The stacks of books and loose notes for my last (the last) paper due are piling up around mine ears, but I had a lovely break of a chat the other day with my delightful mom. We talked books. Their beauty and power to shape our lives, to widen our imaginations. We laughed over the stories we loved from our respective corners of Oxford and Colorado and had the grandest time in the world (with cups of tea in hand, of course)
And the chat became a podcast, which my mom is featuring on her blog today.
So if you’re up for sharing a bit of Clarkson girl bookishness and general delightedness in the wonder of words, hop on over HERE. You’ll find the link ready and waiting.
Have a lovely day while you’re at it.
Lila was the first real novel I read this summer. I started it in the weeks just after the last push for exams, when my mind was weary and ready to be swept up into another’s world. I was not disappointed. Rarely have I felt myself so immersed in the thought of a character, in many ways thinking along with her, forgetting my own omniscience as a reader.
Lila is the companion to the earlier Gilead. That first novel is a book of letters, written by an elderly pastor in small town Iowa to the young son whose adulthood he knows he will not live to see. Lila, mother of that son, glimmers in the background of the book, her presence a grace that still startles the old man to wonder. We know, from the old man’s words, that his marriage was startling, if not scandalous to the small town and flock in his keeping. We know that Lila was a drifter, a woman with an unknown past.
In Lila the novel, we are taken into Lila’s mind, seeing the story, the marriage, the coming child through her own eyes. In a masterful stream of narrative, in which Lila’s thoughts leap between memory and present, past event and current meaning we encounter, not just a story, but the shape of a mind that has been molded by loneliness, by suspicion, by a long, hard life on the road. Lila’s inner voice is inclined to distrust everyone and yet… she yearns to trust. What brings Lila into the story we read is her hunger for love, her fragile hope in the gentle love of a good old man whose faithfulness has challenged the narrative by which she lives.
Lila is in many ways the story of two inner voices, that of loneliness, and that of love, and the two as they wrestle for primacy within Lila’s heart. Someday I should probably write a longer and more literary review of this remarkable book, but for the moment, I just want to write about those two voices, because what gripped me was how familiar they were. As I read Lila’s thoughts, thought them with her really, I was startled by my first inclination to believe Lila’s inner narrative precisely because mine is often the same. I know the power of loneliness to tinge any offer of love with doubt, to steal away the innocence of joy, to darken expectation of good. I wonder if most of us do, if we will finally be honest with ourselves.
But what challenged Lila’s fractured way of seeing was love; in action, in presence, in faithfulness that could not be denied. And it challenged mine, made me again aware of the power of my thoughts to tinge the world around me, the love given to me in husband and family and friends, made me realize that, as a dear mentor has told me many a time “you have to speak to your thoughts, not listen to them!” So as I read, I began to note down characteristics of each voice, interrogating my own inner narrative as I went.
First, the voice of loneliness.
You best keep to yourself, except you never can. (all italic quotes from Lila)
Loneliness cannot forget the grief of the past. Every time a moment of peace comes to Lila or her heart begins to settle into the gift that is her new home, she gets suspicious. It’s too good to be true; and the voice of loneliness tells her she’s too smart to believe it. She steels herself for the moment that the Old Man will be angry at her, will send her away.
That’s one good thing about the way life is, that no one can know you if you don’t let them.
Loneliness always sets the painful past as a backdrop to the mind so that the heart is tense and defensive. Lila remembers the darkness before and any kindness or good or casual word gets filtered through a screen of sadness. The old man’s quiet, stated devotion reaches Lila as a hollow promise, something she expects to fade.
She had told herself more than once not to call it loneliness, since it wasn’t any different from one year to the next, it was just how her body felt, like hungry or tired, except it was always there, always the same.
Loneliness tells us we are not worth love. Loneliness shows Lila the long line of people who left her, forgot her, rejected her and presents that as defining evidence of her worth as a person. And she believes it. She believes it so strongly that she almost cannot accept the love that comes to challenge the tyrannical finality of loneliness.
Loneliness, oddly, seeks isolation. One is safe when one cannot be betrayed. And Lila’s impulse is always to leave. It is the secret possibility that makes her feel safe.
But what about love, the voice that challenges that of loneliness? In the novel, love finds Lila in the form of the old man whose care both for her soul and her heart are tenacious, long-suffering, and tender. The old man, even amidst his own frailty and need yet embodies that paean of love in 1 Corinthians, rooted as he is in a lifelong journey toward the healing love of God himself.
The voice of love?
Love draws us into the present. Love draws Lila from the mist of her grief and guilt, summoning her to stand in the presence, not of phantoms, but of a human being whose hands and heart are offered to her.
If the Lord is more gracious than any of us can begin to imagine, and I’m sure He is, then your Doll [Lila’s sort-of guardian] and a whole lot of people are safe, and warm, and very happy. And probably a little bit surprised.
