Poetry and the Plaid Pirate: Eliot and Elliot

 The Jacket

Two weeks ago my mother and I ventured out intent on finding a Pascha (Easter) outfit for my youngest son. Earlier that week, on a Tuesday evening, I had unsuccessfully braved the mall desperate to find some new dress-up clothing for Thomas and Elliot. (What a nightmare, just shy of Sodom and Gomorra, really. Alright my judgment might be a bit excessive. Still, have you seen what is being produced for our young children to wear?) It had been determined that Russell, because of his easy-going nature and jovial spirit, would be the best candidate between the twins for adorning the adorable sailor outfit worn by Thomas three Paschas ago. When I spied a multicolored plaid jacket in exactly Elliot's size hanging on the rack at the children's consignment store, I knew we had succeeded in our quest. Upon bringing the jacket home, my dear husband was less than enthusiastic and more than a bit skeptical about my find. What was darling to me - a jacket splashed with orange, blue, yellow, and green, which would be further complemented by a brown, line cap - seemed a bit unnerving to my husband. Sheepishly he questioned, "Isn't it a girl's jacket?" 

Unlike his father, Elliot harbored no reservations about his new coat and was enchanted with it at first sight. Insisting that he try it on, Elliot strutted around the house, cap on head, proudly displaying his new threads. And Elliot's love for the jacket shows no sign of waning, but steadily continues to wax, which is a bit of a mystery to Jared and me. You see, over the course of the last month, clothing of any kind has become disdainful to our youngest son. During the day, Elliot, more often than not, can be found shirtless; at night, he has usually stripped himself down to his diaper and even then has somehow managed to get out of his cloth diaper cover. Nonetheless, today, while getting ready for morning "naps," Elliot began to point and express that he wanted something. "Little dog?" I asked. Head shake no. Glancing at the changing table, I caught sight of the jacket. With a bit of incredulity I questioned, "your jacket?" Head shake yes. And there he stood ready and set to read the story he chose, Is Your Mama a Llama? wearing dog pajamas, his coat of many colors (which, of course, had to be buttoned up), and a big smile. 

 The Pirate

As many of you will remember, Thomas, at a young age, began to present a variety of faces to amuse any audience that he or we could find. There was the "surprised face" in which he opened his eyes and mouth widely; the "stunning face" in which he stuck his bottom teeth out; and the pensive face (thank you Aunt Rebecca) in which he lifted his finger to his chin and said, "Mmm." And of course, Jared, Thomas, and I could not resist passing on to Russell and Elliot these tricks of the trade. Our two sons caught on quickly; Russell even added a couple faces of his own - the scary face and the monkey. Perhaps in an effort to distinguish himself from his twin brother and demonstrate his own individuality and creativity, Elliot likewise sought to introduce a new funny face to our list. 

Honestly, I cannot recall the moment when "the pirate" entered the scene, but it has become a favorite among all our children (although Thomas will tell you Russell does not quite perform the face with the gusto he should), as well as among the young children at church, who after Elliot morphs into "you know who," joyfully scream, "It's the pirate!" and race pell-mell down the hallway. We know the pirate is present when Elliot closes his left eye, wrinkles up his nose, squishes up his face, and initiates a subtle snorting sound. And once Elliot has begun, it is mandatory that you too transform your face to mimic his. So at any given moment, and especially while our family is all together, eating our dinner at our dining room table, cloth napkins and classical music in tow, "the pirate" will manifest itself, and with a point of a finger and a grunt, Elliot wields his self-attained authority, demanding that the four of us follow his lead. And of course, we comply. 

Poetry

 

Last November, it was my turn to choose my book club's next work to be read. Because of the holidays, we needed something short and so I opted for T.S. Eliot's play, "The Cocktail Party," which I had first encountered by randomly pulling the work from the library shelves while a college student many moons ago. Upon my discovery of Eliot's play, I read the work in one sitting, soaking in the characters, their dialogue, and the ideas which these men and women unveiled. Awestruck by the content, this work offered to me one of those watershed moments in which I was faced with a decision: I could either choose to do something with the truth presented to me and change or discard it and remain in the status quo. 

After meeting with book club members and discussing the play, I climbed into our chilled Hyundai, affectionately known as "Gold Bug," and read afresh Eliot's poem, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." To be fair, I must clarify that I am no intellectual. While I desperately love good literature and poetry, most of the time after reading a Faulkner, O'Connor, Kafka, or Eliot, I am baffled by the meaning of their work. As I grow older, however, I do find that I am more affected by the power of the language itself than by my attempts to dissect the writing. I may not be able to explain what a particular piece means, but I can tell you if I have been moved by it. As I silently read "The Love Song," and especially as I read parts of it aloud to my husband, I was quite mesmerized by Eliot's words. And while the poem elicits a feeling of melancholy within me, I find it strangely beautiful, and so, since I believe we all need a little beauty throughout the course of a day, I opted to share some excerpts of this work with you all. 

