missing and is dressed in, if not rags, then some cheap imitation of nicer clothes. She may have a loud, braying voice and a grating accent (London’s East End, anyone?). She’s probably not wearing heavy makeup but that’s just because it hadn’t been invented yet.

In short, this woman looks like who she is–a member of not the lower, but probably lowest class. Or, even if she isn’t a member of the lowest class, she probably doesn’t look like a sweet innocent woman (the painting at http://goo.gl/sW15D may be a more accurate reflection of her attitude). When she talks to Jesus, she doesn’t seem particularly respectful. “You don’t even have anything to draw water with, and you think you not only have water, but you’re better than Jacob, the great patriarch?” Her next words could be equally skeptical: “All right, fine. Give me some of this water then.” After her conversation with Jesus, she runs around saying “Come, see this man who told me all about my life.” I can picture this woman on Cops, or leaning over her back fence to gossip with a neighbor, or in a hair salon in a financially strapped Boston suburb. Christ’s disciples “marvelled that he talked with the woman” (it was probably akin to seeing a well-dressed businessperson talking to a homeless person). Is this the kind of person we want showing up at our Sacrament Meeting?

Well, yes. Any missionary can tell you that it’s not generally the “respectable”-looking people who are interested in the Church. Some people may not ever conform to our ideas of respectability after years of Church membership. Some may even be liberals, for heaven’s sake (the horror!). That doesn’t mean we don’t want them around or that we should weed out these “undesirables,” whether consciously through overt criticism or unconsciously through inappropriate political remarks during meetings. All God’s critters got a place in the choir, right?

 

*This belovèd little baby sister is six inches taller than me and likes to wear high heels.

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