Too Much Jane Eyre

Chick flicks?  Why are they so popular? Why are we such dyed in the wool romantics that we continually gravitate toward fairy tales, novels, movies, anything that stirs our hearts and reminds us we were young once and were viable candidates for the starring role in our own once upon a time?

Our bodies may be old but our hearts are still beating. Is it possible to turn off the romantic spigot that still churns out the desire for palpitations caused by a sideward glance, a too-long gaze, a daydream, a song lyric, a love note?

Must our fairy tale only happen once, then fade away and turn to something predictable and careworn? Is this why marriages are set aside and families abandoned?  Is this why people walk away, searching for a renewal of the dream? This screams travesty and yet the pining seems strong and real enough that sense often is pushed aside in favor of chasing those long lost palpitations.

What is the answer then? Are movies a good idea to replace the longing? Or are they part of the problem?  Are novels an escape, or a too-potent reminder of feelings, delights, drama that are never to play in one's heart again?

Maybe books and movies paint an unrealistic picture of the dream of true love.  Did music really swell in the soundtrack of my own great romance? It seemed to. Did my prince charming really spring onto the scene with heart stopping, breathtaking heroics? That is how the memories play out in my head.

Then why could I ever hope to have them replaced with something new? How could anything new be better than the reality that was?

The problem is my heart still thinks it is young.....

Introducing a Sister Blog

I love my blog.  It has become an important friend filled with my observations of life.  I am thrilled to report that it draws many readers from all over the world, most of whom stumble upon it in a number of ways, from a number of sources.  However they find me, I hope they feel the visit is worthwhile.

In my studies over the past few years, I have reacquainted myself with Henry David Thoreau, a literary name from the past that would show up occasionally on tests and pop quizzes.  Now there are no required essays, no book reports, nothing to motivate me but my own desire to educate myself.  How liberating is that!

What I have discovered is a man with timeless wisdom, humor, and matter-of-factness.  I like him. Not only do I like the things he had to say, the more I learn of who he really was, I feel a kinship to him that is undeniable.

Hence, is born Walden Pond:  Revisited.

If you are curious about this American Legend, I would encourage you to follow along.  There will certainly be a few surprises.  Henry was not afraid to say what he thought, despite its politically-incorrectness. In a word, Henry David Thoreau is refreshing!

"Insist on Yourself; Never Imitate"

I was reminded today why I choose to blog.  I was reminded by reading other blogs that I follow.  Each is unique.  Each shares the author's own notable, exceptional perspective of their world.  And I was inspired.  And I was grateful to be given the opportunity to have a glimpse into their lives, their minds, their hearts.

Isn't it remarkable how different we are from one another?  We may share very similar experiences, similar paths, similar circumstances; yet we process them with our own special brand of uniquity.  So why not have our own little website, our own personal URL that is filled with the things we love, the thoughts we think, the dreams we dream?

Lately I have become absorbed in an obscure book.  I stumbled upon it last summer, while it sat upon the shelf of a used book store in Ashland, Oregon.  My daughter, Miranda, and I were immersing ourselves in a literary weekend, replete with Hamlet and Pride and Prejudice on the stage of the Shakespearean Festival, a lovely old-fashioned room in a quaint little hotel, and a self-guided tour through the many old book stores that line Ashland's main street.

It is the kind of book that probably would be overlooked by my children when I am gone, as they sort through my faded and tired possessions.  Perhaps if I give it a little attention now, it will have more meaning and value to them when that fateful day eventually comes.  Perhaps instead of tossing it into the giveaway pile, one or more of them will realize that it was a favorite and seek to uncover for themselves the wealth of wisdom I am finding in its yellowed, cracking pages.

This one small, unpretentious book bears the title and the collection:  The Complete Essays and Other Writings of Ralph Waldo Emerson.  There is a reason that Emerson is one of the most oft-quoted literaries; he has some amazing insights and the ability to express them with pith and power.  Picking up his book everyday is like clicking open his blog.  It is insightful, it is inspiring, and it gives the reader a glimpse of his life, his mind, and his heart.

The underlying theme of his "complete essays and other writings" is the importance of being true to oneself.  He boldly states: "Insist on yourself; never imitate."  And with that, he promises:  "that which each can do best, none but his Maker can teach him.  No man yet knows what it is, nor can, till that person has exhibited it."

I am so thankful for what I learn from others.  But I will not try to imitate them.  I have decided to look for what I, alone, can do best, no matter how far and wide I must search.

You might consider "following" Emerson, too.

Stargirl: Thanks for the Reminder!

