Catching up, again.

Our normal, happy life. Florals, stripes, pants...

At the state capital, learning more about Texas and the Civil War.

Levi helps with the mopping.

November in Texas.

Family shot--we realized we didn't have one for the year!

(the mom puts on her lion face to make the baby smile. Oh. Dear.)

Thanksgiving = food equivilant of a marathon. We had a great time.

Menu: turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, steamed squash, twice baked red-pepper sweet potatoes, cresent rolls, vegetables and dip, stuffing (complete with homemade bread!), buryani, cabbage salad

And apple, pumpkin, coconut cream, and banana cream pies. With lots of cream.

Close up of stuffing--I was nervous about it.

Cranberry sauce I made the day before and forgot to pull out for dinner! Still yummy with apples, pineapple, oranges, walnuts, honey, and a healthy doese of pepper.



This is just to say

I ate the oranges from the refrigerator.
No one else likes them here
but the cold, pulpy flesh almost
convinced me of winter.

Even in Texas. Even pregnant.

I've realized lately that I'm a bit of a book snob. Or just a snob in general. I never intended to be! I'm not perpetually dissatisified! I just seek perfect phrases, sentences, punctuated moments--and rarely find them. Never in my own work, occassionally elsewhere. My relationship with literature becomes more complex with time. Is it wrong to want good writing to be widely read? Is it wrong to want good writing? A month ago, I read Short Takes, the first of the Kitchen/Jones anthologies of short nonfiction--and decided that the following anthologies are much better and I wonder if there is such a way to forget genre distinctions and write something simply true and fulfilling and awesome--and how to anthologize that?

Perhaps that is called life.

A note on some poetry (drafted months ago...)

Time builds up and I start feeling guilty about this dumb blog. I should form better, more efficient reports on what I read, but some days I can barely check my e-mail (Levi + technology = haphazard joy, destroyed machines...). And some days I struggle to slip in any writing time at all--the blog is just lower priority, I guess. Forgive me for my inconsistency; I don't live up to my own expectations most of time.

I have now officially read all of Jane Austen's work. Perhaps this desire came because I am surrounded by boys. Pride and Prejudice is witty and passionate and quoteable--no wonder there are multiple versions of it. Plus it's a fast read. Persuasion is not appreciated enough. I haven't heard many people rave about it, and it can be raved over. Sense and Sensibility is such an interesting look at sisters. What I love about Austen is the interiority she reveals by focusing on exterior realities. Granted, sometimes certain books and authors just fit my mood.

I've also recently reread Dandelion Wine (that was to celebrate summer). Ah. And Cheaper by the Dozen (one of Wesley's favorites--and very fun). I've read a few others and they are logged away in Excel. Eventually I may just figure out GoodReads.

This post is actually about three poetry collections.

I didn't mean to read The End of Desire by Jill Bialoski. Wes ordered The End of Oil for one cent online, and the bookstore had the two mixed up in their catalogue. They told us to keep it and sent the money for shipping back. Neat. While there were some great lines and what Doug Thayer calls "moments of insight," the collection felt self-absorbed and strangely self-congratulatory in its confessional style (annoying). It made me remember why people resisit the idea of personal nonfiction and confessional poetry. I worry sometimes that my work comes across that way. It is easy to believe you're exploring when you can't see the larger picture. People who have already made the map, or at least seen it, have a different perspective.

The Clearing by Philip White is an immensely personal study of grief, healing, and time as he considers the death of his wife. He's in his thirties. Overall, I found the collection lovely but a bit redundant. Sometimes I buy into the idea that there are only three or so themes out there that we all choose from and cling to--but I still want surprise and joy in the language. I want to feel pushed from the inside out.

Two Great Spiritual Reads

A few weeks ago I read a book that changed my life. Completely. I (unfortunately) have a tendency to edit as I read and wonder why people made certain decisions in their writing, but on this book I looked past all of that and stopped caring. It is written with the Spirit: amazing. Each page uplifts and edifies as a result, regardless of writing style or organization. It's one everyone should read, I can't even offer a decent summary. Such a humble, inspiring work. Wesley and I have made some life/family changes because of it. That's a powerful book.

