Our Lady, Burning: A Response to the Fire at Notre Dame Cathedral

A fire has broken out at the famous Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris.  The roof structure, built in the 13th century and called 'the forest', is lost, and the spire has fallen.  I've been following live updates on CNN with a heavy heart, and I wanted to share my thoughts on this sad event.

Our Lady, Burning

She is many things, and one.
Every eye that rests on her tranquil face
brings something new,
someone loved.
I bring frosted glass and opaque eyes,
age-softened hands and an abrupt laugh
and a faith I never felt
but which has a claim on me nevertheless.
I also bring a source of story and song,
a familiar edifice against a sunset of dreams,
glinting glass roses and stony whispering air
and the bells, bells, bells.
Ours.  Always she is 'ours'
and yet unclaimed, unpossessed.

Today she is on the pyre.

There is a silence across the river
that I can hear across the ocean.
I can see the tears falling
from eyes that cannot look away.
The smoke that shrouds the city of lights--
I can taste it.
I was but one set of shuffling footsteps,
one child searching her shadows,
and yet I am a part of her,
and as her forest falls
and her prayers are drowned by alarms,
I, too, grieve.

But the hand raised against her--
be it careless fate or cruel faithlessness--
will not change her,
for hymns will rise higher than the smoke.
Though we mourn--oh, how we mourn!--
voices are already lifting in hope,
saying words such as 'rebuild' and 'faith'
and 'together.'
Our lady's face remains tranquil,
for she is many things still, and still one.
To lose part of the many does not diminish her,
and love burns more fiercely than any flame.

Labor of Love

This weekend was kind of a big deal.  For about six years now, I have been working on one single enormous project: my novel series of four books, titled (for now) Release, Renewal, Revelation, and Relief.  That is over now, as I finally finished writing the last book on Saturday. 

Pause for effect.

It’s a bewildering thing.  I’m proud of my work—while it needs polishing, I know that it is strong, especially the ending.  And yet, I feel a little hollow.  At first, I thought it was grief for the story that has lingered at the back of my mind for half a decade, or else for those characters who didn’t make it to that strong ending.  But that’s the thing about books—whatever may happen, the story never really ends, and a character still is, even after death.  Both remain rooted in the present—you just have to turn the pages back to find them again.  I should be glad that they are all now real for more than just me.

Ay, there’s the rub.  To give this story and these characters substance in the real world cost me a bit.  I used to be able to dive into their world in my mind, to test and try on plots, to taste their words in my mouth.  It used to be an escape for me, somewhere I could go to be someone else for a while.  Now, however, that door is closed.  The story is on paper, all its possibilities solidified, and there’s no way in anymore except by the words on the page.  And while I have other stories into which I can flee, this one has been my chosen destination for so long.  I will miss spending time there.

Still, I’m glad that I did it.  The hours of work, the years of thought—I don’t regret a minute.  These characters have given me so much, and I owed it to them.  Now even if they go no further, still they are in the world.  They are real.  And I could not ask for more than that.

Anticipation

I am a member of a young church.  This particular congregation has been meeting for only about a dozen years, and only now do we have a church building under construction.  I drive by the work site every day on my way home from work, and today they were putting the roof on the tower.  I was very excited to see it, particularly since the work has been on hold the past week or so due to bad weather.  

Our pastor was talking on Sunday about how he is getting used to the new tour guide role he takes on, showing people around the work-in-progress.  As I was thinking about the possibility of stopping for a tour today, I thought about what a strange tour it would be.  With most buildings, what is notable about them is the things that have happened inside, the history they have witnessed and the beauty that has been put into them.  But in this case, the points of interest are future events—here is where we will hold worship, here is where the children will meet for Sunday school, here is where we will store fourteen different crockpots before a church picnic.

It’s an odd difference, but also exciting.  Anything is possible, and that is physically visible now in the unpainted walls and the unfinished floors.  The whole building is a blank canvas onto which our community will be able to make our mark.

It’s also an excellent metaphor for faith.  It’s not the looking back that matters in religion, but looking forward to what good is to come, be it in this life or the next.  What we need to focus on is the future—what can be built and what can be changed for the better.  I can only hope that we can hold on to that thought once the building is no longer unfinished.

True Horror

I’ve never been much of a fan of horror.  I tend to avoid scary movies and spooky books, because I never could understand why someone would choose to terrify themselves.  I’ve never enjoyed the feeling of wide-awake dread, that breathless waiting for something to leap out of the darkness, the trembling weakness that comes through the body in anticipation of violence.  Maybe some people do like those sensations, and if so, great.  More for them.

But I’m learning that there are many different kinds of horror, because there are many different kinds of fear.  Danger comes in all shapes and sizes, particularly now in our safe, apparently civilized world.  And some fears, while less striking than the bloody-thing-jumping-out-of-the-shadows kind, are more real and more familiar to me.

