a few of my favorite things

The Most Expensive Book in the World

On December 7th, Sotheby's is set to auction off an original copy of John James Audubon's, "Birds of America." According to an article in last week's Wallstreet Journal, "Sotheby's has valued the book at about $6.2 million to $9.3 million, making it one of the most expensive books ever sold at auction." The original prints, bound in four volumes, were made from engravings of Mr. Audubon's watercolor paintings which he composed between 1827-1838. Given my recent ornithological reflections, I can't say that I am surprised to learn that the world's most valuable book is devoted to artistic renderings of birds... and I suddenly feel rather fortunate to have found an inexpensive copy of "Birds" in the rare books room of the library sale last spring. Not coincidentally, the pink flamingo is currently on its way to being framed and hung up on my bedside wall.

The Picture of Dorian Gray

“What does it profit a man if he gains the whole world and forfeits his soul? And what can a man give in exchange for his soul?” ~Mark 8.14-15

People are as different as flowers – we may all start out naked and screaming, but we have been created differently. In other words, you will never plant a rosebush and end up preening violets. But not only are we innately different, we are planted in different locations; brought up under differing conditions; we bloom at different times; emit different “aromas;” and exhibit an infinitely different array of colors.

For this reason, our values differ. What inspires awe and wonder in you may cause me to throw up my hands in bewilderment or disdain.

But where we are the same, where we are basically different manifestations of the same type, is in our intrinsic desire to worship… to glory in something, to prize one thing above another, to say, this – this more than that is worth living for, fighting for, dying for. In short, we all bend our knee to something…

When a man's inclinations are directed toward God the Christian calls this just adoration; when they are directed toward other people or things - or even ideologies - we call it idolatry.


Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray is a book about what happens when a man - Dorian Gray - surrenders to idolatry.

Initially, Dorian's brand of idolatry presents itself in the form of vanity. His pristine appearance attracts the attention of a painter named Basil who declares Dorian his "ideal," and insists upon painting his portrait. Once complete, the painting is dubbed a masterpiece. But over Dorian it has a particular power: the moment he looks upon it his sense of his own beauty is aroused; and with it, the horrible realization that he will someday grow old and ugly.

And so in a moment’s madness, Dorian makes a mad wish: he offers to exchange his soul for the likeness of the portrait.

Ten, twenty years pass by. Outwardly Dorian remains as handsome and unspoiled as he was on that budding day in June when the portrait was first completed; but hidden in an upstairs room beneath a sheath of velvet, his portrait lives to record the image of his soul. With every act of betrayal, every stroke of malice, every assertion of self-will, the painting devolves until it becomes a grotesque image of corruption and decay.

In the meantime, Dorian's life has taken on the qualities of a work of art. Life is a play of which he is the author; and people are mere characters, “written out” or extinguished, if they fail to act out the part he has assigned to them. Human behavior is not evaluated in terms of "right" and "wrong;" but in terms of what is beautiful or ugly, dramatic or undramatic, interesting or tiresome. "That is all." In this sense, people are not “real” to Dorian but instead they are dolls in a dress-up parlor, valuable only to the degree that they succeed in satisfying his lusts or appealing to his sense of 'drama.'

This is precisely what happens when we give our souls in worship to that which is not God: we will ultimately sacrifice everything – not just our physical and spiritual well-being, but people, even those dearest to us – for that thing, whatever it may be.

The story reaches its climax when Dorian leads Basil upstairs and, in a moment of passionate exchange, flings off the curtain to reveal a look at the picture, now utterly unrecognizable to the painter who painted it.

“Christ!" Basil cries, "What a thing I must have worshiped! It has the eyes of a devil.”

And so we will all exclaim when once we are given an unmediated look at those areas in our lives where we have been guilty of idolatry.

“Each of us has Heaven and Hell in him, Basil,” Dorian says. And so his character proves.

Above all, The Picture of Dorian Gray magnificently illustrates the point that man is, principally, a spiritual being; that his actions have spiritual consequences; and that what he chooses to worship will ultimately enslave him, resulting in either his downfall or his redemption.

