Aunt Ella

Our hearts grow tender with childhood memories and love
of kindred, and we are better throughout the year for having,
in spirit, become a child again at Christmas-time.
—Laura Ingalls Wilder

I’ve been thinking about my Great-Aunt Ella this week. Ella Viola Erickson Yeates Thompson. A really long name for a five-foot-nothing, petite woman. Aunt Ella is my grandma’s only sister, and she was like a second grandma to me and my cousins.

I believe my thinking started with a trip to the temple, where I did the work for a sister named Ella. And it’s Christmas. Aunt Ella always gave the best Christmas presents.

Well that’s not quite right. Truth be told, I can’t remember a single specific gift, but she was an expert at exciting packaging. Hers were always the best gifts to shake and handle, full of odd shapes, unique textures and interesting sounds. My siblings and I would bring Aunt Ella’s presents home after the family Christmas party and put them under the tree, but they wouldn’t stay there for long; it was too much fun to try to figure out what was inside. And her packaging was always designed to thwart our investigation—with a random jingle bell or something similar tucked inside—so the actual contents were always a surprise on Christmas morning!

I always felt a special connection to Aunt Ella (though I'm willing to bet I wasn’t the only one of my cousins who did). In a family full of farmers and engineers, accountants and amateur astronomers, she was the one adult in my extended family who seemed as excited about literature as I was. She often asked me about what I was reading in school, and when I was studying Coleridge’s The Rime of the Ancient Mariner in high school, she spoke excitedly with me about how she loved that poem.

I also remember her high heels, her tiny feet, her tailored jackets and one particularly soft velvet skirt. To my young eyes, she always looked so put together and even elegant. I wonder if she'd laugh to hear me say that!

I was not quite grown up when she died, and as I think about her, I’m sad that I didn’t get to know her well in my adult life. She never had children, though she did mother many children who were not her own. She was married, and widowed, and married again, and widowed again. I would love to know how these experiences impacted her, and what they taught her. I would love to have shared more literature with her as I continued to study English at BYU and USU. And it would have been great fun to learn her Christmas packaging secrets now that I have young nieces and a nephew to gift-wrap for.

Though, as much as I wish that I had the chance to know her better as an adult, I know I will see her again and will get that chance at some point. And I won’t be a bit surprised to learn that our association began well before either of us was born, and so I already know her very well, after all. 

Aunt Ella's headstone in Heber City, Utah

Little Tree

Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty.
—Edgar Allan Poe

I wanted to share another favorite Christmas poem -- and one that's a sight more cheery than Eliot's Journey of the Magi. My friend (and fellow English nerd) Brooke introduced me to it a Christmas or two ago, and since I happened to adore e.e. cummings already, it became a fast favorite. So here it is, in all its lowercase and puncuation-less beauty!

___________________________________________

[little tree]

e.e.cummings

little tree

little silent Christmas tree

you are so little

you are more like a flower

who found you in the green forest

and were you very sorry to come away?

see          i will comfort you

because you smell so sweetly

i will kiss your cool bark

and hug you safe and tight

just as your mother would,

only don't be afraid

look          the spangles

that sleep all the year in a dark box

dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,

the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,

put up your little arms

and i'll give them all to you to hold

every finger shall have its ring

and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy

then when you're quite dressed

you'll stand in the window for everyone to see

and how they'll stare!

oh but you'll be very proud

and my little sister and i will take hands

and looking up at our beautiful tree

we'll dance and sing

"Noel Noel" 

The One Where I Pick on The Sound of Music

I go to the hills when my heart is lonely;
I know I will hear what I've heard before.
My heart will be blessed with the sound of music
And I'll sing once more.
—The Sound of Music

I watched The Sound of Music this weekend for the first time in a very long time. It was great to watch it in a theater with a group of very funny friends. I truly enjoyed myself, and it’s a fine movie. I just have to make that clear because I’m about to pick on a movie that I know people adore. But I had some thoughts during the movie that, for some reason, I just have to share—all in fun, of course. Just  chalk it up to the English-major analyzer in me.

First of all, who knew it was so feminism-UNfreindly? I know, I know—it’s a product of its time (and in part of its genre). But really, Rogers and Hammerstein? Really??