I think I had forgotten.  I think I had let it go too long.  Had I become afraid?  Had I become lazy, or busy, or trying to be selfless, or what?  I don't know.  Yesterday I wrote a blog about neglected old friends, referring to my old hobby of scrapbooking, and the renewal of my acquaintance with layouts that had been so much apart of my life.  Now I am meeting another old friend; why have I pushed aside my love affair with fiction?

I have spent my life reading.  It is what I do.  There is no greater source for learning and expanding one's mind.  But for some reason, I have neglected reading for reading's sake.  I have neglected fiction.  I have immersed myself in the scriptures.  I have immersed myself in non-fiction and don't regret a minute of it.  But that needn't be all there is.  How had I forgotten?

I am finally remembering the joy that comes from being so deeply within a story that one temporarily leaves behind reality.  At the recommendation of my sweet daughter, I have picked up a book, not to learn (and yet I have); not to explore (and yet I have); not to educate (and yet I have).  I have gotten back in touch with the dream world of living life through another's eyes, through another's footsteps, through another's thoughts.

I have come to know another person, who isn't even real, and yet who I wish so desperately that she was.  Maybe I wish she was real, because I, in some way, wish that I were more like her.  I want to not be encumbered with worry, and insecurity.  I want to live my life freely without keeping in check every personal expression, fearing that others may not understand or approve.  I want to befriend the friendless.  I want to do expressions of kindness just for the sake of brightening someone's day.  And if I want to wear a long dress, strum a ukelele, and sing as if nobody were listening, then maybe, just maybe, I will.

I just finished the sequel to Jerry Spinelli's Stargirl.  It is entitled Love, Stargirl.  It is quite different from the first one.  Among the many memorable parts, the following was the most important for me, the one that woke me up, the one that slapped me upside the head:

     "Where are you going?" he said.
     "Porch.  Check the snow."
     "Don't."
     The way he said it, I stopped.  I sat back down.
     He looked at me across the table.  "Silly worries don't become you."

Fiction will never replace the scriptures.  That's okay.  I have the scriptures, too.  But I don't know of anything that can replace the suspending of disbelief, which enables one to enter into a world of the storyteller's creation; which enables one to see inside someone else thoughts and to walk in someone else's shoes.

Hello again, my old friend.  I have missed you.

Jane's Tale of Woe

I consider myself an expert.  I consider myself a super fan.  I feel ownership; I feel custodianship; I feel like they should have consulted me on their project!

I wonder, wonder, wonder.  For whom were the producers making the most recent adaptation of Jane Eyre?  Were they making it for those like me (and I know I am NOT alone)?  Or were they making it for those that are curious and want to know what all the fuss is about?

Were the glaring gaps left because the filmmakers knew I would be able to fill them all in with my previously acquired knowledge of the story?  What about all the first-timers?  Are they to be left with the impression that the only joy must come through one's own imagination?  Why, why, why did it have to be soooo gloomy, and soooooo austere, and sooooooo heartwrenching?  And this is coming from the queen of heartwrenching.  I love books and movies that successfully pull my heartstrings to hurt and to ache and to pine.  I crave this stuff.

But on the other hand, throw me a few crumbs of joy.  Please!  A love story cannot be exclusively built upon a few passionate conversations.  It comes from the day to day experiences, wherein we laugh, we work, we eat, we enjoy life.  The profession of affection comes too abruptly and without enough evidence to make it believable.

Still, it is a masterpiece of filmmaking.  Visually, it is stunning.  And the few tidbits of Spring color are welcome relief for weary eyes, amidst all the darkness and sparsity.

It stars the brilliant Mia Wasikowska as Jane, and Michael Fassbender as Rochester.  Their chemistry is real, but the script doesn't allow them enough lattitude to explore it or capitalize upon it.

The story of Jane Eyre is not all gloom and doom.  Period.  And yet one would believe it is if this were the only exposure to the story one has had.  May I suggest then, for a more positive experience, one might try:

1)  the book, itself, by Charlotte Bronte

2) the original 1944 version with Orson Welles and Joan Fontaine

3) or the 1996 version with William Hurt and Charlotte Gainsbourg

4) or the 1997 version with Ciaran Hind and Samantha Morton

5)  or the 1983 version with Timothy Dalton and Zelah Clarke

6)  or the 2006 version with Toby Stephens and Ruth Wilson

Each one adds a new dimension to this timeless tale.  Each Rochester is irresistable in his own unique way.  Each Jane is a symbol of courage and integrity, which is the real reason this book lingers in the top of my all-time favorites list.  She may be put upon, harshly dealt with, yet she never loses sight of right and wrong and self-respect.  She makes no excuses and I admire that.