As Dorian himself admits, "The soul is a terrible reality. It can be bought, and sold, and bartered away. It can be poisoned, or made perfect. There is a soul in each of us. I know it.”

Everyone should read this book.

Through the Looking-Glass

I don't know about you but evenings are often the hardest times for me to stay spiritually focused. I am usually tired; and it’s easy to let mad thoughts run wild.

Last night’s battle was particularly thick … and so I did what I always do in moments of acute psychological crisis: I reached for a box of chocolates and a book. The one lying on my bedtable just now is Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking-Glass and it is wonderful.

I opened to where I’d left off: Alice is standing on the edge of the forest in Looking-Glass world, talking with the White Queen. The sky is growing light and Alice, who mistook a large crow for the sunset, is relieved:

“‘The crow must have flown away, I think,’ said Alice. ‘I’m so glad it’s gone. I thought it was the night coming on.”

‘I wish I could manage to be glad!’ the Queen said. ‘Only I never can remember the rule. You must be very happy, living in this wood, and being glad whenever you like!’

‘Only it is so very lonely here!’ Alice said in a melancholy voice; and, at the thought of her loneliness, two large tears came rolling down her cheeks.

‘Oh, don’t go on like that!’ cried the poor Queen, wringing her hands in despair.

‘Consider what a great girl you are. Consider what a long way you’ve come today. Consider what o’clock it is. Consider anything, only don’t cry!’

Alice could not help laughing at this, even in the midst of her tears. ‘Can you keep from crying by considering things?’ she asked.

‘That’s the way it’s done,’ the Queen said with great decision: ‘nobody can do two things at once, you know.’”

I dog-eared the page and leaned back in wonder. Why but for the Christian that IS precisely how it’s done! I thought. At least, in a way.

Have you ever noticed how hard it is to remain angry when you are considering the charge to "Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice;" and to "Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you" (Eph. 4.31-32)?

How difficult it is to ruminate on an unjust word when you consider Christ, who, “...while being reviled, did not revile in return; while suffering, He uttered no threats, but kept entrusting Himself to Him who judges righteously!”

It is so very hard to be ungrateful when I remember Paul's bold declaration to the Philippians: “[M]y God will supply all your needs according to His riches in glory in Christ Jesus” (Phil. 4.19).

But responding in this way to the trials of life necessitates a kind of mental discipline; it requires the willful act of choosing one thing over another, of electing ‘this’ instead of ‘that’ - often in defiance of one's deepest feelings and inclinations.

Perhaps my biggest challenge is willing myself to move these words from the pages of my Bible to the deepest recesses of my heart; and to discipline my mind to meditate on the words of God when it is often much easier to compose elaborate arguments against Him.

In such moments, my greatest motivator to overcoming my own obstinate nature is the fact that when I open my Bible I am being given the opportunity to encounter a Person.

For the Bible is not just a compilation of words, written to delight or distract me from my current emotional crisis. Neither is it a self-help guide to positive thinking. No, it is a means of accessing the living, breathing Savior of the Universe. As a living testament, it reveals not only God’s character, but God Himself: and where the Spirit of Christ is, there is power - power to sanctify and cleanse, but most importantly to transform the parts of my mind which would otherwise conform to the thoughts and opinions of this world.

For all of these reasons, I consider meditating on Scripture to be the best form of psychotherapy there is … not only because it is a means of gaining intimacy with Christ - though that should be reason enough all on its own - but because it works.

"And do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, so that you may prove what the will of God is, that which is good and acceptable and perfect." ~Romans 12.2

Meet the Woodmouse Family

It is very large, especially when you take grandparents and cousins into account.

But there is one particular couple whom Audrey has taken a particular fancy to: William and Celestine.
This is William and Celestine on their wedding day:

Only when we arrive on this particular page, she stops me and says, "No, Mudder - that's you! And that's Daddy... when you're getting married!"

"Well," I admit, "It does look a little like we did. Only with a bit more lace."

