Life's Genre

"All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:

They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts."

--As You Like It

We had an interesting discussion in Shakespeare today, and I wanted to explore it in more detail here. In class, we were discussing the differences in genre that differentiate comedies, tragedies, and romances from each other. Dr. Callis said the most fascinating thing, which I scribbled as fast I could in my notebook. I didn't get it all, but I did get the gist. He said, and I quote, "Some people believe that life is fundamentally a tragedy. You are living your own mistakes and seeing the mistakes of those around you crash down on your heads. There is no neat wind-up at the end. Romances, though, are quite different. They have all of the elements and repercussions of sin, but in the end there is a chance for grace. A romance incorporates comedy and tragedy and wraps it all up into a happy ending. Characters may be taxed to their limits, but they are eventually shown a measure of grace."

Of course, I thought, how typical this is of real life! I don't believe that life is a tragedy. There is too much beauty in the world, and too large a potential for grace. Certainly, there are times when everything seems dark and I get just as despairing and melodramatic as everyone else...but then I am reminded of my fundamental rule. What is this rule? "In everything there is a chance for beauty." There is beauty in growth, in change, and even in despair. Without an intimate knowledge of the night, how could we ever appreciate the dawn? 

Don't get me wrong -- I don't think that everything always wraps itself up neatly in the end like a Brady Bunch episode. That would be a comedy, and while I enjoy them, life is rarely ever going to end in a fortuitous reprieve of the lovable antagonist and a multitude of weddings. Sin is in the world, and sin means that sometimes things are going to be messy and ugly. But it is grace that offers a way out of the Celtic knot we knot ourselves into so many times! 

Another thing that sets aside romances is the essential theme of supernatural intervention. Whether it was the appearance of a ghost or the use of a magic spell, somehow something outside of the realm of normalcy intercedes on a character's behalf and turns the tide. In our lives, what greater supernatural intervention can there be than the presence of a knowing and loving God in our lives? God put the ultimate beauty into the world when He showed us the Man on the cross, and it is when we appreciate this gracious beauty and try to emulate it that our lives can become a romance -- a romance in which we are taxed to the limits of our endurance, yes, but are still able to come to the end with hope of finding resolution. I couldn't live without hope of the happy ending; very few people can. It is one reason why fairy tales are so attractive, in my opinion. Actually, I think that fairy tales could definitely fit into the romance genre. Think about your favorite fairy tale (mine is Cinderella -- I know, huge surprise there). The characters in the story have been placed in a terrible situation in which they have little hope of prevailing...but through the supernatural intervention of an outside character or by the sternness of their own characters they eventually make it to the glorious sentence "...and they lived happily ever after." 

See the parallels? I surely do.

Please, friends, I beg you, don't assume that life is a tragedy that must be endured with the grimmest kind of determination. (See how well that worked out for Hamlet and Macbeth!) Instead, face trouble with hope, and reach for the grace that we have all be offered. Find the beauty in everything, and make your life into a romance.

Non Sequitur

It has been confirmed: I have pathetically small hands/fingers. I've always suspected this to be true, but now that it has been verified by a professional, at least my soul can rest.

Okay, so I'm being melodramatic. Which is kinda fun, so deal with it. I went to the jewelers today to get some of my rings sized. Since I've lost so much weight, none of my rings fit anymore and that's enormously sad. My life lacks lustre without my rings... *fake laugh* The jeweler said that the rings were already small to begin with...oh, well. They may be small little sausages, but they can sure play Fur Elise! They're like the little fingers that could or something. You have these small fingers and try to play Moonlight Sonata. Go on, I dare you. 