If Music Be the Food of Love, Play On

I was reminded yesterday of the power of music.  I was reminded how much it speaks to my soul; how it feeds my spirit; how it has the ability to touch hearts.  I was reminded of what an important part of my life it has always been.

I attended an evening devoted to the composition talents of a brilliant lady in our church community.  It showcased her work from a lifetime devoted to obeying the instinct to create with inspiration.  The simple, yet eloquent messages were elevated to soul-stirring by the accompaniment of beautiful music.  It was an important reminder of everyone's potential and capacity.  There lies within all of us the divine nature of creativity, which we can either tap into by listening to our hearts and minds, or we can let it remain dormant while the world suffers from one less masterpiece.

But creativity isn't merely about the result, it is about the things we learn and discover during the creative process.  We begin to open our eyes to the possibilities, to see things in new ways, to understand ideas on a higher level.  Then the one who truly benefits most is the courageous soul willing to take a chance to make something beautiful out of ambiguous puzzle pieces which no longer remain ambiguous.

But the end of the concert last night wasn't the end of my profound experience.  My husband and I came home, settled down to relax in front of the television, forgetting to spring forward our clocks.  We became engrossed in the Silver Anniversary Concert celebrating the timeless musical, Les Miserables, which was airing on PBS.  The familiar music spoke new notes to my hungry soul.  As I listened with new ears, the power and glory of this great work continued to swell my heart.  I was overcome with the eternal truths which were taught in this story of sacrifice, integrity, mercy, and love.

Perhaps the biggest surprise for me was the "new" Marius.  At first I was startled by the extremely young nature of this fellow, having been used to stronger, more mature voices whom I have heard in the past.  But as it progressed, I realized that the producers had gotten it right.  There was a stronger note of innocence, of fragility, of promise, of hope in the future.  As ValJean pleaded with the Lord to "Bring Him Home", we all were pleading the same prayer.  He was so vulnerable, so young, so innocent, and yet his heart was so "full of love", we could all identify with those same poignant feelings.

Imagine my surprise when it was brought to my attention that the new Marius was one of The Jonas Brothers, Nick Jonas.  Of course his wasn't the strongest voice in the cast, but his wide-eyed innocence filled the role with grace.

Towards the end of the concert I looked up at the clock and was startled back to reality realizing that what was a late night for me anyway, was turning into even an even later one as I set the clock forward one precious hour.

But some things are worthy of the sacrifice.  My heart was full of love, too.  It was bursting with love for my family, for my Savior and His mercy, for the gift of music in my life, and for powerful literature that captures life and transcends it out of the gutter and onto a higher plane.

Every day should be so full of light and truth.

"My Dear Wormwood..." Leave Me Alone!

What a week I've had!  What began with only a vague awareness of a literary work, soon gave way to a rush of influence by the C.S. Lewis masterpiece, The Screwtape Letters.

I had heard of this book.  I understood what it claimed to be.  In fact, I had purchased a copy of this book as a gift for my son-in-law for Christmas; not because I had thought it to be the perfect gift, but at the suggestion of my daughter on her husband's behalf.

A few weeks after Christmas I received an email from a friend inviting my husband and I to attend a theatrical performance of, what else?  The Screwtape Letters.  Being distracted by life, I failed to respond to the invitation and even forgot to tell my husband about it.

Two more weeks pass by.  My husband mentions a blurb he had heard on the radio about this particular show coming to Portland.  It jolted my memory of the email, and we then discussed the possibility of getting tickets.  He was eager.  I was impartial.

With tickets purchased and a week until showtime, we decided some preparation would add to our appreciation of the event.  With the new-fangled technology, I purchased and downloaded a digital copy of the book to be read on my iPad.

Together each evening, Brian and I would gather for study of The Screwtape Letters.  I read the challenging text aloud, hoping that Brian was able to understand at least some of what I was fumbling through.  It is the type of book that shouldn't be rushed through in a week.  It requires time to reflect, to ponder,to decipher, to chew on the intensity and the subtlety.  It is also the kind of book that begs for certain passages to be underlined and highlighted, with notetaking in the margins so amazing parts can be revisited, reevaluated, and re-appreciated.

None of which was possible for us while cramming on an iPad.

That said, we did get a lot out of our reading.  Our regret was that in our truncated study, our ultimate results were certainly truncated too.

