Brochan's Song

Deep night of cold among white stars, white like

All silent maiden’s face in silent, cold,

Slim thread of moon. Yet blue are flowers here,

In eyes I once thought, too, were silent. Bold

Am I to reach for her, but to such buds

Of flowers small I am an ancient tree

Full strong in green. This arrow mine is red

Though she is made of white and star and Fey

Things older than the moon.  She turns her eyes.

A stag as white as she comes near. It speaks

No word for trees are made in quiet.  God

Made tree and maiden, man and flower. Thus

The tree grows strong in reaching for his God,

And God well plants the flowers at his feet.

Little Humans

The title is a hail to my friend Jonny, who has a tendency to meet his friends with the words, "Greetings, humans!"

I recently began a new job as a preschool teacher, which I love.  After my second day I felt way too sore for someone who is only twenty-one, and on my fourth the combination of a heat wave and children too bouncy to keep indoors left me dizzy as a spinning top along with a low-grade fever and bad headache.  However, after a couple ibuprofen and a few frankly miraculous cups of tea yesterday morning, I felt better than I had most of the week.  Which was awesome because, as I said, I love this job.

Children are so very honest and usually easy to get a feel for.  They will keep surprising me because people are surprising, and that's actually what this post is about: children are little humans.  We all know this, and none of what I write here is any news to anyone.

But there is a little boy I worried over, because when other children slip on the play structure or start to fuss he laughs a harsh, untruthful laugh, and says he's trying to stop but that isn't true because he is forcing a fake laugh from himself.  It was nap time and he couldn't sleep, and he sucked his thumb while I rubbed his back.  I told him he could pick our story time book and he picked the one we've already read twice.  While I sat on the floor I watched all the children sleeping, and I thought about how each one will form into some person, and while they are all so small they don't know any of that. In elementary school they will start to know things, but right now they are so young and their lives have just started.  They have so very much to learn and to suffer, and I say that in full knowledge of my own young age.  They still have to see their parents struggle and struggle with their parents, and hide inside themselves and burst into trouble so someone will see them, and cry for loving those who love them not and cry because they are loved, and because they are loved but something isn't right. Or maybe it is right, and God is good.

Later that same little boy pushed another to hurry him down the blow-up water slide.  The smaller boy wasn't hurt, but was scared and could have gotten hurt.  The first boy didn't laugh this time.  He looked terrified, and said he just wanted to hurry him down the slide, not to hurt him.  I told him all was well, but that is why he had to be careful about other people.  He said okay, and apologized, and asked me to hold him around his towel because the water made him cold.  I am not so worried about him, now.

Introduction

Introduction

If each man were, in his time, cast to the ground in the whitest of lights with the question “why are you persecuting me?” rolling in his ears, then all humanity would understand what it is to be awoken into life. Each person who does experience such an awakening, though it be far less grand in telling, understands this story of Saint Paul, and each who has not, though he believes himself to understand, is unable. When the saint dropped the name of Saul and became Paul, he demonstrated the absolute change brought about by his awakening. He was not a changed man, but rather a new man.

The Rev. George MacDonald’s stories, be they for little children or grown people, center around the awakening of a soul. His characters, besides those who begin awake, undergo a change, or a transformation, so that they end their stories not only as better selves, but also as true selves. This transformation goes beyond belief in God to true belief in God, meaning, belief in the true sense of the word: one cannot be convinced so or otherwise. One simply knows. The awoken character lives with the conviction “that good is always coming, though few have at all times the simplicity and the courage to believe it.” The awakenings of Mr. MacDonald’s characters show that “when a man throws wide his door to the Father of his spirit, when his individual being is thus supplemented--to use a poor miserable word--with the individuality that originated it, then is the man a whole, healthy, complete existence.” The awakening of the soul, the call to life of an inwardly dead individual, as a central theme of MacDonald’s writing, is the topic of this study.