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherised upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question ...

Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"

Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,

And seeing that it was a soft October night,

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be a time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, "Do I dare?" and "Do I dare?"

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair-

[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin-

[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:-

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

So how should I presume?

No! I am not a Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous-

Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . . 

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Pascha 2009 (with pictures!)

It was an atypical Sunday morning in our household. My mother and father, who had spent the night before, graciously remained to help our family out as we began the post-Pascha recovery, despite the fact they would miss their own Sunday service. Together we sat around my kitchen table, minus Jared who was still sleeping, and after singing "Christ is Risen" feasted on homemade biscuits and sausage gravy, pumpkin and a traditional Russian Easter bread smothered in butter, and good, strong coffee with real cream. Ah, the joy of the feast. The three adults vicariously experienced my three son's utter joy at being served the chocolate bunnies purchased from a local confectionary (thanks mom and dad) which had been part of our family's Pascha basket. Perhaps due to my utter exhaustion (Jared, Thomas, and I had returned home from Iowa City at 5:30 a.m. and I only got three hours of sleep), I unfortunately could not locate the camera to capture Russell's and Elliot's visages, smeared with sticky sweet cocoa nor their hands that appeared to be covered in mud. Trust me, it was a sight to behold.  

An integral part of the Orthodox Paschal (Easter) 

Liturgy is the reading of St. John Chrysostom's Paschal Homily. Composed in the fourth century, this homily is read in every Orthodox church throughout the world, every year. It is a beautiful, inspired masterpiece which so clearly conveys the theology of this Church which I love so dearly. Neither Jared or I can help but cry whenever it is read. (Even now, I am a bit teary just thinking about it.) 

The Paschal Homily of St. John Chrysostom

If anyone is devout and a lover of God, let him enjoy this beautiful and radiant festival. If anyone is a wise servant, let him, rejoicing, enter into the joy of his Lord. If anyone has wearied himself in fasting, let him now receive his recompense. If anyone has labored from the first hour, let him today receive his just reward. If anyone has come at the third hour, with thanksgiving let him keep the feast. If anyone has arrived at the sixth hour, let him have no misgivings; for he shall suffer no loss. If anyone has delayed until the ninth hour, let him draw near without hesitation. If anyone has arrived even at the eleventh hour, let him not fear on account of his delay. For the Master is gracious and receives the last, even as the first; he gives rest to him that comes at the eleventh hour, just as to him who has labored from the first. He has mercy upon the last and cares for the first; to the one he gives, and to the other he is gracious. He both honors the work and praises the intention.

Enter all of you, therefore, into the joy of our Lord, and, whether first or last, receive your reward. 0 rich and poor, one with another, dance for joy! 0 you ascetics and you negligent, celebrate the day! You that have fasted and you that have disregarded the fast, rejoice today! The table is rich-laden; feast royally, all of you! The calf is fatted; let no one go forth hungry!

Let all partake of the feast of faith. Let all receive the riches of goodness.

Let no one lament his poverty, for the universal kingdom has been revealed. Let no one mourn his transgressions, for pardon has dawned from the grave. Let no one fear death, for the Saviour's death has set us free.

He that was taken by death has annihilated it! He descended into hades and took hades captive! He embittered it when it tasted his flesh! And anticipating this Isaiah exclaimed, "Hades was embittered when it encountered thee in the lower regions." It was embittered, for it was abolished! It was embittered, for it was mocked! It was embittered, for it was purged! It was embittered, for it was despoiled! It was embittered, for it was bound in chains!

It took a body and, face to face, met God! It took earth and encountered heaven! It took what it saw but crumbled before what it had not seen!

"0 death, where is thy sting? 0 hades, where is thy victory?"

Christ is risen, and you are overthrown! Christ is risen, and the demons are fallen! Christ is risen, and the angels rejoice! Christ is risen, and life reigns! Christ is risen, and not one dead remains in a tomb! For Christ, being raised from the dead, has become the First-fruits of them that slept.

To Him be glory and might unto ages of ages. Amen.