Showtime came.  It was amazing; a two-person cast, with only one of those actually speaking, it was unique.  It was thought provoking.  It was humbling to recognize human foibles present in oneself, the results of Satan and his minions successfully understanding the natural man and effectively leading us astray.  I use the collective "we" loosely.  Perhaps I am the only one weak and impressionable....

I have since thought a lot about The Screwtape Letters.  I recognize it to be full of profound truths, with Mr. Lewis being directly inspired.  I liken it to sneaking a peek at the opposing team's playbook.  If we can understand their game plan, with all of their strategies and scheming, we are certainly better equipped to construct an effective offense, while fortifying our team's defense.  They play dirty. They intend to win. Our eternities are at stake, but we have God on our side.  Sorry, Screwtape.

Imagine my delight on opening my valentine gift and finding a hard copy of The Screwtape Letters.  My husband knows me so well.  He knows that I couldn't wait to get my hands on a copy that I could reread slowly and deliberately and make my own, with any amount of notations and scribbles.  It will become a treasure, for sure.

I feel like someone has been trying to get my attention to become familiar this book.  And it took nearly being beaten on the head with it in order to wake me up.  If your curiosity is piqued even just a little, I would encourage you to have a go at it.  It may not be the easiest book you ever read, but I guarantee it will be one of the most eye-opening.

Love is Not Love Which Alters

Oh, I still remember the thrill of young love.  I remember the fluttering in my heart.  I remember the thrill of a phone call.  I remember the sweet anticipation of just seeing him.  Walt Whitman captures that feeling so well.

                                                                     Calamus No. 43

By Walt Whitman

O YOU whom I often and silently come where you

     are, that I may be with you,

As I walk by your side, or sit near, or remain in the

     same room with you,

Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your

     sake is playing within me.

But having been with my Valentine for 28 years, some of the newness has worn off just a little.  The fluttering is still there though, and the thrill, and the anticipation, and the electric fire.  But they now represent  the peace of knowing that he WILL call, and he WILL come home, and we WILL spend time together.  Lots of time.

What is missing is the anxiety.  And I certainly don't miss that!  The doubt is gone.  The insecurity is gone.  In its place is the certainty and reassurance of a long term commitment. 

My favorite love poem, then, is not about the thrills of new love.  It is about the serenity of knowing that love is here to stay.  Real love will weather the storms, to be found just as solid and lasting as ever.  It will turn a blind eye to faults, and the inevitable fading of youth. 

Sonnet No. 116

By William Shakespeare

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments.  Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

Oh, no!  It is an ever-fixed mark,

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love is not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Happy Valentine's Day to my eternal Valentine.  The one that is always there.  The one that overlooks the impediments.  We may not be the picture of young love; but we are definitely the picture of real love.

A Reading List for those looking for more

I don't have anything against popular fiction.  I am thrilled that many people are choosing to read as part of their leisure.  In a world where most of our input is through simplified mind-numbing television, movies and youtube videos, books represent a great exercise for our minds.

That said, I am an advocate for classic literature.  I believe there is a reason that a handpicked selection has proven the test of time, has been around the block and back again, offers something to each new up and coming generation. And never fails to deliver!

Many think that if something is given as an assignment, it must be approached cautiously.  Nope.  Many titles, from your summer reading lists of the past, really are great books, ones that can be enjoyed for their own merit and you will never be faced with a pop quiz or a writing assignment about them.  That is the true meaning of pleasure reading to me.  These are tried and true and have merit, whatever your interests are.

Personal Favorites
The Scarlet Pimpernel series by the Baroness Orczy (lots of swashbuckling heroism)
The Horatio Hornblower series by C.S. Forester (I am in love with Horatio, a true hero with integrity)
A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens (One of the most inspirational books I've ever read)
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte (This book changed my life, gave me courage when courage was needed)

Here is a link to a thorough, outstanding list of classic literature, categorized for adults, teens, and children.
As an editorial note, don't be afraid to partake from every category.  As an adult I have enjoyed many selections from each list.  They also contain excellent selections to be read aloud as a family.

Can't Miss Authors
John Steinbeck
Ernest Hemingway
OscarWilde
Jane Austen
Mark Twain
Arthur Conan Doyle
J.R.R. Tolkien
Louisa May Alcott
Harper Lee
H.G. Wells
Robert Louis Stevenson
C.S. Lewis
L.M. Montgomery

For those wanting to venture into poetry, start with Shakespeare's Sonnets.  So beautiful.  But perhaps that is another blog for another day....

"Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain"***

I love poetry.  I love the challenge it presents.  Rarely is anything straightforward, easy to grasp; it requires slowing down, broadening one's sensitivity to language, to imagery, to symbolism. 

I love when my children take literature courses.  It awakens in me memories of days past, studying English myself in college, feeling a little guilty for enjoying my classes so much.  Wasn't college supposed to be hard?  These classes were a delight!  I love being reacquainted with poets of the past.  I love being introduced to new ones

I love opening my books, my heart, and my mind to new ideas. 

I love thinking about life on a higher plane.

I love poetry.

***Thanks, Anne Bradstreet.  Thanks, Miranda.

C'mon Jane! Give us what we want!

As part of a newly formed Book Club, whose members are scattered around the world, I was given the suggestion to read Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey, and then blog about my impressions.

Ah, I love these kinds of books.  Often I have wondered if I was born in the wrong century, finding many charms of ages past to be right in line with my tastes.  The 19th Century was certainly a kinder, gentler society if one was fortunate enough to live among the privileged classes.  Perhaps I could have been content to spend my days expanding my accomplishments, writing letters to acquaintances, and being seen but seldom heard.  (Hmmmm...sounds a bit familiar)

Would I have been content to abide by the structure and rules of social interaction, trying never to let on one's true feelings, and searching often in vain for any clue of returned affection.  (Wait a minute!  Not much has changed, has it?!)

Northanger Abbey is Jane's  tongue-in-cheek response to the popular romance novels of her day, a genre that fed upon society's hunger for suspense and mystery, for gothic melodrama, and a formulaic unpredictable predictability.

Jane satirically describes her heroine as very un-heroine-like.  She's normal.  She has ordinary looks.  She travels in predictable circles, rarely meeting anyone of heroic proportions.  In other words, "Catherine" is just like you and me.

I found it delightfully refreshing to note such a practical approach that stayed fairly constant throughout the book.  Catherine did not find herself in any real danger or peril.  Her thoughts were consumed with balls and gowns, and who might ask her to dance, and whom she might run into by chance if she put herself carefully into the right location.

As most of our own lives go, she does meet her hero, a kind, albeit average gentleman who nobly and predictably plays by the rules of gracious society.  (No bodice ripping here.)

Yet, here is where I find my frustration (not in the lack of bodice ripping...)  The tension and mystery of the very basic climax of "will he or will he not propose" is not taken advantage of at all (like in any respectable chick-flick).  It is treated in the uptight, proper, inexcitable nature of the day, as sort of an "Oh, by the way they're getting married".  We get no impassioned declaration of love.  We get no poetic words delineating the development of mutual affection.  As we know, even "normal" people can feel joy and passion and relief and happiness, which I am certain even our sweet little Catherine and her polite Henry Tilney did.

Apparently in Jane's staid society, they weren't yet ready to share such pivotal, private moments in proper literature.  I respect that.  But if we are invited in to become so engaged in their lives and in their characters, is it wrong for us to feel like we should be part of the resolution?

Did he kiss her?  I guess we'll never know.  Perhaps Jane just intended for us to read between the lines, and draw our own "proper" conclusions.

Searching for Meaning.

I apologize to my old-timers, but I have a desire to re-visit an old blogpost today.  It was written last December, and as I read through it, I felt its message was something I needed to hear again.  Enjoy.



I have been intrigued lately with the word "meaning". Why is it so coveted? Why does it seem so elusive? How is it possible to transcend the mundane everyday drudgery simply by being able to attach "meaning" to it?


This word keeps popping up all over the place. "Man's Search for Meaning"; "Does the song you sing have enough meaning..."; the TRUE meaning of Christmas; see what I "mean"? ;-)

In Victor L. Frankl's book, he quotes the words of Nietzsche: "He who has a Why to live for can bear almost any How." The root of his survival while in a Nazi concentration camp was his ability to attach meaning to his life and retain a hope for a happy life after that bleak experience was behind him. And as terrible as that experience was, it reinforced for him WHAT was truly meaningful to him. Life is not primarily a quest for pleasure, or a quest for power or wealth; it is truly a quest for meaning. Remarkably and perhaps as one of God's greatest gifts it is our responsibility to find the unique meaning of our own lives.

"Frankl saw three possible sources for meaning: in work (doing something significant), in love (caring for another person), and in courage during difficult times." (from the Foreword to Man's Search for Meaning)

You know, when I entitled my blog, Ardith's Quest, I think I was subconsciously defining my desire to search for meaning in my life. The last 26 years have been spent primarily focused on my family and that has provided wonderful meaning for my life. As my children have grown and are leaving home, now I can see that my quest is to find other sources of meaning. What will be my reason for getting out of bed in the morning? What will be my impetus for self-improvement?