Point: Read F. Enzio Busche's book, Yearning for the Living God (edited by Tracie Lamb).

This morning I finished Neal A. Maxwell's Not My Will, But Thine. Also lovely, but perhaps organized more intellectually. I thoroughly enjoy Maxwell because his work is quick to read as well as full of things to mull over. I find myself still refering to his ideas and insights years after I have read them. One that stood out from this book:
"What we feel on that occasion will be God's and Jesus' perfect love for us--not a scolding sterness but a profound kindness and immense tenderness. As these virtues flow from them toward us, many will feel the scalding shame of not having returned that love. As we feel their perfect love, we will confess that the justice and mercy of God are likewise perfect."

Isn't lovely that mortality is a matter of developing? I've been thinking a lot lately on how life demands more of our bodies and spirits than they are capable of handling, and yet we are upheld. Sleep deprived, over- or under-worked, strained--our lives are hungry, starved in a variety of ways at different times. But on earth, we refine our soul, we combine the worth and strength of both body and spirit, we daily discover what it means to be mortal and sometimes glimpse the greatness God sees in us.

Of Ivanhoe, Titles, and Foils

I'm in a book club with my sisters and mom. We read Ivanhoe in October. Since I'm behind in my book logging, I thought I'd start with this review. More to come.
Despite my first suprise at not hearing the name "Ivanhoe" until chapter 5, I thoroughly enjoyed the book (note here that I listened to the entire thing--so when it comes to names, etc., I don't have any spelling references!). I determined early on that male authors--at least our friend Sir Walter--of that time period should not spend pages describing clothing since even after lengthy anecdotes of feathers and furs, most of the characters fall into categories of class but are rarely distinguishable otherwise. With that acknolwedged, I do love Wamba--in his jester cap or disguised as a friar.


Throughout the novel I considered why Ivanhoe was the title character. He had few appearances, no real show of valor or strength, and primarily background information (rather than current since he was in secrecy then wounded). The book spent equal time with Wamba and the swineherd, more with Locksley/Robin Hood, and a decent amount with Cedric, Friar Tuck, and the celebrated Black Knight/King Richard. I felt that ultimately, the cast centralized around Rebecca. Rebecca revealed imperfections and virtues, desires and constraints, weakness of person and station but strength of spirit. Her affection for Ivanhoe is really where the reader sees the most of him. As a literary tool, Rebecca's main problem was that she proved Rowena to be a surface character: limited, again, to a vague description of beauty and heritage. At the conclusion of the novel, although we are told Rowena and Ivanhoe live happily, I could almost sense Sir Walter's wish that he had allowed Ivanhoe and Rebecca to somehow end up together. Alas, she a Jewess and he a crusader.

Ultimately, I think Ivanhoe is the proper title character because all of the events and other characters hinge on his existance. While the story only briefly touches on him, it could not happen without him. Cedric and Rowena probably would not have attended the tournament without the initial argument about/with Ivanhoe. Isaac might not have survived (more than once). Brian would have persued Rowena. The Black Knight would not have interfered as he did. Sweet Gurth never would have achieved freedom. Rebecca's champion would not have materialized. In addition to physical events, the emotions and motives of the characters relied on the established goodness and solidity of Ivanhoe. At least as a catalyst.

Six Months Along...

When I was six months along with Levi we tried to make a double layer cake that looked like a ninja turtle.

Alas.

And I very proudly showed off my burgeoning belly.



At six months with Urias, our double layer cakes have improved but still need help.

And I feel huge (much bigger than the picture shows), though I still very happily display our newest addition (edition?).



Weird how similar the two pictures look. I'm actually not a long hair person or a pink person. Maybe it's a result of being surrounded by boys!

Dancing

Finally recorded this after fighting it for three days. This version is a bit milder since he was tuckered out from climbing up and up and shrieking happily as his mom ran to grab him. Now we've captured history, we'll move on!

Realized the last few days that we take pictures of Levi, but not many of ourselves. I've been trying to come up with a headshot that doesn't look too awkward or too close to fourteen. No success as of yet.