Eucatastrophe

As for the riffraff, the needed act, the one they clearly wanted, was some sign that shrieked.

from The Raising of Lazarus
Rainer Maria Rilke

Leonard Bernstein relates in The Joy of Music what it takes to make a traditional melody. You have to start with one note, then you have to play some other notes, and when you eventually find your way back to the first note, or tonic, the melody is through. Simple, right? The first note sets your expectations, tension follows as the pitch shifts, and the tune resolves when you finally hear the first note again, now packed with meaning because of all that has happened. This concept always stuck with me because I think it may be the overarching outline for all art, not just music. Many stories, for example, follow this pattern. Usually we are given a premise, something then happens to disturb the status quo, the characters struggle to save what they once loved, and eventually they succeed, returning to where they began, but now with wisdom gained during their journey. Joseph Campbell uses this outline for his The Hero with a Thousand Faces: Departure, Initiation, and Return. Oscar Wilde's Selfish Giant begins and ends with children stealing into the giant's garden, but the meaning of these two identical events differs greatly because of all that has happened in between. It may be that J.R.R. Tolkien found the greatest title ever in his subtitle for The Hobbit: There and Back Again. Couldn't nearly all stories bear this title, if not literally then figuratively?

This pattern works best when you have a really good beginning, a place you want to get back to, and a really tumultuous middle, a place you really want to escape. To stay with Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings illustrates this pattern perfectly. The hobbits live a happy life in the Shire, and to read the opening chapters of The Fellowship of the Ring is to fall in love with this idyllic country of parties, beer, fireworks and pipes. It is precisely because of this love that the reader is scared by the arrival of the ringwraiths and worries as the hobbits are made to travel far and suffer much to save their home. As Sam and Frodo wander through Mordor, all is dry and dark and the Shire could not seem more distant. But from the moment the ring is destroyed beyond hope, everything seems to be swept of as on eagle's wings into a sweet dream. Or it might be better to say bittersweet, for the resolution is not saccharine. Although the Shire has been saved, the reader can't help but lament with Frodo that the Shire "has been saved, but not for me. It must often be so, when things are in danger: some one has to give them up, lose them, so that others may keep them."

Tolkien calls this bittersweet resolution an eucatastrophe, the sudden good turn after much turmoil. The bitter comes from the hurt and wisdom acquired during the journey and is present in all the great fairy tales. With the verses we sing in Church tonight during the Canon of St. Lazarus, we will begin to relive what Tolkien called "the greatest and most complete conceivable eucatastrophe." This greatest of stories begins in the greatest of places; it begins with "a sign that shrieks." Tonight Jesus comes late to the burial place of his friend, Lazarus, and is reproached for not coming sooner. They believe Jesus is a healer, but tonight Jesus proves he is greater than all the prophets and healers who preceded him. Tonight Jesus performs the greatest miracle ever witnessed - the raising of a man from the dead. And this miracle is not just the reviving a recently deceased child. Other prophets had done that. Jesus had already done that. We see that kind of miracle every day. Those are certainly miracles, but they are just skirmishes on the borders of Death. Tonight Jesus summons a man four-days dead, a man wrapped and entombed and stinking of decay, to return from the land of Death. Tonight the border skirmishes end, and Jesus declares open war on Death. And tonight, having fed every corpse from Adam to John the Baptist to his liege, Satan arrogantly accepts the challenge.

As the week progresses, we'll join the riffraff cheering this miracle as Jesus enters Jerusalem riding on an ass, as the legendary king David had done so many years before. We'll wave palms, sing and dance at the coming of the long awaited king. The man riding before us is able heal the sick, calm the seas, feed the hungry and summon the dead from their tombs. This is the highest opening statement imaginable, and it is here the story takes a turn for the worse. As should have been expected, Death does not simply bend his knee to this up-and-comer. His servant Satan will bend the wills of the political and religious elite and even win allies from among Jesus' own followers. The riffraff will be swayed to turn on the prophet-king they've lauded; together will feed Jesus into the insatiable maw of Death while his followers lose their faith and flee. Days will pass. Like the men on the road to Emmaus, whatever hope has been placed in this miracle-worker will seem wasted. Tell me, how could this story fall any farther?

It may seem impossible to surpass such a triumphant opening, or to come back from such a tragic fall, but trust me this story will resolve beautifully. It turns out there's something about Jesus which Satan and Death did not fully comprehend. It turns out Jesus is more than just the greatest of prophets; he's more than just the long awaited king. I don't want to spoil the ending by talking about it too much too soon, but I will say Death may have bitten off more than he could chew.

By raising Lazarus from the dead before Your passion,
You did confirm the universal Resurrection, O Christ God!
Like the children with the palms of victory,
We cry out to You, O Vanquisher of death;
Hosanna in the Highest!
Blessed is He that comes in the Name of the Lord!