Although MacDonald wrote many works, this study will primarily refer to only five stories, but these five stories represent all genres of MacDonald’s fiction: Victorian novels, children’s novels, fairy tales, and fantastic novels. Needless to say, there is great crossover between these genres. The stories referenced in this study are, respectively, Thomas Wingfold, Curate, the Curdie books (meaning, The Princess and the Goblin and The Princess and Curdie), The History of Photogen and Nycteris, and Phantastes. Though plot is an integral part of any literary analysis, this study largely focuses on character and dynamicity of character as the defining quality of MacDonald’s writing, as it is only in a character that a soul can be awoken. Referenced and quoted alongside these stories are the three volumes of MacDonald’s Unspoken Sermons, which could be called the inseparable reason to the rhyme of his stories.

Four chapters follow this introduction. The first chapter details what exactly, for MacDonald, constitutes an awakening. This chapter works through definitions of an awakening as detailed by other scholars, followed by my own definition of an awakening. Although, in this and all following chapters, I draw from several of MacDonald’s works, Thomas Wingfold, Curate will primarily serve in this chapter both for clarification and textual support of my definition. The second chapter organizes the awakenings of several characters into unique theoretical categories, each category exemplified by the experience of a character. Granted, these categories are indeed theoretical, as is apparent in the final character discussed. This chapter considers the necessity of various events and emotions for the redemption of each character, debunking theories of authorial favoritism. The characters in this chapter are drawn from the Curdie books and The History of Photogen and Nycteris. The third chapter explores the importance of journey to the awakening of MacDonald’s characters. Pieces of MacDonald’s work, especially his adult fantasy novels, are sometimes criticized as chaotic in plot and lacking in direction. However, in this chapter it is shown that MacDonald’s characters, while their physical locations or directions are often of little consequence, travel roads of absolute importance. The particular journey followed in this chapter is that of Anodos in Phantastes, the reading of which, many may remember, C. S. Lewis described as “cross[ing] a great frontier.” The final chapter, which heavily relies on the Unspoken Sermons, explores MacDonald’s concept of dying into life, and how his stories serve to open eyes to the absolute beauty of the words, “I will arise and go to my Father.” The sermons are integral to understanding the theme of awakening in MacDonald’s fiction, and they offer a robust theological framework for the types of awakening explored in the prior chapters.

Preface

Preface

Sulking was not something I often did as a child, but that day I sulked, lying on my bunk in the little room my brother and I shared, pushing the mattress above me up and down with my feet. I rolled over and looked at the bookshelf, where I noticed the green and gold spine of a book I had never yet read. One of my mother’s students gave it to me, as it had been her favorite book as a child. After admiring the beautiful cover illustration, I started in on the story. Not until I finished the book, The Princess and Curdie, did I put it down.

The next day I scoured our family bookshelf for anything by George MacDonald, coming across The Golden Key and reading it before the day was out. At age fourteen I named my puppy Curdie, and, though drawing never came to me easily, scribbled little mattocks and imaginings of the creature Lina in all my school notebooks. I also began writing stories, something I had not done since preschool. Soon a family friend gave me A George MacDonald Treasury, where I first read The Giant’s Heart, The Light Princess, and Lilith. During my first week at Junior College, I searched the school library for any of MacDonald’s writing which I had not read, coming across The History of Photogen and Nycteris. The list of stories goes on, and when it came time for me to write something, that something simply had to be about the stories of George MacDonald.

Honestly, I cannot take credit for the topic of this study. Only through writing it have I discovered how much of a fiction writer, as opposed to a nonfiction writer, I truly am. For hours I ambled about with thoughts in my head, trying and failing to put into words what it is about MacDonald’s stories which affected me so very much like a walk through a beautiful landscape, where one cannot help but know that there is a God and He is good. Eventually I gave up with my own grasp of language and called the friend to whom this study is dedicated. After hearing my dilemma he said, “All of MacDonald’s stories are about an awakening, where a character says, ‘I will arise and go to my Father.’”