Love sees us in the wholeness we cannot imagine for ourselves. The old man sees the beauty in Lila’s loyal, suspicious heart and by his love, he draws her, step by step into health. Day by day, as she dwells within the home that is his gift she begins to belong, begins even to believe she belongs. At first she feels it is play-acting, but love not only brings her home, it makes her at home, makes of her a loved and honored wife and helps her to believe it too.
She thought, if we stay here, soon enough it will be you sitting at the table and me, I don’t know, cooking something, and the snow flying, and the old man so glad we’re here he’ll be off in his study praying about it. And geraniums in the window. Red ones.
Love never fails. Even in the face of suspicion. The old man’s affection remains. He is sometimes grieved, often frustrated as he sees the fear light up in her eyes, the impulse to run straiten her muscles. But his love does not fail and it knows how to wait.
When you’re scalded, touch hurts, it makes no difference if it’s kindly meant.
Love hopes, ah, it hopes with a mighty will. It’s a precious thing to watch hope grow in Lila’s mind. It comes in flashes, little glimmers of expectation that, at first, she pushes away. But later, she begins to believe, begins to desire, begins to trust. Until she comes to the a place where she can look at the past behind her, not to bury it in denial but to hold it out to the touch of love, for:
There was no way to abandon guilt, no decent way to disown it. All the tangles and knots of bitterness and desperation and fear had to be pitied. No, better, grace had to fall over them.
I’ve been thinking a lot about loneliness lately because I think its endemic to the human condition and I think our sense of isolation is deepened by modern life. One of the things I studied in theology was what it means to be fallen, to sin, to live out the opposite of love. And the opposite isn’t hate, as you might instantly think.
Rather, if you define love as the perfect and continued gift of self as imaged for us in the Trinity, as incarnated in Christ, if you think of love as fellowship with God and with one’s fellow creatures (as I would after many hours of study), then the opposite of Love is a self turned in upon itself, a self isolated and disconnected from other selves, a self profoundly alone.
Isolation, disconnection, this is what it means to be fallen, and in a culture that tends toward radical individualism and an online world where we can hide our real, lonely selves behind countless profiles, I think it is easy for us to listen to the voices of loneliness and turn increasingly from the challenge of encountering the real, transformative love of God, or the challenging love of the other people in our lives. Isolation is safety. But it is also a slow, slow death.
After reading Lila I was challenged to confront my inner narratives. It’s the small things. It’s choosing to live in the acceptance of my husband, accepting his loving ease with my foibles when my heart fears rejection. It’s choosing to reach out to friends I haven’t seen for awhile, to choose connection rather that isolation when I feel forgotten or lonely. It’s choosing over and over to recognise and talk down that voice in my head that makes me suspicious of friendship or expectant of rejection or even just tells me to switch on the screens and lull the loneliness. It’s choosing, daily, to read my battered old Bible one more time and try to believe the grace I am offered, the hope I have, the love in which I stand.
I’m getting there. I hope you are too. May the voice of love break into whatever narrative you and as with Lila, ‘may grace fall over’ every bit of your heart.
The summer I was eleven, I discovered the Anne books for myself. I’m pretty sure my Mom had read me Anne of Green Gables aloud before, and I’m pretty sure I liked it. But when the sunny hours stretched long (and in Texas far too hot for outdoor play) one July day, I reached for the second book in the series. Suddenly, the Anne books became a world that blossomed in my imagination, a place and a people almost as real to me as those of my house and family. Anne called her pond a ‘lake of shining water’, she made ‘kindred spirits’, she wove the ordinary of house and farm and kitchen into a drama of discovery so that each person around her appeared like a figure in a fairy tale, each house a living story, each day a gift set in her hands by a grace beyond her ken. I dwelt in her vision and began to see my own world afresh.
My engagement with ordinary life was different after my sojourn with Anne in P.E.I. The rich mystery that Anne made of the everyday livened me to a new and heightened awareness of my own world as gift. The descriptions of landscape and person that I discovered in the Anne books instigated my own forays into writing as I attempted to see and begin to describe my own life in her charmed and sacred terms. The Anne books offered me that ‘enlargement of being’ that C.S. Lewis describes as one of the great gifts of story in his pithy little volume An Experiment in Criticism.
As he so fervently states, ‘in reading great literature, I become a thousand men and yet remain myself. Like the night sky in the Greek poem, I see with a myriad eyes, but it is still I who see. Here, as in worship, in love, in moral action, and in knowing, I transcend myself; and am never more myself than when I do.’
