The Traveling Onion Interpretation

The text I chose to interpret was “The Traveling Onion” by Naomi Shihab Nye. This poem is simplistic in form. In my opinion this is what makes it so relevant and gives the reader a sense of understanding. In essence, the poem follows the travels of the onion. It travels far to come to the stew that I make. Yet so much of the onion is forgotten. The many small miracles are overlooked. Such as the cracking of the paper as it is peeled and the layers that fall apart as the knife cuts through it, revealing a history that only each onion can share. One cannot berate the onion because it causes tears, for tears are what should come when such a thing that is so mistreated and neglected. Instead we sit down to eat and talk about the aroma or the meat in the stew and we forget the onion which is now divided and now longer strong. Nor do we remember how far the onion has come and how much it has been a part of our lives. Instead, the onion disappears for the sake of others.

I believe that this text has relevant cultural value. Yes the poem speaks of an onion. However there is a deeper social context in the poem that I think speaks much larger volumes than the few lines represented. The onion in this sense is a metaphor or symbol to an idea that is grander than just the simplicity of onion and stew. Instead, I find that this poem represents the small, forgotten things in life. If taken out of the picture, then the entire weave would unravel and would fall to ground, broken, or in this case the stew would be missing a key element.

The beginning of the poem is simply to lift up those things that we take for granted. Though they are small and though they seem insignificant at first, subtle in nature, they demand appreciation. The second part, however, drives my conclusion home. “It is right that tears should fall for something so small and forgotten.” To this I find that we should lament over what has become of these things. Instead we should marvel at the simplicity of them. These could simply be the miracles of everyday life, those things that we overlook when they should make us pause. Instead we find that we focus on the grandeur and the flashy, showy, brilliant things in life. We focus on the outer experience or those things that are front row. In this case I see the meat and the aroma as akin to actors and movies. In my field of work I find that some of the most important members are those who stand behind the scene, overshadowed by the colossus of celebrity fame, yet key to the creation of a piece of art, happily falling translucently away for the good of the stew. So we must take joy in these small things. If we don’t take the time to appreciate the simple things of life then we are missing the joys inherent in life. It would be sad if we ended our lives without enjoying the small things we have experienced.

When we read this poem, think of how it can be applied to our lives. I open my computer bag and pull out my laptop, a pen, a highlighter, some paper, and my book. I neglect to appreciate what went into the making of each of those items. The ink from my pen may have come from India. The hard plastic from my highlighter was made in China. The paper was made from trees that were cut down all over the world, shipped, and grinded into dust. My book had to go through numerous processes of writing, editing, publishing, and printing to become the educational tool that I use it fore. The computer must be assembled after making each small individual circuit, key, pixel, and copper wire that send billions of tiny electronic signals. These things are forgotten, however, as I open them to write a paper or to study for an exam. For the grand picture to be realized, these small things must become the onion in the stew.

Each day we take many things for granted. We often find these to be unimportant. Yet, without them, vital parts of our lives would change. Often people find that they suffer for the greater good of others, much like Christ or the disciples. Many more have died for great causes, people who will never be mentioned in books or in history, yet these are the men and women who deserve greatness. They are divided and weakened so that the whole will become stronger. As Vincent Van Gogh says, “Great things are done by a series of small things brought together.” Let us remember the small things. Let us give voice to those who cannot speak. As the traveling onion lays to rest, bring stew and heart to completeness, let us remember what sacrifice it made to give us such pleasure. Let us remember how far these small things have traveled to make our lives a little bit brighter.

My Reactions to Waiting for Godot

For the most part, my reactions to this play were a mix of confusion and outright astonishment. Some of the things that happen are so out of the realm of realistic understanding that I find myself just awed at the fact that it was said or done. For example when Pozzo is leading his slave around by a rope collared about the neck, I was almost disgusted. The man was full of himself, completely pompous and rude, yet, Didi and Gogo were not really effected by this. They had a discussion with him as if having a man tied by a long rope wasn't that strange. In fact, they made fun of the man and laughed about it.

Also when the men speak of hanging themselves I was confused. How is that a logical choice to these men? There was no despair in their speech. They did not seem at the end of the rope. They just assumed it was a good thing to do at the moment then debated against it. I had to look deeper into this to try to understand any metaphor or symbolisms inside but it still seems to me as if this story is meant to give the option of creating your own opinion.

To be honest, I think that this play has no real ending. It just goes back in an endles cycle and never stops. It is only different each day. They continue to wait, they think of hanging themselves, they see Pozzo again and so on and so on until the end of time because Godot is never going to come.