For instance, when Maria tells Liesl how it will be when she falls in love and marries, the lyric is (I kid you not), “Lo and behold you’re someone’s wife, and you belong to him.”  Belong to? Really? Sigh. Honestly, there was an all-but-audible sigh in the theater, too. I promise. I heard it.

And while we’re on the subject, how is it that Maria can counsel Liesl about young heartache? Supposedly she’s wanted to be a nun her whole life; when she was young, she would climb a tree to look into the abbey and long to be there. She tells the Reverend Mother that she left the Von Trapps, in part, because she felt something for Captain Von Trapp that she’d never felt before. Maria’s story seems to be this—grow up, try the nunnery, fall in love with the first man you meet, marry into an instant family, and then act like an expert on all things romantic. I don’t buy it, Maria.

And Rolfe. Oh, Rolfe. I understand the gazebo scene is a lot of teenage flirting and grandstanding. But I’m left to wonder, Rolfe, how it is you feel you are “older and wiser,” one who can “take care” of Liesl as she navigates the "world of men"? What do you know of it, Rolfe? Have you been offering food and wine to other young women? Just what DO you do when you’re not delivering telegrams?

And finally, this thought: How do you solve a problem like Maria? Apparently you marry her off to the local widower, threaten the family with Nazis and convince them to flee over the border. Problem solved.

Ok, that last one might have been a bit harsh.

Again, apologies to all you Sound of Music lovers. And it fact, there really is a lot to like here. I love the reprise of "How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria" at the wedding. Remembering the girl who ran though the abbey makes the image of the woman she’s become even more striking. And the parallels between the Reverend Mother, who cares for and protects the sisters in her care, and Maria, who is now called “mother” by the children she loves, are a nice touch. Plus, the lyrics to the title song are just beautiful.

Please no hate mail (though if you must, I understand). I do like the movie. There were just a few things that simply had to be said. And now I’m done.

Journey of the Magi

Mild he lays his glory by,

Born that man no more may die;

Born to raise the sons of earth,

Born to give them second birth.
—Charles Wesley

If you know me and my penchant for depressing turn-of-the-century(ish) literature, it should come as no surprise that Journey of the Magi is one of my favorite Christmas poems. First, it's T.S. Eliot—and who doesn't love T.S. Eliot, right? And second, it's just wonderfully written. I love the sound of it, the tone, and the ambiguity at the end—not to mention the exquisite details, the marvelous rhythm and alliteration, and the fabulous line breaks. Brilliant, Mr. Eliot. Just brilliant.

Here it is (and you can listen to Eliot read it here):
__________________________________________

Journey of the Magi

 T.S. Eliot

'A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.'
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.
__________________________________________

Just lovely, no? We could talk about the symbols, or the state of these Kings (glimpsing the birth of a new kingdom and then having to return to their former places where they are "no longer at ease"), or the ways in which the poem's imagery mirrors Christ's life and mission.

But aside from all that literary stuff, THIS is why I love this poem at Christmas: "Were we led all that way for Birth or Death?" What an amazing line! The birth is significant, for sure, but it's significant as the beginning of a life and a mission and yes, a death, that would be so very important.

As we celebrate the birth of the Savior, I am ever grateful for his death, and all that accompanied that event. For his atonement and for his resurrection. For the reality that because he was willing to descend below all things, I can rise above my trials and imperfections and sins; because he took on the pains and sorrows of the world, he understands mine; because of his sacrifice, my own offering—however paltry in comparison—is acceptable. I'm am beyond humbled to know that because of him, I am saved.

And that is what is beautiful about celebrating the miraculous birth of a baby in Bethlehem so long ago.

Next to Normal

Love is not blind; that is the last thing that it is. Love is bound;
and the more that it is bound the less it is blind.

—G. K. Chesterton

I saw Next to Normal last weekend. It’s truly not your typical musical, and while I wouldn’t recommend it for everyone, I found it touching and thought provoking. As I reflect on it, I’m struck by the realness of it. The characters are flawed, the situations are complicated, and everyone is simply doing the best they can, often with less than ideal results. While I think I’d have to listen to the soundtrack at least 10 more times to really feel like I have a handle on the whole thing, I did want to share one reaction I had to the play.