Some of the greatest questions ever posed illustrate the universal quest for meaning: Where did I come from? Why am I here? Where am I going? Thankfully the Gospel of Jesus Christ in its restored fullness has provided me with those answers. The challenge of enduring to the end is where my quest for meaning will be most "meaningful" and necessary.I have made it this far, but in reality I am (hopefully) only at the halfway mark of my life on earth. What will provide meaning for the next 46 years? Will the song in my heart have enough meaning to be shared with others? I hope so. I feel like the Lord has blessed me with some gifts that He intends for me to use productively, and ultimately I will be held accountable to Him for their use. Perhaps it is time to find a shovel, remember where I buried my talents, and see if I can uncover, dust off, and use those gifts to add some meaning to my life and to others.

May you and your family enjoy a meaningful Christmas. May you find meaningful activities, and may your traditions bespeak the true meaning of this sacred holiday season.

My Buddy, The Bard

Perhaps it is a normal thing for a 9-year-old to develop an affinity for William Shakespeare.  I don't know.  I think it may be somewhat unusual, too.

And yet, I did.  I feel it a unique blessing to have lived in Cedar City, Utah and to have had access to the Utah Shakespearean Festival early in my life.  A Comedy of Errors, A Midsummer Night's Dream, The Tempest; these were the plays that introduced me to the Bard, to his intricate language, irreverent humor, and magical settings.  I was hooked.  There was something so compelling about the open-air theatre, the elaborate costumes, and the beauty of language, most of which I probably didn't understand. 

I was even in my elementary school's production of The Tempest, which proved to have had a lasting impact, when I named my youngest daughter, Miranda, after the young heroine of that play.

I had the role of Trinculo, who in league with Stephano and Caliban, foolishly sought to outwit Prospero. 

Throughout my life, I have retained a fondness for the works of Shakespeare, though my opportunities to see them performed have diminished.

Last month, as kind of a post-wedding treat, my Miranda and I planned an outing to Ashland for the Oregon Shakespeare Festival.  We purchased tickets for two productions, made reservations at a charming downtown hotel, and then began counting the days until our trip.

What fun!  It was like stepping out of present day and into a literary world, a world untouched by the cares of everyday survival, where we were joined by other literature and drama geeks, for a celebration of the mastery of language, of costume, of theatre.

There were a number of highlights to our trip.  The first being a brilliant production of Hamlet.  We were blown away by the mastery of staging, acting, and language that is Hamlet.  What a way to get our feet wet.

"What a piece of work is man!"--Hamlet

We enjoyed two days filled with great entertainment, great food, and browsing in used book stores; all in a beautiful setting with a beautiful daughter.  I feel so blessed that my love of Shakespeare has been passed to the next generation; that my children also recognize the brilliance of The Bard.

We Do Make a Difference

The choices we make, the behavior we exhibit, the joy we share all reach out to impact others' lives, and their's, in turn, impact our lives.  The poet John Donne gets it.

No man is an island entire of itself; every man

is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;

if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe

is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as

well as any manner of thy friends or of thine

own were; any man's death diminishes me,

because I am involved in mankind.

And therefore never send to know for whom

the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

When our lives are filled with joy and love, we mustn't be afraid to let it radiate, no matter if we feel it might make others sad by comparison to their circumstance of the moment.  How do we respond to those in pain?  Do we hold back sharing our joy?  Do we become self-conscious of our own blessings and seek to diminish them?

God is full of love.  He wants us to be as well.  Showing and giving love can be part of sharing our own joy and happiness.  If I am struggling with personal trials, my desire is still for you to be happy.  That old phrase, 'misery loves company' is flawed in all regards.  Selfishness would have others be miserable too, but love rejoices in others' happiness despite our own challenges.  We do, and should, make an impact in this life.  If we are holding back we are only losing out on the love that would naturally be reflected back to us.

There is a shortage of joy, of hope, of confidence in our society today.  Struggles and hardship are present on all sides.  People are becoming discouraged and abandoning hope of a better world.  We need each other.  We need to reach out, never hold back, in sharing the light and joy whenever we are blessed to have it.  I love the Plato quote:  "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle."   My daughter told me once that the greatest act of charity and love is to give someone the benefit of the doubt.  I agree.  We seldom know what folks are struggling with--many heartaches are visible, more are not.  Most people hide away their pain, try to paint a brave face, and many are none-the-wiser of their broken hearts.