Troparion for Lazarus Saturday

"Followers, Not Admirers" (More Lenten Thoughts)

It has been a quiet, still day; a day in which I can hear mourning doves cooing and birds chirping outside my windows; a day in which I marvel at the numerous plants throughout my yard awakening from their winter slumber and surfacing from their burial under the cold earth. It is a day in which I rejoice over the solitary daffodil in my neighbor's yard whose very color engenders hope within me that life is indeed winning the battle over her old adversary death. It has been a day of endless coffee drinking as I enjoyed the company of an old friend. Together we sat at my kitchen table and in my backyard talking while our six boys played Legos, Star Wars guys, and baseball. Since the majority of my interaction with friends these days is electronic, this time was especially meaningful. It is a day in which I want to snuggle under a blanket and drink more coffee while reading the poetry of T.S. Eliot, as well as the biography of Flannery O' Connor that just came in from the library. It is a day in which I revel in the life all around me even as I begin to prepare myself mentally, physically, and emotionally for Holy Week. It will be a week when I, together with my fellow Orthodox brothers and sisters, will be mercifully invited again to enter into Christ's Passion. Throughout the services of Holy Week, we will be asked to drink the cup of Christ's suffering, to wonder with all of heaven at the sight of Him who hung the world upon the waters now hanging on a tree, to quake with fear as the Son of God dies like a criminal on a cross, and to mourn as He is wrapped in burial cloths and laid in a stranger's tomb.

Some further Lenten thoughts from my favorite "melancholy Dane," Soren Kierkegaard, taken from Provocations: Spiritual Writings of Kierkegaard:

It is well known that Christ consistently used the expression 'followers.' He never asks for admirers, worshipers, or adherents. No, he calls disciples. It is not adherents of a teaching but followers of a life Christ is looking for.

Christ understood that being a 'disciple' was in innermost and deepest harmony with what he said about himself. Christ claimed to be the way and the truth and the life (John 14:6). For this reason, he could never be satisfied with adherents who accepted his teaching - especially with those who in their lives ignored it or let things take their usual course. His whole life on earth, from beginning to end, was destined solely to have followers and to make admirers impossible.

Christ came into the world with the purpose of saving, not instructing it. At the same time - as is implied in his saving work - he came to be the pattern, to leave footprints for the person who would join him, who would become a follower. This is why Christ was born and lived and died in lowliness. It is absolutely impossible for anyone to sneak away from the Pattern with excuse and evasion on the basis that it, after all, possessed earthly and worldly advantages that he did not have. In that sense, to admire Christ is the false invention of a later age, aided by the presumption of 'loftiness.' No, there is absolutely nothing to admire in Jesus, unless you want to admire poverty, misery, and contempt.

What then is the difference between and admirer and a follower? A follower is or strives to be what he admires. An admirer, however, keeps himself personally detached. He fails to see that what is admired involves a claim upon him, and thus he fails to be or strive to be what he admires.

To want to admire instead of to follow Christ is not necessarily an invention by bad people. No, it is more an invention by those who spinelessly keep themselves detached, who keep themselves at a safe distance. Admirers are related to the admired only through the excitement of the imagination. To them he is like an actor on the stage except that, this being real life, the effect he produces is somewhat stronger. But for their part, admirers make the same demands that are made in the theater: to sit safe and calm. Admirers are only too willing to serve Christ as long as proper caution is exercised, lest one personally come in contact with danger. They refuse to accept that Christ's life is a demand. In actual fact, they are offended by him. His radical, bizarre character so offends them that when they honestly see Christ for who he is, they are no longer able to experience the tranquility they so much seek after. They know full well that to associate with him too closely amounts to being up for examination. Even though he says nothing against them personally, they know that his life tacitly judges theirs.

And Christ's life indeed makes it manifest, terrifyingly manifest, what dreadful untruth it is to admire the truth instead of following it. When there is no danger, when there is dead calm, when everything is favorable to our Christianity, then it is all too easy to confuse an admirer with a follower. And this can happen very quietly. The admirer can be under the delusion that the position he takes is the true one, when all he is doing is playing it safe. Give heed, therefore, to the call of discipleship.

If you have any knowledge at all of human nature, who can doubt that Judas was an admirer of Christ! And we know that Christ at the beginning of his work had many admirers. Judas was precisely such an admirer and thus later became a traitor. It is not hard to imagine that those who only admire the truth will, when danger appears, become traitors. The admirer is infatuated with the false security of greatness; but if there is any inconvenience or trouble, he pulls back. Admiring the truth, instead of following it, is just as dubious a fire as the fire of erotic love, which at the turn of the hand can be changed into exactly the opposite, to hate, jealousy, and revenge.