  So here I sit at my desk, with a painting of Lina in the rosefire, a gift from another friend, on the wall behind me, and George MacDonald’s writings stacked high beside a cup of tea.  Of his stories, MacDonald wrote, “So long as I think my dog can bark, I will not sit up to bark for him.”  I fear that Mr. MacDonald would be rather annoyed with me for attempting to clarify how exactly his dog barks.  If any of my readers have not read MacDonald’s stories, I entreat them to do so at once.  Of any bit of this little study which leads to fuller understanding or enjoyment of MacDonald’s stories, or gives a knowing smile to like-minded readers, I am glad.

Speech

Yes, this is still cheating, but I have been writing a story, and will type a bit of it within the next few days. Until then, here is the speech I gave at my graduation. I hope you enjoy it.

If you all had seen me this morning, jogging back to my apartment with no shoes, hair unbrushed, and my freshly printed valedictory speech in my hand, you would have gotten a pretty clear picture of my life at Saint Katherine.  My mind is swirling with stories as I stand up here, and what I want to do at this moment is tell you about the time Ariel and I stayed up talking so late that she wondered if we were ethically required to paint our nails, and when Hannah logically concluded that we had to eat all the ice cream, and when Ben said something uncouth just to put my brother at ease during his first visit, and when Josiah and I spent the entire day watching Marvel films, broken only by a run for onion rings and milkshakes.  But, even if you enjoyed the stories, you would not fully understand them.  What I want to give you is the joy of them, and although these are my joys, you all have your own.  What I want to tell you about today, then, is how God has answered my prayer for joy.  During my time at school, through the influence some truly wonderful classes, excellent Professors, and dear friends, I have come to know, if only in a small way, what George MacDonald knew when he said that “One day, we shall laugh ourselves to scorn that we looked for so little from [God]; for [His] giving will not be limited by our hoping."

 At the beginning of this semester I found myself lacking in hope, and therefore incapable of joy.  This is a lack I have not often suffered from, simply because my life thus far has been a muddle of miracles.  God has been so very good to me that, in consequence I have sometimes thought myself in possession of too much hope.  Joy and hope are inextricably linked, and if we can count childishness as an expression of joy, then there are several people here today who can attest to some joy in me.  My own baby brother, who is now seventeen and much taller than I am, has concluded that I am eternally six years old.

At the moment, I have three icons of saints:  Saint Andrew the Apostle, which is actually the back of my home parish’s business card, Saint Jude the Apostle, also called Thaddeus, and Saint Sarah, the wife of Abraham.  When, a couple months ago, I finally stopped thinking that I could force myself to feel joyful again, I began to ask God to give me joy.  While praying, I thought about who exactly Saint Jude and Saint Sarah are, and I asked them for help, as well.

My story with Saint Jude begins before I knew him.  My mother, during a troubled time, learned his prayer upon seeing it in a newspaper.  I knew little of him until last year, when my friend introduced me to a book and show following the adventures of a priest and curate in a Parish dedicated to the saint.  Saint Jude is the Patron of lost causes and hopeless situations, so the little Saint Jude pin my friend gave me (which I have right here) was given as much as a teasing insult as a friendly token.  You can imagine, surely, the wonderful jokes regarding the fact that I have, twice, nearly lost the pin -- even Saint Jude has given up on me.  As I prayed, I could hardly presume myself to be in a hopeless situation.  My only real situation was feeling hopeless, but still, I asked Saint Jude to give me hope.

I am sure I do not speak only for myself when I profess a feeling of apprenticeship in regard to my namesake, who for me, of course, is Saint Sarah, the wife of Abraham.  As a young child I liked my name, though the story of my middle name (involving a film star and a wager) is far more fun to tell.  However, as I grew older, I discovered three reasons to dislike it.  Firstly, the name Sara means “Princess,” and though my parents always told me that it meant “God’s Princess,” every fictional character I encountered who shared my name was spoilt and petulant.  Secondly, I took issue with my namesake, Saint Sarah.  Her treatment of Hagar appalled me, and I felt the guilt of it.  Lastly, and this didn’t start until I grew older, others pointed out how Saint Sarah laughed at God.  What kind of person laughs at God?  On her behalf, I was humiliated.