The Silver Skates

I found this old title at a used bookstore in Ashbury Heights... Wonderful story; gorgeous cover. They just don't make them like they used to! I have it laying on my desk as it reminds me there are places still wrapped up in winter. I sigh a little, pining for snow.

The Door in the Wall

This extraordinary book was written and illustrated by Marguerite de Angeli, whose personal story is also, in its own way, rather extraordinary. After completing one year of high school Ms. de Angeli dropped out in order to become a choral singer and soloist for various churches throughout Philadelphia. She met her husband, a violinist, and after they married she devoted herself to the raising of their six children.

Ms. De Angeli began as an illustrator of a Sunday school newspaper and did not try her hand at writing until the middle of her life. In a short introduction to The Door in the Wall her son writes, “Her sense of wonder and modesty about her talent were things that lent her work such charm, in both the text and the illustrations, and her love of people, especially children, is evident throughout.”

Indeed, The Door in the Wall is the story of a child - a young boy named John, of noble birth, who is made a cripple by the plague before his dream of becoming a knight can be fulfilled. With his parent's away in service to the King and Queen, John is taken in by the local monastery to be cared for by the monks.

For much of the book he is preoccupied with his handicap and its shattering effect on his dream.

“What think you Brother Luke," he asks in a moment of despair, "shall my legs ever straighten?”

“God alone knows whether thou’lt straighten or no," says the monk. "I know not. But this I tell thee. …It is better to have crooked legs than a crooked spirit.”

And that, in essence, is the theme of this book: Ms. De Angeli deftly illustrates the point that having character is more important than getting what we want; and that character is achieved - not in spite of the pain in our lives, but through it.

Pain is the instrument; and the result can be beautiful. In contrast, to achieve one's dream at the expense of attaining character is the greatest tragedy of all.

The book also tacitly conveys the tremendous difference that one individual can have in the life of another. It is Brother Luke who perseveres in reaching out to young John, urging him to "look for the door in the wall which no one can shut" (Revelation 3.8), which is another way of encouraging him to look for some means of thriving within the confines of his limitations. He may not be able to walk, but he can learn to carve wood, to swim, and to read.

In this way John's handicap teaches him to focus his attention on what he can do - which is quite a lot.

Slowly, very slowly, he begins to learn self-discipline, patience, and perseverence. And in the end John, the cripple, turns out to be a hero, soaring to heights he might never have reached if the events of his life had transpired differently.

When he is finally reunited with his father, he garners the strength to ask the question that has been burning in his soul for months: “Father, mind you not that I must go thus, always bent over, and with these crutches to walk?”

His father becomes suddenly grave and, resting his hands on his son's shoulders, says, “The courage you have shown, the craftsmanship proven by the harp, and the spirit in your singing all make so bright a light that I cannot see whether or no your legs are crooked.”

Perhaps the great irony of this book is that it is written for an audience of children. For it contains truths that many a grown up (like myself) would be privileged to fully grasp.

have a laugh

K-dawg,

There is a passage in "The Princess and the Goblin," one of my favorite George MacDonald stories, in which the grandmother says to Princess Irene, "You must be content to be misunderstood for a while. We are all very anxious to be understood, and it is very hard not to be. But there is one thing much more necessary."

"What is that Grandmother?" asks Irene.

"To understand other people."

"Yes, Grandmother," says Irene. "I must be fair - for if I'm not fair to other people, I'm not worth being understood myself. I see."

We have known each other for more than half our lives... You have taught me so many things, but one of the foremost is this: that it is more important to understand than to be understood. A hard lesson; and a lifetime process.

Hopefully, with your help, I'll never cease to engage myself in it... I love you!

**Photos courtesy of MommaLove Photography**

late night

Dutch was coughing and achy all night, poor man... so I slept on the couch... and stayed up way too late.

a friend is someone who likes you

This gorgeous little poem of a book - written and illustrated by the acclaimed Joan Walsh Anglund - makes a powerful (if diminutive) argument in favor of friendship and is currently on my short list of favorite things. After thumbing through it in a bookstore I bought it for my friend on the occasion of her '29th' birthday - which is tomorrow!