I spent some time today at the doctors' office.  Not the most fun way to spend the day.  After blood tests and x-rays were performed, called for due to significant, prolonged chest pain, the results were declared to be normal.  I was given heavy duty pain medicine which succeeded in knocking me out, but which has failed to ease the pain while I am awake.

Why am I sharing this?  Am I looking for sympathy? for encouraging words? for a casserole?  No.  I have decided that I am not an island.  My family is not an island.  We all need each other in this great, big world of human beings.  If we know of each other's heartaches, then we can be prepared to share and help alleviate them.  We don't need to feel alone, while crowded on every side with humanity.  And yet we often do.  I need you.  And I hope one day you might need me and allow me to know of your sorrows so I can fill the Savior's injunction to bear one another's burdens.

Let us not be reluctant to spread some sunshine if we have received an ample supply.  Let us not be reluctant to reach out with a smile and a kind word.  Our lives here on earth were not meant to be handled alone, and if we feel as though joy is momentarily in short supply, let us remember the sure source of peace and happiness:  the Lord Jesus Christ, and His promise in Doctrine and Covenants, 101:36.

"Wherefore, fear not even unto death; for in this world your joy is not full, but in me your joy is full."

Let us be the Lord's hands here on earth; let us be instruments of his peace.  Share your joy.  And I will share mine.

She Should've Had a Blog

I was introduced to a new friend today.  Miranda did the honors.  She knew I would make a connection with this dear lady, one who steps off the page and instantly becomes more than an acquaintance.  Although her formal name is Frances Burney, a British author at the turn of the 19th century, I think I will prefer to enjoy the more familiarity of her nickname, Fanny.  Fanny was a gal ahead of her time.

Fanny's first journal entry in 1768 presented a common dilemma.  She knew that memory would fail her eventually so she wanted to have a place to share her "thoughts, manners, acquaintance & actions," where she could "confess (her) every thought...open (her) whole heart!"

She continues:  "But a thing of this kind ought to be addressed to somebody--I must imagine myself to be talking--talking to the most intimate of friends--to one in whom I should take delight in confiding, & remorse in concealment:  but who must this friend be?"

That is a dilemma that bloggers wrestle with, at least I do.  With whom am I sharing my thoughts? to whom are they directed?  to whom am I uncovering and baring my soul?  with whom am I occasionally being silly?  Although after much inner debate and finally choosing to be blissfully unaware of who is reading my blog, I think I can take a page from Fanny's book.  She delighted in figuring out to whom she could direct her writing:

"To whom must I dedicate my wonderful, surprising & interesting adventures?  to whom dare I reveal my private opinion of my nearest relations?  the secret thoughts of my dearest friends?  my own hopes, fears, reflections & dislikes?--Nobody!

"To Nobody, then will I write my journal!  since to Nobody can I be wholly unreserved--to Nobody can I reveal every thought, every wish of my heart, with the most unlimited confidence, the most unremitting sincerity to the end of my life!"

While Fanny's newfound freedom in writing to Nobody enabled her to write with utter honesty, her private thoughts were reported so fully and faithfully that, in the end, every reader is able to share them and relate to her Universal truths.  That is a tremendous accomplishment.  While I don't enjoy the freedom of my posts being read posthumously, I do hope that as I work through the reflections and musings and deliberations of my life and share them freely with "Nobody", perhaps some particle of truth will resonate with you, whomever you are, and that occasionally I might prompt you to look at something in a new way, or to set your sights on a new goal, or to express your previously inhibited feelings.

Thanks, Fanny.  I think we are going to be good friends. 

Legends of Sleepy Hollow

Last Friday I took a step backwards in time.  At least that is what it felt like.  And I found a circle of friends which I would have wanted to be apart of.  I would have hung around their perimeter until they would have had to invite me to join them.  I saw where they lived; where they read, studied, and wrote.  I saw where they pondered and communed with nature.  And finally, I saw where they were laid to rest; all within yards of each other, in a peaceful spot on one of the hills of Sleepy Hollow Cemetery.

You see, I was in Transcendental Central, to borrow a term coined by my daughter, Miranda.  I was in Concord, Massachusetts, the lovely little tranquil spot outside the bustle of Boston; the place where the Revolutionary War began, where first rang the shot heard round the world.  Historians delight in the significance of this important place.  Literaries delight in its significance as the birthplace of the Trancendentalist Movement.