Who knew that shoe boxes could contain so much? It's that time of year again for Operation Christmas Child, my favorite mission opportunity. I'll put the link to it on the bottom of this post--they're really a magnificent organization. While I'm priding myself about fitting a toothbrush, toothpaste, mini slinky, brush, flashlight, candy canes, pencils and paper, soap, puzzle, and other assorted items into one cardboard box, OCC will add something far greater to my box when it reaches their packing plant: hope. Into every shoebox is placed a storybook about Jesus that has been translated into whatever language the child speaks. Someday I think I'd like to be on the other end of OCC. I can't say that missions is my first love (I've always believed that my ministry is my writing) but I would like to go with OCC and deliver the boxes at some point. It is something that I feel quite strongly about.

I wish people could have mutual respect for one another....but it's enormously funny when they get put in their place. Sam was shooting off his mouth again in Effie's World. We'd been having a vote on whether to have our day off this week or next week. I would have preferred this week, but one of the softball girls leaned over and told me that if the day off was next week, people could go home for Thanksgiving. So I voted for next week. Anyway, after Effie had asked about fourteen times for people to raise their hands for specific issues, Sam hollers out, "Raise your hand if you voted for Obama!" The softball girl that had talked to me earlier looked over at Sam with upraised eyebrows and said, very coolly, "You are so stupid."

I about had a coronary from sheer laughter. Which, come to think of it, isn't that bad a way to go.

I finished my emerald chenille scarf. It's very beautiful, and I'm quite desolate now that it's done. It was something to look forward to in the evenings. So I'll probably start making another one...after all, Christmas is coming! You can never have too many spare gifts.

I re-read one of my very favorite books this week. It's titled Daddy-Long-Legs and is by Jean Webster, the niece of Mark Twain. It tells of an orphan who is being sent to college by an unknown benefactor, whose only request is that the orphan write him letters once a month telling about the happenings of her daily life. The book is absolutely hysterical, and I've never come across anything that is so much like my own style. The heroine, Judy, so easily balances the satirical with the introspective. I was amazed upon this reading of the novel to find so many genuinely wise passages. I'll probably be quoting them to you for some time, so be prepared for that eventuality! For example, here is one of Judy's more sarcastic entries, speaking about her roommate, Julia: "Her mother was a Rutherford. The family came over in the ark, and were connected by marriage to Henry VIII. On her father's side they date back further than Adam. On the topmost branches of her family tree there's a superior breed of monkeys, with very fine silky hair and extra long tails."

However, Judy also wrote the following, which I found both true and memorable. "It's the big troubles in life that require character. Anybody can rise to a crisis and face a crushing tragedy with with courage, but to meet the petty hazards of the day with a laugh--I really think that requires spirit. It's the kind of character that I am going to develop. I am going to pretend that all life is just a game which I must play as skillfully and fairly as I can. If I lose, I am going to shrug my shoulders and laugh--also if I win."

I suppose I had better close this rather rambling epistle now. Goodnight, all. I hope that you are well, no matter where in the world you are when you view this. Be glad for your overlarge fingers and laugh whether you win or lose!

http://www.samaritanspurse.org/index.php/OCC/

For the Want of Orange Juice...

"For the want of a nail

The shoe is lost

For the want of a shoe

The horse is lost

For the want of a horse

The rider is lost

For the want of a rider

The battle is lost

For the want of a battle

The kingdom is lost

And all for the loss

Of a horse shoe nail."

The above is an apropos precursor to what happened to me today. I'd had a perfectly marvelous day, actually. My financial aid reimbursement check was FINALLY in (three weeks late....), I'd gotten my Shakespeare paper turned in on time (the concept of "the jewel" in Measure for Measure), had pizza with Shelby (spur of the moment, it's-cold-and-wet kind of decision), done three loads of laundry (it's amazing how much four people can manage to get dirty in one day), and taught four piano lessons in a row (Mary Banks is really tearing up the keys on The Pink Panther. For a nine-year-old, she's extraordinarily talented). 