My favorite passage: "[Sometimes]...you think you don't have any friends. Then you must stop hurrying and rushing so fast... and move very slowly, and look around carefully, to see someone who smiles at you in a special way... or a dog that wags its tail extra hard when you are near... or a tree that lets you climb it easily... or a brook that lets you be quiet when you want to be quiet. Sometimes you have to find your friend."

C'est vrai.

To all the friends (online and off) whom I have found in precisely this manner - here's to you!

friends are like flowers... no one is the same

"A tree can be a different kind of friend. It doesn't talk to you, but you know it likes you, because it gives you apples... or pears... or cherries..." or, sometimes, a place to gaze in wonder (Joan Walsh Anglund).

Solitude

While vacationing in Oregon I read Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s, “Gift from the Sea,” a series of essays first published in 1955 in which the author attempts, among other things, to formulate – in elegant, insightful prose - a method for achieving what she calls ‘a state of grace,’ where the inner and outer person are at perfect peace.

She insists – rightly, I think – that we women do not so much resent the fact that we spend a substantive amount of our lives giving, but that our giving, because it is so varied and so often undocumented, sometimes feels purposeless. It is for this reason, she suggests, that we often become drained, deflated, and despondent, victims of what Ms. Holly Golightly would call 'the mean reds.'

By way of chronicling the cluttered and fragmented nature of most women’s lives, Lindbergh contends that in order to achieve this ‘state of grace,’ we need, above all, time to be alone – either to be contemplative and creative, or simply just ‘to be.’ “Eternally, woman spills herself away,” she writes, “in driblets to the thirsty, seldom being allowed the time, the quiet, the peace, to let the pitcher fill up to the brim” (p. 38).

Lindbergh asserts that in order to “fill the pitcher” or feed the soul amidst its myriad activities we should aspire to be internally still as “the still axis within the revolving wheel of relationships, obligations, and activities” is still; and that such inner stillness can only be accomplished by means of solitude.



A beautiful idea, undoubtedly; but is this the way to keep the axis still? For a time, certainly. But solitude for its own sake is worth little, I think. One can spend a solitary 60 minutes of every day knitting, gardening, cooking, painting, exercising, reading, or any one of an infinite number of other things and find a certain degree of enhanced tranquility; can, indeed, develop a more serene disposition. But does an improved outward disposition also improve the inner fabric of one’s soul? Does it bring the inner and outer man into perfect harmony? And is it equivalent to living in a ‘state of grace?’

I'm not so sure.

Lindbergh’s election to use the term “state of grace” is interesting for although she doesn’t use it in a distinctly Christian sense, it stems from Christian theology. The theological definition of the word grace (charis) is: “unmerited favor.” In simplest terms, God has bestowed His unmerited favor upon mankind by giving us the gift of salvation through Jesus Christ, His Son (Eph. 2.8, Rom. 3.21-25). Thus, from a Christian perspective, to live "in grace” or in a “state of grace” must, if it means anything at all, imply that one is living in a new reality whereby Christ is the light by which we see and experience the world.

To borrow and modify Lindbergh’s metaphor, solitude is, more accurately I think, but one of the many spokes emanating from what should be, what is, man’s only Hope of achieving any kind of lasting inner peace. It is a means and not an end; and to mistake it for the solution to all our disordered-ness, is, as Dutch would say, a bit like trying to cut down a tree by pulling its leaves off.

For it isn’t solitude alone that is going to cure our frenzied-ness, despair, and inner malaise – it is solitude spent with Christ.

Gift from the Sea

This book, "Gift from the Sea," by Anne Morrow Lindbergh - wife of famed aviator, Charles Lingbergh - was a gift to me, in anticipation of our journey to the sea.

