Inquiry

Alexander Smith writes that all you need to be an essayist is the ability to meditate on "fortune, mutability, and death." In short, ruminate on life here and there.

Sometimes I get tired of thinking nonstop about my state of being. Currently: wife- and motherhood. I wonder if people think Will she ever stop talking? We've heard it all before! But off I go anyway on my great fortune, the never ending mutability, and the inevitability of death. People change more than situations. We say we don't want change--moving, new jobs, new friends, etc.--but the reality of it is that most of the time we change and the situation is the same and you (we/I) ask How is it possible that no one else realizes that everything is different? Oh. Just me.

School started this week: class, teaching, thesis. Switch that--thesis, teaching, class...and life, too. I worry I won't have enough students and my pay or my class will be cut. (Few want to take a class from 5-6:30 p.m. even if it is only twice a week and totally awesome). I worry about doing my thesis well. Sure, I can scribble out crap--but I want a lot more than crap. I've determined, as of spiritual experiences yesterday, to write poetry again and (try to) not care about how terrible it is. The whole writing for joy thing. I believe that anyone can write well if they enjoy it; my goal is to teach my students to enjoy inquiry.

Inquiry is a word I spaced until Wednesday night after teaching. I'd been searching for it all week. The essay is a mode of inquiry. They don't get it. Yet.

But then there's real life. Staring at Levi, changing diapers, asking if his hand really does taste better than pretty much anything (sure sounds like it). Editing with the boy on my lap is a near impossibility. Let's face it--writing must go beyond the first draft. Real life this week also includes taking meals to people, lining up meals for others, talking with Wes, homework, exercise, waking up at 4 a.m. most days then accidentally sleeping in until 6 a.m. on others. Real life speeds up and real life is mutability. I think that is part of fortune and death. And inquiry. Add that.

Yes, the First Day of School Thrills Me

A Conversation with Levi

The Sadness that Follows Eager Reading

I devour books. It's true. And when I've finally finished my favorites, I feel slightly melancholy. Like I've left friends for good. The joy of books deepens as you reread them (but I can only do this with the best; an unfortunate habit), but you can never replicate the experience of savoring a book for the first time. Thoroughly basking in the details and uncertainty--that only happens on the initial interaction with a text.

I just closed the cover of Les Miserables. I've been reading it on and off for almost a month; but I wanted to just sit down and read through the days until I had memorized each word as I compared translations. (Note to translators: yes, the original language will probably be superior, but still attempt to translate the verse included: otherwise you aggravate the reader. Thank goodness for the multiple translations on my desk.) I loved Jean Valjean even more than anticipated. I giggled at M. Gillenormand. I groaned over the Thendardiers. I balked at Marius and Cosette. I mourned for little Gavroche. I concluded that I would like to have lunch with Victor Hugo. What fiction writer can drench his prose with so many asides--to the extent of calling one section "A Parenthetical" and going off on the parallel of convents and the galleys? Again, great texts convince me that genre is not the medium but a categorical status that means nothing. Great texts, regardless of form, are lasting and resonate as true. There is my abstract answer to the question of what determines literature. Lasting + True.

Some lines:

"But, by wishing to sit down, we may stop the progress even of the human race" (717).

"What love begins can be finished only by God.
....
What a gloomy thing, not to know the address of one's soul!" (808).

"The true division of humanity is this: the luminous and the dark.
To diminish the number of the dark, to increase the number of the luminous, behold the aim. This is why we cry: education, knowledge! to learn is to read is to kindle a fire; every syllable spelled sparkles.
But he who says light does not necessarily say joy. There is suffering in the light; in excess it burns. Flame is hostile to the wing. To burn and yet to fly, this is the miracle of genius" (854).

"A people, like a star, has the right of eclipse. And all is well, provided the light return and the eclipse do not degenerate into night. Dawn and resurrection are synonyms" (1073).

And thus, a life goal to read Les Miserables was even more enjoyable than anticipated.

Afternoon

Everyday I aim to at least make the bed and wash the dishes. Then I've done something. The problem is that I also have back-of-the-brain demands, things that are givens--I don't have to write them on a list because they must be done for my sanity. Scripture study. Writing. Working out. Going on our daily walk. Maintaining clean floors and a clean toilet. These things do not always happen anymore (or they don't happen consistently or efficiently) and I'm learning that that's okay. I'm a list budgeter. I like to write down more to do than should be humanly possible then challenge human limitations. Gives me a rush, like leaving the grocery store with everything we need for the week and money left over.

Silly: I know.

Christine told me the week Levi was born that if all I "get done" is loving, feeding, and changing the baby then I'm doing everything that needs to be done. Later that week I read an article in the Ensign about a woman who has cut her list down to one or two urgent items a day so that she can be flexible with herself and her children. My attempts at doing that have been strained, but I'm trying. My dad and I agree that being tired never really ends. It just grows--perhaps, though, we add to it sometimes.

In two weeks from today I'll be at the annual teacher training, tying the last bits of my class together. Summer is officially ending; as usual, I'm buzzed about school but this year I feel a little melancholy. The beginning of school marks the close of my slow warm months learning to be a mother. Never again will I battle the anxiety of a first time birth, waiting for labor to begin each day, then finally embracing my first baby and memorizing all his parts without any other demands. For our next baby I'll have a toddler (ish), we'll be farther from family (most likely), and forcing time to allow me to write will be more difficult. I don't expect much quiet or slow moments for the next...oh...forty years. Which is great, I welcome those forty years. I have loved these sweet slow months, though.

Levi snores in his sleep. Our kitchen faucet that has been running constantly for a week (the plumber contracted for our rented basement is on vacation until Monday) trickles like a fountain. Thunder brews outside. I gaze at the dear little bubbles forming around my son's lips and wonder how two months stretched and filled him. The leaves on our vine shift colors. Life changes millisecond by millisecond. How did I not notice that before? Is it possible to cherish each breath forever?

Just Turn Your Head

Sorry the video is sideways.

A big adventure!

Levi is a state traveler. In the last two weeks we drove to Preston, Lava, Kuna, Seattle (and around), back to Kuna, back to Provo. Plus he survived the car breaking down twice in 105 degree weather! His giggles helped this mom keep perspective. Next week we're going to Paradise, Utah for more fun. I'm daily grateful that his temperment usually mirrors his dad! We are a very blessed trio; I don't deserve it, but we'll keep trying.

School starts the last day of August. I'm excited to teach again and to workshop more, but where did this summer go? How is my baby boy almost two months old?

Always looking for good writing. If you have a favorite book or author, please share.