This is on my mind because I am currently reading through my Christmas books, one of which was a gift from my roommate.  She knows that I love “Welcome to Night Vale”, the creepy-wonderful podcast by Jeffrey Cranor and Joseph Fink.  Night Vale, by the way, is a very mild kind of creepy—I wouldn’t even class it as horror, myself, more bizarre humor with a side of sharp satire.  But Joseph Fink also has a book out now unrelated to Night Vale called Alice Isn’t Dead, which is the book that my roommate found and the story that inspired this post.  It is about a woman who, after seeing her dead wife staring at her from a news report, drops everything and goes off to search for her in an eighteen-wheeler.  On the road, in the places where many people pass and no one stays, Keisha finds something that can truly be called horrible.  Allow me to share the passage that made me want to write this afternoon.

At around four in the morning she heard haphazard, arrhythmic clapping.  Adrenaline seized through her, but she stood and with shaking legs left her bedroom.  She crept down the stairs.  Slap slap came the sound.  There was a flickering in her living room.  Slap slap.  The TV was on and muted, showing a local weather-woman describing a hurricane that would never come anywhere near the area Keisha lived.  Against this weather report, Keisha saw a blurred reflection.  A strange bent shape, swinging loosely back and forth.  Slap slap.  She smelled tilled earth, and she smelled her own sweat, and she smelled cleaning chemicals and the sharp funk of a gas station bathroom. 

“WOOP,” the shape said.  “WOOOOOP.”  Slap slap.  Slap slap. 

She leaned around the living room door with as little of herself visible as possible.  A Thistle Man, not the one she had first met, and not the one she had followed to the town, and not the one from her neighbors’ deck, but another one still.  He was bent horribly backward, like his spine was broken, and he was loosely swinging his arms back and forth in a circle so that they slapped his chest and back.  Slap slap.  Slap.  He gurgled.  “WOOOP!” he shouted.  “WOOOOOOOOOP!”  (Fink, 91-92)

First of all, I have to say how beautifully this is written, even this strange and disturbing description.  Well done, Mr. Fink.  And what talent he has with the detail, revealing the creature slowly, its strangeness coming one chilling element at a time.  But that isn’t what brought me to the keyboard.  I am here, as ever, to figure out what is going on in my head: in this case, why this image will not leave my head.  It is not particularly scary.  Small spoiler: this weird monster does nothing any more dangerous than this.  Keisha runs back to her bedroom, and he doesn’t follow, and the next day he is gone.  And yet it is frightening to me.  Out of all the terrible things that these Thistle Men do in the book, this is the image that keeps coming back, the monster entertaining itself in a darkened house.

To me, this is horror on a deeper level, and one that I can appreciate.  Anyone can jump out of a dark shadow and scare someone—I’ve done it myself, more than once.  There is no artistry in that.  But that slapping, swinging monster is chilling on a deeper level because there is a mystery to him.  We don’t know why he is doing this.  It’s never explained, at least not at the point in the book I’ve reached so far.  I don’t think it will be explained, either; it is just a strangeness, something included to make clear just how not human these creatures are.  And that is the kind of horror that this book is built upon—the mystery, and the unexplained, and the things that are very not human, and yet very real and very clever and very dangerous.  Fink reaches into the dark corners of the world with this story, dragging out grimy things like what you find in the sink drain or that corner behind the stove that never gets cleaned.  He brings those things to light, where they do not belong, and it is terrifying.

This book, and books like it, are an exploration of the darkness that lives in the world.  We like to pretend we don’t have the dark, but it is there, like those apps you can’t uninstall from your phone.  There is darkness in the world, and there is darkness in every human soul, and try as we might, we can’t always know what is hiding there.  That is why strange stories like these are scary, but also why it is important.  Because every story about things hiding in the dark needs someone who goes after them, who asks questions, who tries to find out what they are and how to defeat them.  We need to be able to look into the shadows, despite the horror they raise, and accept the realities that live there.  True horror stories are practice for looking into the dark and dealing with what is there, and something tells me that we will need that practice.

Fallow Year

Well.  It has been almost a year since I visited this site.  Through most of this year, this place in my mind has lain fallow, undisturbed by any attempt at growing life.  This is good for a farmer’s field—is it as good for a creative activity?  Or is this rather like a muscle that will atrophy if not exercised?

I have to admit, I do not like to write about my life.  There is a reason that I am a science fiction and fantasy writer—or rather, there are many reasons, but the one that is most relevant here is that my own life often bores me.  I get up, I go to work, I come home, I read a book, I go to bed.  The next day I do it all over again.  Why would anyone have any interest in what I do, if I don’t?  And often I don’t.  Viewed from outside my own head, I am a very dull creature.