Possible Meaning to Godot?

Waiting for Godot basically confused me. There are so many interpretations of the story that I get lost in the translations. However, I have come to a loose conclusion of my own making. When I formulated this idea it was based on the items in the play and then I would ask questions as to why they were there and what purpose these things play in the action.

First, there are two men. What do these men have in common? How do they differ? What I noticed is they both have been waiting a long time for this Godot. It seems to me that it is a never ending cycle. They wait one day, think of hanging themselves, think against it. The day ends, they come back, banter, think of hanging themselves, and think against it, and repeat each day. So what I got from them is a never ending cycle of events that is slightly different each day. I also noticed that these men have a fear of being alone waiting there day after day. When they speak of hanging themselves, one of them mentions that if one were to die, the other would be alone. It's like a couple who complains about each other but could not bear to be apart.

Second, I noticed the road and the tree. What I took from this is a representation of a point in life. The road represents life that continues on in one direction. The tree represents a point in life where we sometimes wait by, expecting something and continue to wait until that thing comes before we can move on. We never want to be alone while we wait. We gather our friends and those in our position who are at the same point in life and we come together. When Godot comes, we'll be saved from this and we'll be able to move on.

I know this is probably a terrible interpretation but I find that perhaps this play was meant to be interpreted by each individual in his or her own way. We see what we see and we take from it what we wish to take from it. Maybe it's more than one theme but a myriad of ideas that each individual can grasp and apply to his or her own life.

Godot?

Waiting for Godot is one confusing play if you read it only once. I have found that I must reread each line over again and again to try to piece by piece the picture together. Still I understand the basic outline I think, but there are many parts I am confused about. What I find most interesting about this book, however, is the clever use of words and banter between the characters. The example that I wish to draw from the text is in the first act where the first two characters are introduced. In this section, Vladimir and Estragon are having a conversation on why there are there, what they should do, and what is generally going on.

These guys are bored. They're waiting for this man that they don't have much of a clue about and it seems that they need to find something to pass the time. Vladimir begins to tell a story about Christ hanging with two thieves and the inconsistency between the four accounts of the scene. One begins to tell of a dream and the conversation turns suddenly. What I found funny was the dialogue about hanging themselves. It seems that they find the dull act of waiting that suicide is a possible alternative. When Vladimir insists that Estragon go first, Estragon states that if he does go first he'll die and then Vladimir will hang and the branch will break and he'll be left alone. "Gogo light - bough no break - Gogo dead. Didi heavy - bough break - Didi alone."

Overall this is a story that uses clever banter to describe a deeper idea. I have not yet gotten to the bottom of the play but I plan to unearth the secrets soon.

Peace in Nature? I wish...

I went to Lake Bonny Park and spent one hour there. I wish I could have stayed their longer, reading a book or just letting some of my pent up stress out. However, my life is too busy and too hectic for me to spend any more than one hour to enjoy something that I live in. The sad thing is, I didn't even have the opportunity to let my mind clear and relax. I am running in high gear, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of classwork that my being sick has put me behind in, the days ahead of me at work for preview days that I must spend hours and hours setting up and preparing media for prospective students, and my utter failure at getting my extremely tight schedule set for next semester. I look out at nature and I see an entire world. My small one is crashing in on me but out there, nature is wide open.

Nature represents a freedom to me. When I was young, I would play in the woods and creeks around my house. Going out into those woods was a haven away from my parents, from my homework, and from my chores. When I looked around in Lake Bonny Park I wanted nothing more than to wander away and forget about the relentless pounding of stress that I must endure every day. I just want to roam the woods and swim the lake and be forgotten. If I could be one with nature, that would be my role. The silent roamer. Hah! It has a ring to it.

I wasn't able to get much out of my experience at Lake Bonny Park. Sometimes even the glorious creations of God cannot stand tall against the never-ending mountain of the human mind, constantly obsessing over everything. Even in the quiet, one's thoughts continue to scream out. I love nature, but life is a bitter sweet thing that I must endure.

I couldn't go to the park :(

Last week I was sick. I was unable to visit the park like the rest of the class. I stayed home in my bed with a fever of 102.5 F. So when I thought of what to write for this post, I realized that I cannot write as was prompted by Professor Corrigan. I decided to write on one of the nature poems we had to read previously by Mary Oliver. I reflected on one poem a couple posts back, however this time I chose "Messenger" to re-read and re-reflect on, and I'll admit, I gained a lot more out of the poem this time than I did last time.