After I'd waved good-bye to my final student, I decided that life would not be worth living for the next few days without orange juice. I love teaching piano lessons, but those kids get me sick more often than I care to think about. Within the last month alone, I've traced both my horrendous stomach virus and now this hideous cold back to the little angels. I'm about ready to sent home a note to their mothers. Anyway, I could see the way in which this cold would choose to go, and without orange juice ready and waiting in my arsenal, the prospect of my survival was grim.

So I got into my car after having made sure that it would be light outside for the next hour or so. My depth perception at night, frankly, is crummy. I can't wait to ask God someday why He chose to make a future author, someone who will be looking at computer screens for a good percentage of her lifespan, have eyes that are barely functional. I kid you not, ladies and gentleman. I once blew a tire when I jumped a curb because I thought it was farther away than it was in actuality. It should be of no surprise to you, then, that I carefully plan my errands to coincide with the hours of daylight. It also doesn't help that I'm hideously afraid of the dark. But we won't go down that road right now. 

After I got into my car, I noticed that my gas gauge was below a quarter of a tank. I don't like to get too low, just in case I get stuck in a traffic jam on the interstate, so I went to the gas station first and filled 'er up. I need not go into great detail on my ecstasies of joy that were brought on as I was filling my car with only seventeen dollars, rather than the hitherto necessary amount of thirty-five. It was very, very nice to see. After that, I found myself stopping at Hobby Lobby to see if they had a skein of wool to match the emerald chenille that I'm using to make myself a scarf. It was at this point that I decided that people with colds really have no right to make unexpected detours--I hadn't been smart enough to pack any Kleenex in my purse, and my nose was in dire need of a good honk.

When I left Hobby Lobby, the skies had opened. I like rain, except when I have to drive in it. And, of course, I had no umbrella on my person. So I pretended to mind having to run through the rain to my car. It was then rather interesting having to carefully orchestrate putting my bags away without getting my front seat wet. This was accomplished by flinging my car keys into the driver's seat while tossing the bags pell mell into the back. Of course I then climbed into the driver's seat and couldn't find my keys... Realization soon dawned, however, and I extracted my keys from under my tush and drove on to Kroger.

Let me say, folks, that people who are at Kroger after five o'clock in the rain are BRUTAL. Finding a parking space was like unto Daffy Duck and Marvin the Martian both trying to claim Planet X in the names of their respective planets. (Look below for a video with more information on same incident...if I did it correctly, of course. I have no idea how to do it in the suave, click-the-blue-letters way.)

I finally got into the store and did my shopping (two kinds of juice!!!). It was kind of amusing when I got carded for buying Nyquil....the little manager rushed over to look at my driver's license and I, being the insufferable smart aleck that I am, said in a thoroughly stuffed-up nose way, "Dude, I'm buying Nyquil, not making drugs. I hab a culd. Obviously." He just grinned--there must not be much in the way of amusement when one is checking out the many suspicious Nyquil buyers in the self-checkout lane of a grocery store.

As my next feat, I managed to slush my way back to my car. I got in without huge incident, and even made it out of the parking lot without any near misses. I was absurdly proud of myself. 

Pride goeth before a fall. 

I was sitting in the left hand lane of a three lane road, minding my own business, when I noticed a gargantuan, look-at-my-gun-rack kind of truck in the parking lot directly to the right of me. It obviously wanted to get into the left hand turn lane, but I was in the way. Note my deplorable lack of sympathy for him. Anyway, he decided he was gonna be a good 'ole boy and give it the old-fashioned try. I just sat there, helpless, while he tried to get around me, HIT ME in the back, and ran up the curb. I'm sitting there in shock going, "Uh, hello! Sitting right here! Headlights are on, music pounding and everything!" Unfazed, the giant green truck just reversed AND HIT ME AGAIN! It roared into the turn lane and scrammed before I could even honk my horn or get its license plate number. 

Need I add that he did this RIGHT in front of the police station? 