This is not to say that I am unhappy.  I like my job, and I do not regret the time I spend reading or writing.  I fill my days with thought and story and music, and I am content with that.  But that kind of thing is hard to put into essay form.  That is why this blog is filled with my reflections on my life, rather than reports on my activity.  And even that has fallen silent this year.

I think that is because I have become comfortable with being my own master.  I started this blog because I was advised to do so by a writer I interviewed in college, and I’ve kept it going out of a sense of obligation.  But why, I wonder, should I spend so much time chipping away at telling my own story when I am so eager to tell others?  My time and my creative energy are so precious, and I have learned by now that my writing is much better when I let it flow, rather than when I try to force it.  And so this year I have devoted my time to angels and to artificial intelligence, and occasionally to demons and magic mirrors and space pirates.  I have thrown myself into the joy of writing and tried not to guilt myself too much about what I "should" be doing.

I see the wisdom, of course, in working in several different styles of writing.  Variety is the spice of life.  And so I will try to keep posting here, though there will likely be long stretches in between updates.  But I am to the point that I know my craft, and more importantly, I know myself.  I will write what needs to be written and let the rest come as it may.

Chance of Showers

My sister is getting married this year.  This has resulted in a lot of planning and talking and arranging, as weddings usually do.  It seems to me—and I may be wrong, having never been married—that it is more like planning a military maneuver than preparing for a ceremony.  You have to position your troops carefully, arrange for sustenance, worry about the weather…it’s a lot to think about.  While I’m looking forward to being married, I don’t think I will like the wedding much—or at least, not until the day it actually arrives.

Another thing that weddings come along with is tradition.  We had her bridal shower last week, and one of the topics of conversation was where all the wedding traditions came from.  Why are there groomsmen and bridesmaids at all?  Why does the bride wear white?  Why should you save all the bows from the presents at the bridal shower?  And what about the shower itself?  Is it really just an excuse to get presents from people who may or may not be at the wedding?  I mean, nice work if you can get it, but there’s got to be a better reason.

I got a clue to that answer close to the end of the shower, when one of the women suggested the married guests (most of them) give a bit of advice on married life.  Their warm and loving suggestions held a lot of wisdom, and a lot more love for my sister and her future husband.  Where is a single woman supposed to learn how to be married, after all?  Part of it, I imagine, has to be learned on the fly, because every couple is different.  But the support and advice of older women is vital, and a community of women can be the most uplifting company one can find.  The shower, then, is a symbol of that support, the acceptance of a young woman into the next stage of her life.

What does this mean, then, for a woman like me, who is single and without likely prospect for a husband?  Am I excluded from that community?  The opposite was made clear to me at the shower—nearly every one of those women had a bit of advice for me as well.  They assured me that I had plenty of time and that they would put together a shower for me, too, when it was my turn.  One or two even told me that I didn’t need a man to be happy—shocking thought!  But however it was worded, I felt their support and love, and I was grateful for it.

I think a lot of women my age and in my situation are just waiting—for marriage, for children, or even just until they can afford a better way of life.  I know that I am waiting: I certainly don’t want to stay where I am forever.  I am trying, however, to live as much and as richly as I can while I’m waiting, and I am content to wait.  Every day I do a little something more to get to where I want to be, and eventually the right person will come along or an opportunity will appear or one of my plans will turn out the way I hope.  And I know that however and whenever I become ready to take the next big step, I will find the same wisdom and care that was “showered” on my sister.  As I’ve said, a community of loving women is a blessing, and I have no doubt that mine will be there for me when it’s time.

2017 In Retrospect

Here we are again in that strange limbo space between Christmas and New Year’s.  This is one of the strangest times of year, times in which we look backward and forward, but never seem to see what’s right in front of us.  These days are neither one thing nor the other.  Maybe we need that odd in-between stage to make us appreciate the moments when our feet are more firmly planted.  Looking back on this year, nothing immediately springs to mind that was all that spectacular.  It’s only when we look at the details, when we take a closer look, that life springs up in the cracks.

I started January in a state of anxiety—my boss was going to be out of town for much of the month, and for the first time I would be running things.  I remember I kept telling myself that I was ready, but I still didn’t feel that I fit in on a personal level.  Thankfully the days went quietly without disaster, though it would be some time before I really felt a part of the business.  In another part of my life, however, friendships and kindness opened up to me as I truly began to integrate with my church family.

February and March were peaceful.  I went to see a marvelous play written by my good friend Meredith Levy, “She Made Space,” a one-woman show about finding one’s place in the world and in culture.  If you have the chance to see it, I highly recommend it.  In what is becoming a tradition, I took my sister to the movies for her birthday.  She already has her selection picked out for next year. 