The first line caught me sqarely. "My work is loving the world." Does that not sound like something God would say? I found that as I read this there was a stirring of emotion. I enjoy working with my hands. It's something I like to do. I enjoy work. That line took that and twisted it to me. My work is enjoying what life is, enjoying what I do, loving the world. The author describes herself as old, torn, and still cannot obtain even half of perfection. However, she reminds herself that she must always maintain focus on the things that do matter. In this case, her work of loving the world, standing and being astonished, rejoicing, giving gratitude, and shouting joy. That is how she exherts love.

That is how we should all exhert love, not just in people but in all things. Sometimes it is more important to stand back and be awed than to overcrowd something that is beautiful. We express joy in more ways than one. The same goes for any emotion. Sometimes we need to take a step back and take a view of what we've been given to live on. Watch the waters of the rivers and lakes trickle and flow. Listen to the sounds that the birds make or the wind in the trees. Gaze over the fields of green with dots of colorful flowers. See the brightness of day as it turns to red and to the black of night speckled with light. These things should be loved and loved dearly for we only have our short lives to view them. Soon we'll be old and torn with wisdom's revelation that we are far from perfect, but the creations of this world and the grand design in which it all revolves around... is.

Walking Home

There is something about reading poems that are almost nostalgic when read. They seem to hit harder to me, especially when I can create a personal connection. Walking Home from Oak-Head gives me that feeling. It is much like a poem that I would write or I feel that I would write.

“There’s something
about the snow-laden sky
in winter
in the late afternoon

that brings to the heart elation
and the lovely meaninglessness of time.”

Those last two lines are what got me at first. At first I am given a vision or view of a late winter afternoon. Then I am brought deeper inside myself to explore the possibilities of how I feel as I walk through such a thing as familiar as a winter afternoon. When we go through life, sometimes we take such things for granted. When I go to my parent’s cabin in North Carolina and view out at the mountains in the distanced I often have this feeling. Eventually I will go home and back to the usual busying about of life, the ceaseless scurrying to get homework done and make ends meet. However, in that place I forget why time had a purpose. Instead I am lost in that moment staring at a part of God’s creation oblivious to what other duties await me outside of that place.

This poem gets at me in this way. It is because I stand sometimes during storms, sunsets, sunrises, or any thing that makes me pause and take notice and I lose track of life. I have come to realize that the poems that I like are ones that I can personally relate to, whether in style of writing or in the message. Of course, if I cannot understand it then I cannot see the relation, even if it nails my personality perfectly.

Pass

I'm using a pass on this post.

2 Corinthians 5:17 - Lectio

"Anyone in Christ is a new person. The old is gone and the new has come." - 2 Corinthians 5:17

When I heard this I decided to meditate on it, using some of what I've learned in class to getter a deeper understanding of the passage. So I read in lectio and picked out these words: old and new. I thought about the difference in the words and, though it may seem obvious, there is a definite change that must take place in this passage. However, it's not just a change but a transformation. Now I read in meditatio and rotate around those two words. Anything I've seen in this world never becomes younger or newer. Everything just ages away and there's no stopping it. This passage says that our old selves will transform into something new in Christ. Reading it again I focused on the word "gone." It's not that the old has become new. It will be comletely replaced by new. It's amazing that nothing in this physical world could possibly do something such as this. Only God has the ability to take a person and create a new soul in them.

Is it a new soul? I don't know. myabe it's just a new life or a new wa of living. A lot of psychology teaches that one's personality is just about set in stone around the age of ten. With God that means nothing. Psychology means nothing. God will throw it out the door. This passage shows that God has control to take old things and make them dissapear, creating a new and more powerful creation. It's amazing how much one can get out of so few words. This passage is small but has a lot of meaning. There is a change, a replacing, of what we are. One in Christ cannot continue to live as they were or they cannot be in Christ.

Prayer: Lord I want to change. Inside of me there is something old, hanging onto me. Let it dissapear. Let what I once was, "All of my gains now fade away." Please let me be new in you. Amen.

Enemy of the People

Enemy of the People is a play that I found intriguing. For myself, personally, there was an overwhelming sense of an inability to succeed. Dr. Thomas Stockmann is trying to unveil a truth about the town's water supply for a large bathing area. The water has been tainted by a bacteria that will hurt the people of the town. Normally this would come under shock and awe and people should pick up and come together to fix the issue. However, this is not the case for Dr. Stockmann.