The opening paragraph begins, appropriately, like this:

"The beach is not the place to work; to read, write or think. I should have remembered that from other years. Too warm, too damp, too soft for any real mental discipline or sharp flights of spirit. One never learns. Hopefully, one carries down the faded straw bag, lumpy with books, clean paper, long over-due unanswered letters, freshly sharpened pencils, lists and good intentions. The books remain unread, the pencils break their points and the pads rest smooth and unblemished as the cloudless sky. No reading, no writing, no thoughts even - at least, not at first."

I Like You Because I Don't Know Why

I purchased this book for Dutch on July the 6th 2005, our 3rd anniversary. Tonight - after tucking Audrey and Evie into bed - it was my choice of a bedtime story.

I'll admit, I was feeling a little sorry for myself.

Audrey didn't nap today; and is battling a cold. I can count on one hand the number of times I have slept more than 3 hours at a time in the last 9 weeks. And to top it all off, Dutch is at work... and has been, it seems to me, for days on end.

You'll understand, then, what joy it was, what timeliness, to revisit this familiar passage:

“I like you because because because
I forget why I like you
But I do

On the fourth of july I like you
Because it’s the fourth of july

On the fifth of july
I like you too
Even if it was the nine hundred and
ninety-ninth of july
even if it was august
…
I would go on choosing you
And you would go on choosing me
Over and over again

That’s how it would happen every time
I don’t know why

I guess I don’t know why I really like you
Why do I like you

I guess I just like you

Because I like you."











On that note I feel compelled to write Dutch a little 'goodnight' poem of my own:


Dear Dutch:

You have been working way too hard
Here at home, we’re feeling starved…
We’re missing your laughter, affection, and face
But we will survive because of God’s grace.
When you crawl into bed, don’t wake me up;
I’m tired, you see, and enough is enough!
I’ll cheer up tomorrow – I promise! You’ll see!
And then you’ll remember…why you like me!

Love, Your Wife

The Little House

This was my absolute favorite book when I was a little girl... and tonight it was Audrey's choice of a bedtime story. After all these years, it still moves me, and I imagine myself perched on the hillock beside the little house, dipping my toes in the brook, or swaying in the wind beneath the apple trees.

I'm not sure if it's Virginia Burton's method of breathing life into the little house, giving it a character all its own; or the way her illustrations masterfully and yet simply highlight the cyclical beauty of seasons alongside the devastating mechanization of the modern world, but it provides the perfect ending to any kind of day.

If you haven't read it, you should.

"All's Not Gold that Glitters"

I have been immensely enjoying this book, even if I can only digest 3-4 pages before bed. Nancy Mitford (who appears, donned in taffeta and flowers, on the cover) was a contemporary of Evelyn Waugh. Her prose is enchanting and full of wit and I have found myself easily captivated, both by her eccentric characters (the infamous Radletts), and her ability to capture "the vanished world of aristocratic country life in England during 'the time between the wars.'"

Of the Radlett family, she writes, "[They] were always either on a peak of happiness or drowning in black waters of despair; their emotions were on no ordinary plane, they loved or they loathed, they laughed or they cried, they lived in a world of superlatives."

When I read this passage I had to lay the book down. It was as if a mirror had been held up to the visage of my own family!

Mitford's novel is written from the point of view of Fanny, the adolescent cousin of the Radlett children. Fanny is an orphan of sorts, brought up by her pragmatic Aunt Emily.

Her biological mother, whose character, The Bolter, is based in actual fact on the real life Lady Idina Sackville, who shocked the society of Edwardian England by divorcing five times, hardly appears in the novel except as a conceptual anti-type to Aunt Emily of whom Fanny says: "Aunt Emily was never glamorous but she was always my mother, and I loved her."

What a simple and yet arresting description of what makes someone a mother! Children may (like all people) be momentarily dazzled by beauty and charm - but their hearts demonstrate an enduring preference for the Aunt Emily's of the world, who offer self-sacrificial love in place of 'all that glitters' and soon fades (Proverbs 31.30).

Like many a girl, I enjoy parties and pearls; but may I always choose to vest my soul in the former things, which will stand the test of time!