As a Chrismation gift from my parents, I received a medal of Saint Sarah (which I have right here), and learned that she is the Patron Saint of laughter.  All at once I saw my saint in a true way.  Over two years at this school I made friends who, to their possible chagrin, know how much I love them, and now I am convinced that there is nothing more beautiful than the laughter of someone close to your heart.  Laughter is but the embodiment of joy, and my saint is the saint of laughter.

I wish I could explain to you how fully God answered my prayer.  I thought joy was a gift I had been given from childhood, and it is, but when I asked God for joy, He gave me a glimpse of Paradise.  I know that I cannot tell you much about it, not only because I am little more than a child, but because it is a joy which overwhelms, though God is so great, I know I have had only the tiniest taste of it.

One of my favorite of all the classes I have taken at Saint Katherine is Professor Gilbert’s “Person and Society,” which I was lucky enough to take with both Arianna and Lauren.  The  specific picture I have of them in class is as a part of the day we made Professor Gilbert question reality.  Ben and Quinn were making puns, Arianna was heartily laughing at them, Josiah and I burst into song, and Lauren just looked at us all incredulously.  Professor Gilbert sat down before us all and asked, “Where am I?”  Amidst all the antics, we studied a number of excellent books, one of which was C.S. Lewis’s Till We Have Faces.  Believe it or not, it is not a requirement to quote Lewis in a valedictory address at Saint Katherine College.  It just happens.  Anyway, the words I want to share with you are from Psyche.  She says,  “It was when I was happiest that I longed most...The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing...to find the place where all the beauty came from.”

At Saint Katherine College, we increase our joy by learning about where the beauty came from, and striving together to come closer to that place.  Thank you all so much for coming, and thank you for giving the three of us the chance to travel so much further.  I wish you all hot tea, beautiful fairy tales, and all the joy God has waiting for you.  Thank you.

My Small Friend has Put me to Shame

My dear friend, Ariel, has been blogging beautiful things all year.  I could say that she has time to write while I have not, since she graduated last year, but the fact of her teaching job flattens that argument.  Suffice it to say that I am thoroughly ashamed of myself, and mean to be a better blogger in the future.

My friend's blog can be found here, and I highly recommend it.  Her last post features a sonnet she wrote for me (which I strive to be worthy of), and so here I will post the sonnet I wrote for her (which she surpasses) last year.  Cheating, yes, but it is still new to the blog, if not to me!

Ariel

My friend is small but Lion is her name.

Bright Lion Child; a queen of feyish height,

Come light with cheer for souls lost at mountain’s

Foot: gives them joy for joy and sword for fight.

My friend is sweet but keeps a sword sound-safe

In her pocket.  If parchment were the soil,

Then all the world whole would her small sword make,

And fairies dance where today goblins spoil.

My friend is quiet, but she laughs so to

Ignite the sky with sunset--drown the dry,

Loveless desert with blesséd water. Through
Sad eve’ning her glad voice good still supplies.
Run to my friend if a kind ear you seek,
Or, more still, hush and hear the Lion speak.


I wrote another sonnet last year, at the same time Ariel wrote this wonderful poem, and since I have just left my college without the promise of return in the fall, it feels as apt now as it did at the time of writing.

To the Year

In verse their faces venture I to catch;

With oil and water struggles brush to note

Their voices vibrant.  Stills, though, cannot match

The real.  Solely to thought one must not devote.

Now snap the photograph, write quick the quote:

Be still, be still for memory may not

This moment keep still.  Future none makes hote

His voice, her eyes, your laugh permanent wrought;

No yarn to fastly stitch, nor ink to blot.

While days and eve’nings rapidly move on:

Those songs, these dances, mem’ries which cannot

Again be made.  How glad we are that dawn

These days brings promised joy: wine, bread,

And love and comforts known if never said.