The story evolves as Stockmann fights his brother, the mayor, on the issue of publishing the find. The mayor is trying hard to undermine what the doctor is trying to accomplish. Why? The reconstruction of the water supply would take years and the town would lose valuable income, effectively crippling it financially. The mayor goes to the papers who have agreed to publish an article written by the doctor and he coerces them into no printing it. Meanwhile the doctor is fighting hard to bring the truth of the matter to the people.

Over and over again it seems that the doctor is outnumbered. Often times this is the case. The truth can be outnumbered by the lies, by those things that don't want the truth to be known because the truth can cause problems. Those people don't want to take the small problems now even though it will require that they deal with the larger ones later when eveyone is poisoned from tainted water. Near the end the Doctor expresses the issue to the people. However it is not taken well and the people become angry at him. He is labeled an Enemy of the People.

People don't know what is good for them. A quote I remember from Men in Black is this, "The person is smart, people are dumb, panicky dangerous animals and you know it." Was Christ not considered an enemy by his people? They hung him like a criminal. The mob spat on him and cursed him. Sometimes being the one that speaks truth and the one that must stand out for good is the one that is labeled as an enemy and is outcast.

More on The Odyssey

This book has been one of the most exciting reads I have had in a long time. It's adventurous, smart, and yet it has that literary feel to it that I could relate to a literary text rather than a popular fiction. Though, maybe in many years from now, some of our popular fiction will become literary texts. However, not many of the popular novels today have the same literary nature that a book like "The Odyssey" has. It's just the nature of the words used, how characters are described and developed, an the overall language used throughout.

A couple posts ago I described how Homer began to develop Odysseus' son Telemachus. Now I wanna go more into Odysseus, the main character of the story. Odysseus is the man who thought the idea of the Trojan Horse. He fought in the war between Greece and Troy. This is where the story really begins and shows a glimpse of Odysseus' character. As everyone knows, the Greeks come out of the large wooden horse and open the gates for their army to come in and wipe out the Trojans during their feasting. Here is where Achilles, the mightiest warrior, dies because of his weak heel.

After the war, as all the Greeks are beginning to sail home, Odysseus proclaims his victory to the gods and how self sufficient he is. He makes a personal remark to Poseidon who takes offense. And thus the real story begins. From then on, Poseidon makes Odysseus wander the seas, never to arrive back at home in Ithaca. Odysseus must overcome extreme odds and gain the help of other gods to make it back to his kingdom. "The Odyssey" is not about strength, though strength is required for Odysseus to take on the obstacles that are placed before him. What sets Odysseus apart from the heroes of Greece like Achilles is his cunning and wits. He is an ordinary man who is just very bright.

An example of this is the cyclops. When Odysseus and his men go into a cave and feast, a cyclops comes in and shuts the opening with a large boulder. Odysseus knows that he cannot move the boulder so he tricks the giant by stabbing out his one eye. The cyclops opens the way out so that Odysseus and his men can escape. Later, to escape the Sirens' song, Odysseus has his men tie him up so that he will not be able to run the ship ashore or jump off the side. The character of Odysseus is brilliant. It takes Greek mythological and fantastic ideas and sticks a man with no more than his wits to overcome the gods.

I highly suggest reading this book or looking into it.

Helen

Helen

I thought it would last forever. In the shortness of life I should have known better. My heart burns like the fires of my home. A steady flicker at first, not quite catching light, unable to sustain, then it roars as a torrent of pain. I remember her as if I just saw her. Every detail. Helen was her name. What a beautiful name it was. A name matched by her figure and her mind. When I reflect too long on what once was, I find solitude in the glassy view. Now I look upon a kaleidoscope of color. Each liquid meant to bring a slow and degenerate lapse in my past. That is what I think before I break the seal and begin to unravel; so the night progresses.

Helen gave me the most joy I could ever know. Was it her visage that I was infatuated with? Yes… quite so. Her eyes could melt a man. They had shown bright and brilliant blue, that of the sky in a clear and cold winter day. Such a perfect complexion she had. There was no blemish on her. At least, there was none that my eyes would let me see. I would be mesmerized when she spoke, her lips, soft and thin. Every word she uttered was a song, a clear and steady song that lifted my heart with each beat. How I long to hear that voice again. My ears yearn for her whisper. The liquid burns my throat and the memories continue to flow.

She had long golden hair that fell just past her shoulders. I still remember as it burned. It matched her stunning face. She would tie it back when she worked. Her body was kept well. We would run together in our neighborhood. Our friends and those who lived around us would see us and wave. They would smile and yell a greeting sometimes. Helen would always say hello to them. It could have been on the fifth mile of the run and still, her spirit was never perturbed. So happy was she, full of joy and light. I feel that I lost my joy that day as I watched the fires consume all that I loved. I start to feel light headed. The bottle is half empty.