I went to Walden Pond.  I really did.  And it was as peaceful and beautiful and inspiring as Thoreau said it was.  I walked the pathway he regularly took from the pond to his little shack.  I saw the replica shack that has been built in the spot of the original.  I sat on his doorstep, and looked out to see the things he saw.

I'm pretty sure he would not have looked favorably upon the extensive parking lot, the gift shop, or the bikini-clad swimmers in his pond.  But they didn't really detract too much from the spirit of the place.

The real monuments to their greatness don't reside on the shady hill of Sleepy Hollow.  They rest on the bookshelves of homes and libraries all over the world.  Their lasting impact can be felt as one explores their revolutionary thought.  They believed religion can be a personal thing, with spirit touching spirit.  They were missing a few critical pieces of truth which their contemporary, Joseph Smith, just a state away in New York, was restoring to the world.  I believe they were ready to hear and would have been receptive to the restored Truth of the Gospel of Jesus Christ, and would have welcomed Joseph into their circle too. 

Untraveled Worlds

Inspiration comes from surprising sources. And I continue to marvel at the power of "Shuffle".  By mere chance the songs of life pop up at unanticipated times.  Hitting my stride well today and heading for home on a strong note, my favorite choral group, the Sprague High School Concert Choir, accompanied the last quarter mile of my walk.  It began with stimulating percussion, piano and violin, taking my mind back to the State Choir Championships a few years ago, when Director Russ Christensen pulled out his ace in the hole; a new song the choir had quickly learned to wow everyone at State.  It worked.  I remember feeling thrown back against my chair, breathless from the beauty, majesty, and vigor of this new piece of music, performed by a one-hundred voice choir that was defending its title as State Choir Champions.

The piece that so thrilled my heart that day and likewise swelled it today was "Untraveled Worlds", a new choral number by Paul Halley, with lyrics taken from Alfred Lord Tennyson's masterpiece, Ulysses.   I couldn't find a youtube rendition by the Sprague Choir, but here is one that comes close to their splendor; the BYU-Idaho Collegiate Singers 2009.

Hearing this beautiful music today prompted me to look up Tennyson's poem to read the inspiring words.  What a unique experience to read and identify with Ulysses, one of the greatest adventurers of all time, who isn't ready to be put on the shelf yet.  He still has places he wants to see, experiences he wants to relish, and new worlds he wants to discover.  I have never realized before that in some ways, old Ulysses and I are cut from the same cloth.  We appreciate the experiences of the past, all that we have learned, all that we have suffered and enjoyed, both with those we have loved and also alone.  We dread rusting unburnished, not to shine, from being unused and forgotten.  Bring on new things!  Follow knowledge like a sinking star!  Push off, and sail beyond the sunset!  To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield!



Excerpt from Ulysses: ( I encourage you to read along as the choir sings; very inspiring!)
I cannot rest from travel; I will drink
life to the lees.  All times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
that loved me, and alone...

I am part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades
Forever and forever when I move.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end.
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life!  Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains; but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

Come my friends.
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
the sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.

Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are---
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Outing an Obsession

Those that know me well will smile.  Those that are only now discovering me may be a little surprised.  I have an obsession.  A Hornblower obsession.

And it isn't just because the recent Hornblower movies on A&E featured the fascinating Ioan Gruffudd.  I am equally drawn to the Captain Hornblower of old, played by Gregory Peck.

One evening, years ago, my husband called me into our bedroom where he was watching the A&E channel.  He said he had found something I might like, knowing I am a big fan of historical fiction.  It was a movie about a young man who had enlisted in the British Navy and was prone to seasickness.  He was a man of integrity, and though not perfect, he would not compromise his honor; he was courageous, and loyal, and quickly rose from being green with nausea to being a formidable crew member.  As quickly as he learned to scale the lines of the ship, he also escalated in his ranking.  When we first meet Horatio Hornblower, he is a midshipman.  By the eleventh and final book of the series, he becomes Admiral in His Majesty's Navy.

I know this because I was immediately hooked.  I now own all the movies ever made about Horatio Hornblower.  I own and have read all the books in C.S. Forester's series.  I have a book that showcases the making of the movies.

I have a fictitious biography, written by a fan of Forester's legendary character.  See?  I'm not the only one that shares the obsession.  Imagine a character so compelling that fans are even speculating and constructing a potential reality.

While I did not get swept up in the latest vampire craze, I have to admit to my weakness for this man in uniform; the one that uses his brilliant mind and courageous soul to outwit Bonaparte; the one that puts his honor and duty above his personal needs;  the one that stands watch and protects me from behind the door of my scrapbook room...