These are exactly the qualities at back of the novels I’m gathering to recommend in my new book. I’m hard at glorious work on Book Girl, gathering quotes and making impossibly long lists of my favourite books. In honour of the (supposedly) lazy days of summer and as a fit start to this project I’ve used these first weeks to revisit the novels that allowed me that ‘enlargement of being’ so rejoiced in by Lewis. I’m reading back through a few Anne books, I’ve revisited the lonely, revealing inner narrative of Lila: A Novel by Marilynne Robinson, savouring its slow, slow growth in grace. I’ve traveled back through The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer, and remembered the way that reading connects us to each other and this sweet and weary old earth. There’s no way I can make it through this summer and the writing of this book without a bit of Goudge’s sacramental enchantment in The Little White Horse. And since I am regularly teased about being a Wendell Berry apologist, I think I’d better revisit Remembering: A Novel (Port William) too, as its one of the books that helped me to understand my old-souled self and my place in this strange, modern world. (And my goodness, his Selected Poems have ministered to me of late.)
But now, I need to adventure a bit. Obviously, I have dozens of beloved novels on the lists already. But I want to adventure a bit before I set them in stone. Below, I have a list of novels, a few essays, and a bit of poetry, none of which I’ve yet read. These are the books I’ve heard about, been told I should read, or just had covers I couldn’t resist. I know there are countless thousands of titles I could read or recommend, but I’m looking for the books whose stories enlarge my vision, not randomly, but with greater insight into the workings of love, the ways of grief, the real wrestle with frailty, or the forward march of hope. Books, in other words, that teach me what it means to be human, and what it looks like to reach for the wholeness of love in its thousand different ways.
I would love to know the books that you would list as the sort that help you to live and live a bit more to the full. I’d love your thoughts on any of the books below. And I’d love to know what you’re reading yourself. If there’s one thing I want Book Girl to be, it’s a fellowship of readers, so consider yourself invited. And let the reading continue.
I’m off to snatch a few more minutes with Lila…
A Thousand Mornings: Poems
My Bright Abyss: Meditation of a Modern Believer
When I Was a Child I Read Books: Essays
A Jane Austen Education: How Six Novels Taught Me About Love, Friendship, and the Things That Really Matter
The Storied Life of A. J. Fikry: A Novel
84, Charing Cross Road
The Book of Ebenezer Le Page (New York Review Books Classics)
Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand: A Novel
The Summer Before the War: A Novel
The Light Between Oceans
The Power of Silence: Against the Dictatorship of Noise
The Benedict Option: A Strategy for Christians in a Post-Christian Nation
The afternoon light is the colour of rain as I write. It drifts in over my hands, fills my eyes, makes them quiet. I can feel the morning’s whir of thought and word easing to a halt. I’ve tried to cram an hour more of work in after lunch but my brain is slow, my eyes crave stillness, my heart yearns to put away the screen and take these dove-coloured moments simply to watch the changing sky over the church tower, to speak with a friend, or savour (not devour) the lyrical writing of the novel I began the day before.
So I do.
I really do. It’s a bit of a triumph for me. Mere weeks before, I would have forced myself forward, driven my brain to distracted attention, egged myself on to more work with intermittent glances at facebook or email or whatever I could find to briefly pep my weary mind. At the time, with exams ahead and papers to finish, the urgency seemed needed. It seemed right to push myself to the edge of my capacity. And I recognise that sometimes a person has to stretch to the limit, a glorious expenditure of self in a worthy and all encompassing cause. I’m glad I did.
The problem is how to get back to normal. To live, again, within the sustainable rhythms of work, rest, relationship, creativity. The problem is that I have trained my mind to frenzy and now that I am back in ‘normal’ time, my brain is still both weary and restless. Unused to calm, unready for work. The easy thing would be to meet that odd combination with the multifold distractions on offer via the screens that sit so easily to hand. The problem with that is the fact that such distraction could easily become the new norm. Sometimes I wonder if it is. With the pace of life the way it is these days, and the iPhone nearby and the schedule full, I often wonder if frenzy is the default setting for modern existence.
But frenzy does not a writer, nor a soul at peace, make. It’s good to be writing again, to be in a season where creativity is demanded of me in the crafting of this next book because it reminds me that I cannot just command inspiration. If I have given my mind nothing but clickbait and hastily screened articles with no real rest or hush, then all I can expect is the static noise of that craziness. To write, to say what I think is truest about myself and words and the stories that form us, I have to create the tilled space in which I can both listen to the Holy Spirit and in which creativity, idea, inspiration can grow, little seedlings of wisdom that will die in too strong a wind of hurry.
I’m learning to write afresh, and I’m learning to live afresh, and one of the first ways I’m learning to do that is to have set times when I do not write. Rather, I rest. Rather, I read, or bake, or sleep, or walk in the world whose summer fields are a feast of beauty. I meet the weariness of brain and body with assent; I recognise my limits. Ah, this is not my strength. I dislike limits. I dislike the weakness of my own body. But to rest, to yield to weariness is the pattern and grace I’m having to relearn in these early days of my writing summer. What’s interesting is what it teaches me about what it means to live in general. I cannot expect to live in that joy that is possible in the small gifts of the present if my attention is absent. I cannot ask for closeness to God and peace of heart if I have paid no attention and made no space for the presence of the Beloved.