My love for Helen went beyond the mere physical intoxication she brought upon me. Her temperament was unchangeable. Of course I saw her angry and at times livid against me. However, she would always come back to that peaceful and harmonious view of all things. It was something that drew me, inexorably, to her. I feel, sometimes, that my self-concerned and selfish nature would have buffered me from any and all people who try to come close to me. This was not so for Helen. Nobody could make me feel accepted like she would. Now I feel lost and empty like a man without work, like a man without purpose. The fires consumed my life, no, they consumed what gave me life like the drunkenness burning within me, obliterating my sense,

It was a Sunday night in the middle of fall. Snow had not fallen yet. Sill, the air was cold. I had worked a long day and had come home late. Helen had stayed home that day, went to the church down the road that morning. She was such a person of faith. I had always struggled with it. During days such as that day, she would spend time in quiet solitude. She would pray. When I asked her what she spoke to God about, she would reply, “You,” and would smile. I always took that for granted. I’m sure she prayed that day. I wonder if God told her they’d see each other soon. Bitter one may ask? More than I’ve ever known.

I heard the sound before I felt the heat. It was a roaring noise that overwhelmed the steady patter of the water. My heart leapt as I did. Reflexes take over where the mind begins falter. I took my towel and quickly rapped it around me, the washcloth held against my mouth. The instant the door opened I was blinded by tears as the envelope of smoke smothered and began to suffocate. I was stunned for a moment that felt like a lifetime. Helen… She was the only thought in my mind. I ran down the hallway, skirting the fires spreading from below. The railings on the stairs were ablaze. There was a pain in my hand but it was so far away. Helen.... “Helen!”

My feet hit the scorching tile floor of the foyer. I couldn’t stop. There was light outside the window for some reason. It flashed. However, tonight was all but usual. Helen was in the kitchen baking bread or something. I can’t remember. I rushed past the stairs, my skin burning. As I rounded towards the door of the kitchen my eyes fell upon a sight that shall forever be branded into my memory. She lay there, afire, golden hair gone in blackened smoke. My heart broke. I believe I uttered a scream. I heard it in my soul at least. I fell to my knees. There was a crashing sound. The house was falling in around me. Let it.

Suddenly I felt strong arms wrap around me. I was being pulled away from her. I tried to fight at first but I couldn’t. The doorway to the kitchen began to fall away, a silhouetted figure rushing in. Cold air hit me then. I saw the outside of the house, fires licking the sides. The trees around the house shown bright with yellow, orange, and red. I was hoisted up. A clear mask was placed upon my face and I began to cry. Then my mind went blank

Slowly the fog begins to take me. My eyes become drowsy. The bottle slips from my hands and is muffled on the carpet. Unconsciousness takes me away so that I forget for a moment. I will awake the next day amidst a haze of pain. Then I’ll start my cycle again. I may forget for a while. Then it will come back to me and I’ll find myself standing in front of the clear liquid display, despondently debating on the best form with which to waste away. Would she be proud of me? No… I know that she wouldn’t. I feel ashamed. “Let this be it,” I say to myself. “Let it be done.” May my eyes be lifted and may my mind finally find peace. I fall asleep and dream of something that I will not remember.

The Odyssey

Wow.... Homer is the man. So far I have only been able to read the first book (or chapter) as it's called and I am awed at the characterization that has taken place. I had an idea of how the story goes from reading pieces of it, however I have never really appreciated how the author describes people and events. Telemachus, Odysseus' son will be the focus. He is home in Ithaca while his father goes to war against Sparta. When Odysseus does not return home, Telemachus is stuck dealing with his father's kingdom and the many suitors that come to take his mother's hand in marriage and continue to eat away at his resources or his "inheritance."

Homer does a great job of underlying the strain that this is having on Telemachus. "If only I had been a child of some happier man whos latter years found him at ease in his own posessions!Instead - think of the most unhappy of mortal men - it is his son I am said to be." The fact that Telemachus' father has not come home, has not been proclaimed dead, and has given no word of his return and that his mother is being hounded by suitors while they take all that he has and he feels hopeless to stop it for is just a young boy is killing him inside. He just wants to find a way to stop it. Thus Athenes, daughter of Zeus, comes down from heaven to give him word and hope to one, find news of his father, and two kill the suitors looking for his mother.

I am excited to see how the story continues. I have an understanding of the story and the plot and twists. However, I am excited to see how these characters progress and change throughout the story. Those Greeks had it right in this book.

