Scholarship with Web 2.0

In trying to show how little work has been done on mors mystica, I've been tempted to include the footnote that it does not even have a wikipedia article.

Oh, how far the academics have fallen.

Ash Wednesday

Every year, I post this on my blog, and with good reason: Ash Wednesday is about repentance, and for me that requires hope.

As you read this, think of repentance as a physical turning away and return--it helps with many of the images.

Ash Wednesday
T.S. Eliot

Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?

Because I do not hope to know again
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still.

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.

II

Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree
In the cool of the day, having fed to satiety
On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been contained
In the hollow round of my skull. And God said
Shall these bones live? shall these
Bones live? And that which had been contained
In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping:
Because of the goodness of this Lady
And because of her loveliness, and because
She honours the Virgin in meditation,
We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled
Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love
To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.
It is this which recovers
My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions
Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn
In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.
Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness.
There is no life in them. As I am forgotten
And would be forgotten, so I would forget
Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said
Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only
The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping
With the burden of the grasshopper, saying

Lady of silences
Calm and distressed
Torn and most whole
Rose of memory
Rose of forgetfulness
Exhausted and life-giving
Worried reposeful
The single Rose
Is now the Garden
Where all loves end
Terminate torment
Of love unsatisfied
The greater torment
Of love satisfied
End of the endless
Journey to no end
Conclusion of all that
Is inconclusible
Speech without word and
Word of no speech
Grace to the Mother
For the Garden
Where all love ends.

Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining
We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other,
Under a tree in the cool of the day, with the blessing of sand,
Forgetting themselves and each other, united
In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye
Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity
Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.

III

At the first turning of the second stair
I turned and saw below
The same shape twisted on the banister
Under the vapour in the fetid air
Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears
The deceitul face of hope and of despair.

At the second turning of the second stair
I left them twisting, turning below;
There were no more faces and the stair was dark,
Damp, jagged, like an old man's mouth drivelling, beyond repair,
Or the toothed gullet of an aged shark.

At the first turning of the third stair
Was a slotted window bellied like the figs's fruit
And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene
The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green
Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute.
Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown,
Lilac and brown hair;
Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind over the third stair,
Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair
Climbing the third stair.

Lord, I am not worthy
Lord, I am not worthy
but speak the word only.

IV

Who walked between the violet and the violet
Who walked between
The various ranks of varied green
Going in white and blue, in Mary's colour,
Talking of trivial things
In ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour
Who moved among the others as they walked,
Who then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs

Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand
In blue of larkspur, blue of Mary's colour,
Sovegna vos

Here are the years that walk between, bearing
Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring
One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing

White light folded, sheathing about her, folded.
The new years walk, restoring
Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring
With a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem
The time. Redeem
The unread vision in the higher dream
While jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse.

The silent sister veiled in white and blue
Between the yews, behind the garden god,
Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but spoke no word

But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down
Redeem the time, redeem the dream
The token of the word unheard, unspoken

Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew

And after this our exile

V

If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent
If the unheard, unspoken
Word is unspoken, unheard;
Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,
The Word without a word, the Word within
The world and for the world;
And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word.

O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Where shall the word be found, where will the word
Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence
Not on the sea or on the islands, not
On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land,
For those who walk in darkness
Both in the day time and in the night time
The right time and the right place are not here
No place of grace for those who avoid the face
No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny the voice

Will the veiled sister pray for
Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee,
Those who are torn on the horn between season and season, time and time, between
Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait
In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray
For children at the gate
Who will not go away and cannot pray:
Pray for those who chose and oppose

O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Will the veiled sister between the slender
Yew trees pray for those who offend her
And are terrified and cannot surrender
And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks
In the last desert before the last blue rocks
The desert in the garden the garden in the desert
Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed.

O my people.

VI

Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn

Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth This is the time of tension between dying and birth The place of solitude where three dreams cross Between blue rocks But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away Let the other yew be shaken and reply.

Blessed sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee.

On your mat...get set...