I was irked. Royally irked. I call him a thoroughly un-Christian name, of which I remain to be unrepentant. I got home just fine, and although seeing was rather difficult, I couldn't find any major damage. I don't even think he busted a light...but still! What a jerk! I'm a poor little college student out buying supplies for my cold, and some guy thinks he's going to go monster truck rally on my piddlin' little car's back bumper! Is there no justice in the world?

And need I add, as yet another addition, that as I was bringing in the juice that had started it all, the plastic bags ripped and dumped their loads onto the wet concrete?

For want of some orange juice was my beloved car desecrated...

What Are They Teaching These Kids Nowadays?

I thought the "wise fool" stage wasn't until sophomore year...I guess I was wrong. I love how little patience I have with freshmen these days--it makes me pray fervently that I was never that idiotic. I know that freshman year is scary and bewildering and all that. Trust me, I've been there, had the meltdowns, and learned from them. But hopefully I was never so outright disrespectful!

On Monday I was sitting in the library, minding my own business until it was time to go to class. I believe I was trying to work on that darn problematic chapter of my story that positively REFUSES to listen to me and cooperate. Anyway, the library here at Crichton is pretty small, so you can hear everybody's conversations (that gets pretty interesting sometimes). On the table over from me, I could hear one freshman trying to help another with his English paper. Now, the helpee was a freshman that I had already helped on Friday with this very same paper, so I wondered a little at why he sounded so desperate...not to mention the fact that a fellow freshman tutor was probably not the ideal situation. Of course, the helpee is in the library A LOT for tutoring. He's one of those types that needs a good deal of handholding. If he had his way, the tutors would probably write his papers for him. Thankfully, by this point in our academic careers most of us have seen it all, so we can dodge such desires fairly handily. Still, I had my reputation to uphold, and, regrettably, I care about people. So I leaned over casually and asked if they needed any help. 

The helper looked up and smiled and said, holding up the paper as evidence, "His paper is due at eleven today, and this is all he has." I looked at the sheet with handwriting on it and said suspiciously to the helpee, "Isn't that the bit I helped you write on Friday?" He looked pained and replied, "Yes. I tried, I really tried, but I just couldn't get it." I resisted the urge to bang my head on the table (I had helped him write his entire introductory paragraph, thesis statement and all! How difficult is it to write your paper after that? You have your three points, you know what you're talking about, good luck, go! GAH!) and then returned to my business. If the helpee freshman thought that the helper freshman could be of greatest assistance, more power to them. 

However, it was impossible not to hear this impromptu tutoring session, and I got irritated as I heard the helper freshman repeatedly refer to Dr. Jenkins as "Mr. Jenkins." Let me remark here that Dr. Jenkins is one of my favorite professors at this miserable school, and I respect him highly. 

The first time the freshman did this, therefore, I spoke up and said, "Dr. Jenkins" as a mild correction. I was ignored. Fine, whatever, my self-esteem isn't so low that I need to be acknowledged. Still, a few minutes later, I heard "Mr. Jenkins" again. Now I get irritated. "Dr. Jenkins," I corrected again. "He's your professor, and he deserves your respect."

 The freshman replied, "Well, I don't really believe in calling anybody who isn't a medical doctor 'Dr.' It just seems wrong."

Oh, thank you, Masterful Freshman Sage of the Universe! How did we ever live until you came down from heaven in order to show us the true nature of humanity and manners? I just, I just don't know how I made it through these past twenty years without you!

I bristled and said cuttingly, "It takes longer to earn your doctorate of literature than it does to become a medical doctor. (I left out residency for the purpose of reprisal--he probably had no idea how long it really took to become a medical doctor anyway. I merely exploited his ignorance. That's what happens when you're ignorant. Hee, hee.) Besides," I continued, "he is your professor and he has been placed in a position of authority over you." What I didn't add, but probably should have, was, "Quite frankly, I don't give a care what you believe--things like that go out the window in the real world. There are rules and manners, and you would do well to abide by them."

He started waffling on and on illogical nonsense about what he believed. Fah. I had to escape into Jamie's office (my boss) in order to keep from exploding. He took one look at me and asked if I needed a sanity break--I have the best boss in the world.