Museum

The museum trip last week really made an impression on me. I found it interesting to view artwork visually while mentally, critically working out a poem. The poem that specifically stood out to me was the one on the Rembrant painting and the old lady. For some reason I found this odd. Who wouldn't save the old lady? Is human life not always more important to art and posessions? Then I thought about it more. Do people not die for books? What about the Bible? Sure this can be seen in a different light because it is a book inspired by God but it elisits strong emotions. Can a painting get these same emotions from people?

In nations where books were burned to allow the current rainging regime to have more control over the citizens, did not people die to save literature then? Again, why is art different? This old lady will die no matter what. The painting could last forever if it is saved. So what is more important? I believe that this poem says that it is not for us to decide what is more important. It is beyond those of us who are young.

I would save the old woman. For it is my moral obligation to protect life even at the cost of a priceless object. However, would Rembrant save the old woman were he alive and in that situation? Would the old lady save herself?

Descartes

The poem we read last Tuesday, My Tea with Madame Descartes, gave me renewed hope in poetry. I felt, almost, as if it were more of a characterization in a novel than a poetic description. While reading the words, the author painted a vivid picture of this women to me. I could imagine her and the way she would speak, the tones she would use and the old luxurious breathy voice I would hear as she explained her life away.

I've come to realize literature isn't just telling a story, it's painting a picture. There is a distinct connection between literature and imagery. By this I mean, photos, drawings, paintins, and anything that gives a visual of the story. In fact, the very words alone are the same as a photo, however one must individually draw out the image. The words can only go so far and we must take those and apply the textures, smells, and sounds, ourselves.

I generally read for plot. But I see the value in the character, in the place, the sounds, and the feelings. In this case, Madame Descartes has so much history and character in her that it takes the palce of plot. Just here personality and what she has done makes up more than enough for the lack of a story plot or eventful progression. There is a small one in the poem but there is more weight being placed simply on her as a character. It's great stuff.

Through the Curtain, Alone with God

Lord my redeemer, your blood runs through my viens
My love for you is deeper than it was yesterday
I enter through the curtain, parted by your grace
Oh, You're the lover of my soul

We sang these lyrics today in Encounter chapel. I was rushed last night and this morning and completely forgot about my blog post. While zoning out in the presence of God, these words stuck out to me. It was the imagery that caught grabbed my attention the most. In my mind, I saw the veil, the curtain, being torn asunder as I walked through it with fire in my veins, breathing in air that burned with something more than oxygen.

I'm deep in love with You, Abba Father
I'm deep in love with You, Lord
My heart it beats for You, precious Jesus
I'm deep in love with You, Lord

These came up to me next as I looked at the background picture that they had set up. It was of a dock leading out into calm waters beyond the eye could see. It was a simply white-washed dock, old looking, gray and dull; but there was something about it that draws one to it. It went back into the picture a ways into the distance. It gave me more of a sense of deepness. On this dock stood a single figure. As Dr. Cotton spoke on solitude I begun to see a bigger picture. What a place to come closer to the Lord, to meditate and calm oneself. This is as good of a place as the top of a mountain looking down over the world or the single boat in a small lake away from the cities. It is important to find solitude in life to reflect on what is around us, or to simply come closer to our God given human nature..

Here I am using Lectio Divina to get a further understanding of the text in this song. I am trying to incorporate specific ideas learned in class to what I read and hear in the world around me. So, though this is not a specific literary text from the class I am still trying to engage in concepts learned.

The last class discussion on lectio divina was very instructional to me. I have never been one who enjoyed or recieved anything out of poetry, which is sad because much of the Bible is a form of poetry. To me it was a form of literature that I didn't understand. This form of reading has given me a new view of poetry and other readings as well. To get deeper into a text it is more important to spend time on it that to just try to critically think through the issues. One does not become good at something by trying it once critically. The act of repeating text in different lights and viewpoints gives the reader a broader sense of the meaning of that text.

I'm taking this act and putting it to action. Over the next months I'm going to use this method of studying text and I'm going to post on my readings. Whenever there is another free post, it will be on scripture, poetry, or some other form of literature that using lectio divina will open up the doors for me. I hope to gain more out of these literary texts than just the words on the surface.

I'm going to start reading a chapter of scripture for the next free post, using this method, and see what I can get out of it. After that I'll probably move to a section of a book from an author that I might gain some spiritual insight on. If there are any recommended texts please comment on this post with any ideas.