There is a story of yet another admirer - Nicodemus. Despite the risk to his reputation, despite the effort on his part, Nicodemus was only an admirer; he never became a follower. It is as if he might have said to Christ, 'If we are able to reach a compromise, you and I, then I will accept your teaching in eternity. But here in this world, no, I cannot. Could you not make an exception for me? Would it not be enough if once in a while, at great risk to myself, I come to you during the night but during the day (yes, I confess it, I feel how humiliating this is for me and how disgraceful, indeed also how very insulting it is for you) I say I do not know you?' See in what a web of untruth an admirer can entangle himself.

Nicodemus, I am quite sure, was well-meaning. I'm also sure he was ready in the strongest phrases to attest that he accepted the truth of Christ's teaching. Yet, is it not true that the more strongly someone makes assurances, while his life still remains unchanged, the more he is only making a fool of himself? If Christ had permitted a cheaper edition of follower - an admirer who swears by all that is high and holy that he is convinced - then Nicodemus might very well have been accepted. But he was not!

Now suppose that there is no longer any special danger, as it no doubt is in so many of our Christian countries, bound up with publicly confessing Christ. Suppose there is no longer need to journey in the night. The difference between following and admiring still remains. Forget about danger connected with confessing Christ and think rather of the real danger which is inescapably bound up with being a Christian. Does not the Way - Christ's requirement to die to the world and deny self - does this not contain enough danger?

The admirer never makes any true sacrifices. He always plays it safe. Though in word he is inexhaustible about how highly he prizes Christ, he renounces nothing, will not reconstruct his life, and will not let his life express what it is he supposedly admires. Not so for the follower. No, no. The follower aspires with all his strength to be what he admires. And then, remarkably enough, even though he is living amongst a 'Christian people,' he incurs the same peril as he did when it was dangerous to openly confess Christ. And because of the follower's life, it will become evident who the admirers are, for the admirers will become agitated with him. Even these words will disturb many - but then, they must likewise belong to the admirers.

Treasures

I am not sure if it is merely because it is Friday and the sun is shining and I was able to rake a few leaves out of our flower bed while the children played outside with my mother, who I might add is still able, thank God, to run around and chase her four-year-old grandson; or if it is because both my bathrooms are cleaned (yes, it is true), the children's laundry is washed, folded and put away, the kitchen relatively picked up, Russell's and Elliot's room dusted and vacuumed (Thanks, mom and dad!), and that I feel almost on top of my domestic duties; or because the boys slept in and I was able to take a shower (do not ask how long it had been for I myself had lost count of the days); or because I finally managed to color my hair (I am not ashamed to admit it, I absolutely feel much better when I cannot see any gray); or because Oreo cookies are Lenten (I once heard that a Greek gentleman created these little gems, might want to check that out but whatever you do, never ever read the list of ingredients); or because last night I was able to leave the house for almost an hour and purchase a new pair of Doc Marten shoes. (For those of you not in the know, I have a near obsession with buying Doc Marten shoes at thrift stores. I take tremendous pleasure in paying pittance for shoes that are pretty expensive. Though my traditional black ones that are in desperate need of polishing will always be my favorite pair, I do love this new pair - they may be men's, I don't care.) I also found a brass letter holder in the shape of a woman's ringed hand and, believe it or not, I was looking for something just like this for our mail, which seems to always be out of control and collecting in corners throughout my kitchen. Even Jared, who usually rolls his eyes when I manifest my newest treasures, thought this one was pretty cool. We're hanging it up tonight. I also brought home Robert McClosky's Blueberries for Sal for which I had been searching. (I got it for only $.88 - love Robert McClosky and The Goodwill!) Maybe it is because today Thomas expressed his desire to draw an anatomically correct picture of himself, or because Jared and I are gearing up to the watch the latest episode of Lost on our computer, which has a better picture than our television, and I might forgo Coke Zero for the real thing, or because tomorrow is Saturday and I finally get to talk to one of my precious friends whose egregious use of her cell phone has now limited our conversations to weekends, and later that evening I will be attending the Quad City Symphony Orchestra's final Masterworks performance. Perhaps it is because one of my dear friends from out-of-town will be here for nearly a week and I will be able to spend time with her and her three boys, as well as go out to eat on Sunday night with a group of old high school friends. Whatever it is, at this moment, I am overwhelmed with a tremendous sense of contentment and gratitude for all the treasures with which I have been so richly blessed.