April was full of friendships—breakfast with girlfriends (and a baby!) one day, dinner the next.  We watched Doctor Who together when it reappeared, always a noble pursuit.  There was music this month, too, as I sang Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony with the Roanoke Symphony Orchestra.  It was an extraordinary opportunity, particularly the performance we gave at Liberty University in their new concert hall.  There is a moment in the fourth movement of the piece, when the orchestra reduces down to the deepest instruments—the upright bass in particular, a dear favorite of mine—playing the main theme as softly as possible, and it was exquisite.  Then, when the choir entered, and the bass voices rang out in triumph to the vaulted ceiling…I can try, but there are no words for how beautiful it was. 

At the end of April, our church broke ground on our new church building, and May saw the beginning of site prep at our property.  I was delighted that the property lies along my route to work, and all this year I have been watching the place that will be a home and a haven to me take shape.  (We have roof panels now!)  May was also a month of graduation for two dear friends, one from her undergrad program, the other from master’s.  I was and am so proud of them both.

I spent a portion of June housesitting for a family I often help in this way.  They have horses, so it’s harder to find someone who can take care of the place.  Would it be called farmsitting, then?  I always enjoy it; it’s like a vacation, in a way.  Then, at the end of the month, I took a long weekend and drove up to Washington, DC and Baltimore.  I took some time in DC to play the tourist and visit with my uncles in Alexandria, which was simply a delight.  After that it was onward to Baltimore, where I spent a few days celebrating the wedding of a friend.  Have you ever noticed that true friendships are the ones you can sink back into, like into a warm bath, and find that nothing has changed?  I am grateful for that.

July, my birthday month, was hot and wonderful.  I was celebrated first with roller coasters at King’s Dominion, then with Taming of the Shrew at the Blackfriars, the Shakespeare theatre in Staunton, VA.  The Blackfriars is one of my very favorite places, and the shows performed there by the American Shakespeare Center are marvelous.  Less marvelous was the moment when I bid farewell to a dear friend of mine, who set off for Boston for a year.  I have missed seeing her regularly as I used to.

Midway through July, a friend talked me into taking a trip out to Utah in August, so with far less planning than I normally put into trips, I flew out with her to Salt Lake City.  The Rocky Mountains are beautiful—I couldn’t take my eyes off them for the whole first day.  We went hiking up one of them to a gorgeous waterfall.  It’s strange how when you have exerted yourself for such a view, it seems more wonderful than it would have if you had driven up to it.  You have earned it, somehow.  We also went to a Shakespeare festival in Cedar City and saw the stark beauty of the red rock canyons on the way back.  Much of the rest of the trip was spent in hanging out with friends, which I think should take up more time on vacations then it usually does.  After all, what is the point of any vacation if you don’t get any rest?  My one regret was that I missed the performance of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.  The three of us shared a stomach bug during the week we were there, and that was my day to be sick.  Another time, maybe.

In early September my sister came into town with my mother, and we three went dress shopping for her wedding this spring.  She found a beautiful dress in the first shop we went into, and they even managed to scrounge up a dress for me, as well.  Later in the month I made a (very) humble dinner for a friend’s birthday, and we started watching “Outlander” weekly, which is a brilliant show filled with drama and Scotsmen.

I celebrated Sukkot with friends in October, the festival of waving branches and building Jew forts.  I mean no disrespect, of course—it was a fascinating evening, and the music played there was some of the loveliest I’ve heard.  October was also the month that I selflessly offered to help a friend in her new business, becoming one of her massage clients.  I haven’t regretted it—she is gracious and very good at what she does, and it allows me to keep in touch with her.  At the end of the month the RSO took hold of me again, and I sang with the choir in a concert celebrating the 500th anniversary of the Reformation.  Lots of German in that program, and some truly beautiful music.  More music happened in November with the same choir’s performance of selections from Handel’s Messiah, a piece that is truly unique and wonderful.

December, as ever, was devoured by Christmas, although I did everything I could to avoid the music (it took three audiobooks to get me through the season).  Performing Christmas music, of course, is different from hearing it ad nauseum on the radio.  I enjoyed the RSO’s holiday performances very much.  At the yearly Pops performance in the Salem Civic Center, a monster of a concert, the Virginia Tech sousaphone players joined us for a delightful show called “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Hokie.”  Imagine a kickline of people playing instruments about the size of cars.  It was beautiful.  Just as wonderful, though not as well-advertised, was the first performance of my own little children’s choir on the second Sunday in Advent.  It was their idea to sing, not mine, and I was so proud of them for doing it and doing it well.  After that, there was nothing to do but find Christmas presents for my loved ones and celebrate the reason for the season.

Now here I am, gifted and grateful, my heart warm and my toes cold.  In this drafty little house, my home of more than two years now, I am content.  What will come in 2018, I do not know, but I refuse to be afraid of it.  Today was a good day, and I hope for many more to come.  I hope that for you, as well.  See you next year.