A Painting

When asked to paint a visual of the Book of Joel I had a hard time envisioning what picture to express. There is so much in Joel that could be brought out the various artistic forms. In truth, Joel itself is a descriptive and artful written word. The use of words describing the darkness that is coming followed by the hope of salvation in God is powerful and beautiful. So deciding what picture to pain was hard for me. I wanted to express all of these things, darknes, death, blood, light, dawn, joy, and life. So I decided to paint a picture that depicted these various points both in light of each other, opposing from opposite sides of the page.

I first drew a mountain, which Joel describes almost as a buffer. The light of dawn and the locusts come rising over the mountains to come down and swath the land in death. So above this I drew two emotional sides. On the left is a yellow to orange to red sunrise with white doves flying just above the peaks. This represents a coming light a joy killing the night. To the right, however, I painted a dark black and purple representing not only night, but the locusts as well. These dissipate as they approach the light as if the light is scattering the locusts and pushing them back.

Below the mountain base line I drew a river flowing down the middle. This river turns to blood as it gets closer to the viewer. To the left of this river, much like the sunrise, there is green. This is representing life in the lushness of growing things. To the right of the river is brown turning to dry tan. There are patches of green closer to the river but these soon disappear. This represents the death that the locusts have inflicted on the land, a scar that will take a long time to heal.

Joel

I found that reading this book is easily comparable to Whitman's poem, “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d." What I found similar is the sense of sadness and despair followed by a hope for better. Just as Whitman laments of death and the darkness that comes with it, he keeps in mind the joy of life, of growing things and of birth.

For Whitman, his words emphasize a suffocating darkness or a sad pain. Joel, however, speaks of not only of darkness, but of fear and coming ruin. In chapter 2 of Joel says, "Let everyone tremble in fear because the day of the Lord is upon us. It is a day of darkness and gloom, a day of thick clouds and deep blackness." Joel uses descriptions of fire as coming war and destruction. Just as Whitman speaks of the Lilac growing with life, so does Joel describe a light in the darkness. "But everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved..."

What I found really fascinating when reading the book of Joel is the way it is written. Too often I have come to view the Bible as a set of rules or something more akin to a textbook on ancient traditions and life. However, the way that Joel writes, his imagery, his words, truly impact. It makes one realize that these authors were bright, intelligent people expressing a vision or a truth just as any other poet. In this way, I can see some poets being a little on the prophetic side.

Pass

This is my first pass.

Lilacs

This poem was refreshing to me. Compared to the other poems we read, this is less about the sadness and despair in hard times but of seeing a brightness during dark times. Each stanza seems to alternate a dark and light feel. When the lilacs are mentioned, Whitman paints the picture of spring and of growing things. In stanza 3, Whitman says, "In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash'd pailings, Stands the lilac-bush tall-grow with heart-shaped leaves of rich green."

We are all aware of the looming assurance of death. It is like the night full of stars. The darkness surrounds all of us and eventually we'll be swallowed up by it, our starlight will fade and dissipate until there is nothing left. Whitman is noting that as he walks through the night, "As you droop'd from the sky low down as if to my side, (while the other starts look'd on..."

Yet he continually comes back to the growing lilac in the dooryard, almost as if this is a cycle. The cycle of life. Spring comes and there is growth and then there is night and death. Even though there is death, there are lilacs growing with lush green leaves. Whitman has written a very moving poem depicting the sadness of death mixed with the joy and love of growth and new life. In this life, we should all remember to take the good things in life with the bad that happens. For there is always a spring after winter.

From "Howl" Reflections

On Thursday, September 10th, we, as a class, read five poems. The theme of these poems were represented as a sort of darkness, either through despair or night or death. Of these five poems, one stuck out particularly to me simply because I understood it more easily. Often times I find myself reading poems that have awkward wording when putting stanzas together. To me it seems like they use poem as a license to write irregularly and overuse metaphors. This is simply a subjective view towards poems. No doubt they could be considered works of art and literary prophesy. However, I see differently.

Yet, From "Howl", caught me by surprise. I, as many, have seen people who I knew, who were brilliant, be brought low by drugs. The first line of this poem is what grabbed me. "I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,... looking for an angry fix." So often this is true, not only years ago, but now and in the future to come. This poem did not use words such as Night City did. "Diaphanous lympth, bright turgid blood, spatter outward in clots of gold." Instead it used words I can more closely relate to, "who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high."

The portrayed darkness in words that I can grasp easily. Poverty, tatters, hallucinating, angry, and cowered. These are words that take one thing, drugs, and creates a definitely dark persona that is injected in every line of the poem. These people are killing themselves, their bodies and their minds, with a constant intake of "with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares." I believe this author grasped the disparity of drug abuse and articulated it with clarity and truth to the nature of such a dark addiction.