First, you need a bit of background. The story involves a family who appear at first to be a perfectly normal suburban family – football practice, school lunches, piano recitals – but you soon learn the mother is dealing with some serious mental illness, which has been exacerbated by the death of her young son. And her illness is taking a toll on the family. While the mother is wrapped up in her grief, the daughter does everything she can think of to been seen and the father tries to make everything “ok” again.

I found myself intrigued by the father of the family. He is helpful and supportive of his wife as she goes through various treatments. And while he makes it clear he doesn’t completely understand her illness, he is not unkind or remotely resentful.

Through the beginning of the second half, I kept thinking of this quote from G. K. Chesterton: “Love is not blind ...; love is bound.” Love is committed, even when the loved one is flawed (because, really, aren’t we all?) This husband is certainly bound to his wife. He knows her faults, and deals (rather well, I thought) with the stress they cause. At one point, she asks him why he stays. And he responds, basically, that he loves her, or that he loved her, and wants to find that girl he loves again. And also, and this is key, a boy makes a promise. He sings:

A promise a boy says forever
A boy says whatever may come, we’ll come through ...
And the man has forgotten his reasons

But the man still remembers his vow ...
Knowing one day we'd remember that joy

You'd remember that girl
I'd remember that boy till we do
The promise I made, I'll make it brand new.
A promise that I made to you.

You see. He made a promise. He is bound. And I had to admire him for understanding and acting on that fact. While their life is far from ideal, they seem to get that part right.

But here’s the thing. Toward the end of the show, she leaves him. And it made absolutely no sense to me. I couldn’t understand it – until she sang this:

With you always beside me
To catch me when I fall
I'd never get to know the feel
Of solid ground at all
With you always believing
That we can still come through
It makes me feel the fool
To know that it's not true

And you know, she’s right. The support he has given her, and even the way he's given it, may not have really been what she needed. It was what he could give, but it was not right.

And yet, he was not wrong.

I’ll admit that I’m a bit invested in believing he’s not wrong because I really do see myself in him. But in the end, for both of them, there is no blame, no “if you had only,” no anger. Just a simple fact. They both have done their best in a very difficult situation – done all they can do – and it isn’t enough. They’re both right, and they’re both wrong. And this ambiguity is what makes this play resonate for me. The world so often not at all black and white, not "I'm right and you're wrong." Instead we all do our best to love and to help and to make things better, doing what we believe is best at the time, even in situations where there is no definitive solution.

Pay Attention!

You don't write because you want to say something.
You write because you have something to say.

—F. Scott Fitzgerald

Someone (and that someone’s name is F. Scott Fitzgerald) once said, “You don’t write because you want to say something. You write because you have something to say.”

Maybe you’ve noticed, but my once-a-month blogging has turned into twice a year. But in all honesty, I haven’t had something to say. Which seems odd – there’s almost always something to say. I’m pretty sure I just haven’t been paying attention.

So, this is my new goal: Find something to say.

Wish me luck!

Ring Out Wild Bells

Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand;

Ring out the darkness of the land,

Ring in the Christ that is to be.

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson

"Ring Out Wild Bells." Can I just say, I hate that hymn. With the fiery passion of a thousand suns. Ok, maybe not that much. Quite. But it's just never seemed to fit in church for me. I love Tennyson. I love the poem the words come from. I even don't mind the minor key. In theory.

But somehow, when you combine the minor key with the line "the year is dying in the night, ring out wild bells and let him die" -- well, somehow the whole package just doesn't scream "worship service" to me. And so the song has bothered me for years.

Today, though, we sang it. And it wasn't as horrible as I remembered. It's not ever going to be on my top 10 favorite hymns list, or even my top 50, but it was ok. Really. And here's why: the final note of the final verse. Just one change, F to F#, resolves the minor key and ends the song on a much more pleasant major cord. (I beg forgiveness from my musically educated friends if my terminology here is off.) The point is, just one little change is all it took to completely alter the tone of the piece. Such a small change, only a half step difference between the "before" and "after" cords. But that half step, small as it is, is huge.

And what better New Year's message is there than that? Just one little change, just one small improvement, just one tiny resolution (when kept) really can make ALL the difference in the world. And that is a very, very hopeful thought.