I’m in a period of recollection. I like this word. I’ve been reading Evelyn Underhill again these days, nourished by her gentle guidance toward that centre room of quiet in the heart and the prayer that grows from it. To the saints and Christian mystics, the term recollection meant the constant and needed return from the world of action to that inner place of prayer. It means, quite literally, to remember, to take the time to recall the love of God in its present generosity, and so to dwell again in its grace. I like the term because it evidences the fact that life drives us from the inner place. Often, in my idealism, I have considered this my failure. Surely if I were really serious enough about loving God, I’d never feel anxious, never get caught up in distraction, never waste my time on useless things, never feel anxious or afraid.
Recollection though, teaches me that the ebb and flow, the battle, the work, the busyness, the fear, are part of the story I live in loving God. Here, in the broken place, the good work of the everyday is always a fight, and peace must always be claimed, again. And again, and again. I just have to keep returning. Part of that means pushing aside the lesser rest of distraction for the real grace of quiet. That’s the rhythm I’m learning afresh, the will and grace to return, to pull myself out of the frenzy and choose times of hush. To put aside good, tough work in order to look, wonder, love. It’s the discipline without which I’ll never write anything worth reading, and it’s the rhythm by which I keep myself rooted in the love of God, the daily, given grace for each moment.
And as the marvelous Anne Morrow Lindbergh said, who also knew the power of recollection, life always “rushes back into the void, richer, more vivid, fuller than before”.
May such a richness be yours today.
(Next post: summer reading list! Get your own favourites ready, I’ll want to know what’s on yours as well…)
Friends. I made it! Papers submitted, exams survived, my Oxford undergrad (I can’t believe I’m saying this) just about finished.
My goodness. For about a month there I think I just about ate, slept, breathed, and dreamed theology. Trinitarian intricacies, atonement models, high christologies, the meanings of ‘power’ in Romans, the significance of ‘signs’ in John. At the end of it, I donned my ‘subfusc’ (the academic dress required for exams), pinned in my carnation (white for the first exam, pink for middles, red for final), and tromped down with all the other windblown undergrads for three hour examinations in grand old exam rooms on Oxford’s High Street. It’s the kind of thing you can barely imagine before you do it; three hours to write three full essays from memory when you’re not even sure what the questions will be? But then adrenaline kicks in, and you do it. The triumph when you emerge into the sunlight sounds like trumpets and the swish of white-winged wild birds. You stumble out of the exam schools and feel you might as well just march down to the registrar and sign up for a Ph.D. (Hah!). After my last exam, I rode this high for about three days.
Then I crashed. But it was just in time for a bit of adventuring. Some open road for the renewal of soul and mind. Guess where I’ve been a-wandering? St. Andrews first of all, for some rollicking fun with my darling sister (yes, we did need both the french fries and the onion rings – it was an evening farm market and we were famished):
Look at the mellow, sea-tinted glory of this place. I walked and walked, trod those old stones and got a bit of their peace in the soles of my feet.
Then to London, with my girls, to see Joy’s first official play premiered at the London Encounter. It was a fascinating 20-minute monologue centred on the character of police inspector Javert, from Les Miserables, exploring his grapple with both law and grace. Let me just say, I have a radiantly creative and dramatically astute sister. (Pretty proud over here.)
Then, to Devon with my beloved. And oh friends, the dappled, green-hilled beauty, the narrow roads, the high hedges, the changing sky. The light, like diamonds and water and laughter coming through ancient trees growing out of even older stone walls, trees you feel will turn around and talk if you stay an extra moment.
And flowers. Fields and gardens and hedges resplendent with their glory.
And oh friends, fresh eggs and roses from the farm where we stayed. I think my English hostess was probably a little overwhelmed by my repeated gratitude. But those roses. I’ve never smelled any as sweet. And the cottage. I sat in that long, mellow-lighted old kitchen with the rain light stirring through the ivied windows and just watched. My eyes craved stillness after months of intensity. My soul craved gentle, crafted words. My hands craved my pen, and the slow, explorative space of my journal.
And now, I am back in Oxford. And I’m writing afresh, but not an academic essay this time. Friends, I’ve plunged into the journey of my next book, of this new world of words that will be my tribute to the books, the words, the stories that formed me. A book that will, I hope, be a gift to those who read it, an invitation into the splendors of the reading life in all its comfort, its wonder, its hope. I’ll be writing more here again and my heart swells with the joy of free, creative time and the freedom to write afresh in this dear old space. A new season pounds on the heels of the old…let the next adventure begin.
If you’ve stuck around this long, bless you. I’ll write again soon.