In Picture

When I was younger, I used to have these pictures that were a collection of small images. When I would focus my eyes differently, a Loony-Toon would suddenly pop up. I never really connected this with anything but enjoyment. I used to enjoy drawing. I was never very good at it and at first I would trace the outer lines of various cartoons and then color them in. Eventually I became better at it but I could only draw things that I could see. I could never create a drawing that was any good. I simply liked the act of taking something and putting it onto paper with my own pencil, adding shading and character from my own understanding, thus turning into my subjective view of the picture.

Literature is the same way. We are taking what we are reading and subjectively painting a picture of it. Just like that Loony-Toon pop out image, we see words but if we shift our focus we can see the picture. The previous in-class exercise required us to draw a picture reflecting on the reading of The Things that They Carried. I regretfully did not keep that picture to scan and put onto this post but I will explain it as well as I can.

The picture showed a man seated in an armchair in front of a fire. There is a broken heart over his head. It is day outside the window, sunny and bright. From him comes a picture of a dark night. The grass is tall and a man is seen hiding there. Another man is leaving a small building walking towards a flying bullet coming from the man in the grass. Behind the building stands another man with a whole heart over his head. The third seen is a grassy plain with a bright sun and a blue, cloudless sky.

My question was this, “Can any of these men ever gain relief from the guilt or horrors that followed them after a time as Vietnam?”

The Things They Carried

In The Things They Carried, each man in Alpha Company had particular objects that they brought with them. What is interesting is less what they carried with them during the war, but what they carried out of the war, those who survived, that is. Each person goes through times in their lives that leave lasting impressions. Marks or scars that they carry with them until the day they die, albeit physical or emotional. Vietnam is one of those occurrences that would leave lasting imprints on a person's mental and emotional state. Any thing so tragic such as war would do that.

This story really is a way for the writer, Tim O'Brien to give relief to those things that he carries with him. By reliving the experiences and telling them, it is his way of expelling some of those haunting memories. Some of the others don't do so well. Jimmy Cross continued to blame himself for the death of Ted Lavender while simultaneously carrying with him failing loving relationship with a girl named Martha. Norman Bowker remains guilty over the death of his friend Kiowa.

Terrible events such as these stay with men who are unlucky enough to have to endure them. My brother in law's father was a veteran of Vietnam. For the longest time he could not listen to fireworks without running to find cover. Even to this day he cringes when when blows off. This is something he will carry for the rest of his life, the memories that occur every time he hears that gunshot. In truth, we all carry such things around with us. Maybe not extreme circumstances such as war, but we still have our baggage and our guilt.

Literary Profile

My name is Tim Crow. Reading has been one of the many things in life that I have come to enjoy immensely. I am generally a science fiction and fantasy reader because I like the idea of a world outside of my own where I can immerse myself into characters that would otherwise be impossible to portray. For me, stories allow me to suspend my beliefs and enter a realm where anything is possible and I am able to let go of worldly obligations and concerns. In essence, I force myself into an imaginary world where I can relax from my day to day activities.

Much of my earlier literary experiences were of short children stories that I was read as a child. The one that stick out most in my memory is “The Little Engine that Could”. I cannot count the times I have heard and read that story. This is not only because I was young but because I would have lost track after I reached thirty and above. “The Little Engine that Could” gives me fond memories of my childhood of which I hope to pass on to my own children some day.

I have just recently picked up “A Scanner Darkly” the novel. I watched the movie about a year ago and a friend of mine suggested the book just last week. I remember the twisted complexity of the movie and fictional future of it that I was intrigued enough to read the book. Up to now it has been just as far out into the realm of psychedelic mind games as the movie was.

The most significant literary texts that I have come across in my life thus far have been numerous. “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” has instilled in me a particular sense of humor that I had not gathered from other sources, particularly this dry British humor. “The Lord of the Rings” entered me into the fantasy world that many more books had to expand upon and other such books as “Harry Potter”, “The Dark Tower”, and “Sword of Truth” have given me much more respect for other modern literary works.

I believe that literature is one of the most important mediums we as society use to portray our lives, moral beliefs, religious convictions, and history. Literature is not just a way to entertain and to find a way from reality but a way to view culture and understand our past. What we write about continues on to the generations to come. This could be several years or it could be thousands. Literature has spawned nations. Literature has created wars. Literature has given rise to organized religion. It’s a power, especially when in the hands of those who can broadcast it to the world.