... and take it easy.

Yes, it's yoga.

Depending on your perspective, it's an hour and a half of stretching I could do on my own. Or a yuppie lifestyle pretension. Or just ridiculous.

But I had a wise woman tell me last week that yoga is some of the best therapy--you learn to push your body, but also to protect it and listen to its limitations. Doing yoga properly means not simply getting a good work out, but learning to attend to your body and work at any level to make sure things line up and aid the entirety of the pose.

Ok, laugh.

Still, I get to think of my hour and a half each week as a chance to focus on myself and see how mind and body work as one unit.

And, for a girl who lives the life of the mind, that's pretty cool.

Somewhere, a Flannery O'Connor post was supposed to happen. Deep thoughts on a deep writer. Instead, I've come out with just a few observations, but I've also realized that I'll need to read her writing about writing as a Catholic very slowly--what I had hoped for as a lead with my dissertation looks like it will help.

But rather than write on that (and I shouldn't write too much about my dissertation publicly) or on what looks to be very encouraging with my work (a number of suspicions I've had are being confirmed by reading letters), I just want to make a few observations about the last of my break and the beginning of the dissertation which looms so scarily (and yet, suddenly, so manageably).

The snow in Virginia made it possible to go for long exhausting walks every day, which I loved doing. Being outside, hearing the muffled silence of the fresh snow, feeling alone in the woods... there is indeed something magical about new snow.

Sadly, the walking didn't continue when I got down to Charles City, as it was absolutely freezing. I wonder if it's related to the cold exposure I had had in Vermont, as my nose is especially susceptible to the cold (more so now after the first stages of frostbite), but it's not fun being cold. As a result, I didn't visit as many folks as I would have liked, and did a lot of baking. This includes making good on my New Year's resolution to bake bread more, although I've not done that since I got back to Nashville. Perhaps I'll fix that early next week....







I had dreaded returning to Nashville, as I'm not particularly happy here. Yet little things have surprised me, reminded me of the wonderful people I know here and with whom I live in fellowship. What's lonely is the stress and isolation that comes with working only. Balance, balance. How beautiful good friends, quality food, and evenings off are. Thinking is then possible; we were not made to live only a vita contempletiva, but also a vita activa. The two must both be possible like the ebb and flow of the tides, one receding and making room for the other. Did I mention that the vita activa included spelunking this past weekend?!

In addition to reading and teaching a fantastic class (I'm teaching other grad students! Grammar! Reading!), I'm also taking French, which is kicking my butt. 1.5 hours of French only, twice a week, plus reading. Intense, but great. I've not been so tired after just one class in years. Language acquisition will do that to you, I suppose.

Headed down to Richmond Town

In a few hours, I'll be on a train down to Richmond, where the oldest of my [former] disobedient charges will be picking me up. A week in Chuck City? Fabulous! I look forward to doing all the country things and long walks on quiet lanes, as well as visiting with old friends. If you are lucky, I'll take pictures.

We've had some adventures here in the DC area, including going to Annapolis for a day with M, a friend from High School and drinking coffee with B, where a man overheard us commenting on his child, who was wearing no shoes or socks. B, a med student, and me, a former nanny, were being quite snarky. And we didn't realize he heard us until he told us he was sick of putting her socks and shoes back in. The German in me wanted to say he wasn't going to be the only one sick....

To accompany my jaunt on Amtrak, I give you The James River Blues. I just hope I don't get stuck behind a coal train!

Hiatus, Schmimatus

Welcome back, Kotter!

After a semester's break, I'm back! There's a trip I took in November I might post on (or might not), but look for posts on Flannery O'Connor and Annapolis soon....

September 22-24: Alice Hamilton, Hitlerjunge Quex, and Kuhle Wampe

For this week's post, consider the Alice Hamilton reading (on OAK between weeks 2 and 3 in the "Course Readings" folder) in relation to Hitlerjunge Quex and Kuhle Wampe. Use either the films or the reading as your focus.