I don't have a problem with freshmen that genuinely don't know what they're doing. Heaven knows I certainly didn't get the whole college thing until my sophomore year. (That's when I learned that, yeah, actually reading your books is quite helpful...never said I was brilliant.) It's the ones that are insufferable know-it-alls that really burn my butt. 

If you're a freshman, here's my advice: Keep your mouth shut, your eyes open, and abide by your syllabus. Those three things will do more to endear you to your professors and prevent moronic mistakes than anything else possibly can. May the Force be with you--you're gonna need it. 

Of Tennis Shoes and Adulthood

Yesterday I had a bit of a meltdown. There were numerous reasons, most of which have been building up this entire semester. The election, Effie, a couple stalkers (Alyce, don't laugh!), and facing decisions about the future have kind of unnerved me. Don't get me wrong, I'm actually grateful for these things--they've forced me to grow and change as an individual, and have taught me to look to my Bible for answers instead of to myself (yeah, there's a surefire way to eat the world's dirt). I've read more of my Bible this semester than I have for the last, oh, two years? Which is sad, really, but that's not the point. The point is that yesterday gradually degenerated until I was finally just crying for mostly irrational reasons. 

One of the things that set me off was fear of the future. I know the basics of what I want to be when I grow up, but I have no friggin' clue of how to get there. I trust that God will provide, but I'm terrified of the ways in which He might provide. He may provide for me by calling me away from everything that feels safe and comfortable to me. That kind of plan a nervous Katie makes.

Anyway, I was talking to my mom (seek wise counsel! She's amazing.) and she had some really good points to make. But as we were talking, an old memory came back to me, something I haven't thought about in a long time, even though it's still vivid in my mind. 

In my memory, I'm standing on the long, narrow back porch of my grandparents' house at the lake. After my parents' divorce, we went out to the lake almost every weekend, just trying to escape the stress and the reality of our new lives. It was our sanctuary. 

I think I was maybe twelve or thirteen at the time, and I was in a marching band where I played the clarinet. I remember that our band directors had informed us all that we would need to have some special shoes to march in so that we would all look uniform, and that these shoes would cost fifteen dollars each. Not such a big sum, right? It was pretty big to a thirteen year old who has having to watch her mother work three jobs and juggle the budget endlessly just to keep us all afloat. 

I couldn't bear to ask Mom to pay for the shoes for me, not when she was already so worried. Fifteen dollars would have bought us groceries, or gas for the car, etc etc. So I took the money out of what little I had saved, and bought the shoes for myself. I didn't want to tell Mom about it, but the resentment of having to buy my own shoes when nobody else in the band had to was eating at me, and I finally talked to my grandfather, PawPaw, about it. 

PawPaw is a man in a million. He never said very much, but what he did say was always to the point and relevant. He hadn't had much education, but the man was absolutely brilliant. I've since learned that he studied Russian and advanced math during the one year he was in college. He was just a good, country man who took care of his responsibilities no matter what the costs and would happily kick anybody who messed with his family to the moon. Needless to say, he was not that thrilled with my father at the time. PawPaw had since been diagnosed with Alzheimer's, and is living (if you can call it that) at a nursing home.

After I'd told PawPaw all about the ignominy of having to buy my own shoes and how nobody else had to buy their own shoes, I summed up by saying something to the affect of, "It's not fair that nobody else has to work as hard as we do. They don't even appreciate what they have, and here we are just struggling to make it. I wish things could be easier. I wish I could be like everybody else and not have to worry about money. I'm only thirteen!"

PawPaw was silent for a moment after he let me vent my spleen. Then he looked at me and said, "Katie, I'm sorry that things are the way they are. I wish you didn't have to do things like this, either. But honey, someday when you're grown up, you're gonna know how to take care of yourself. All those other kids aren't. You'll know how to save money and how to appreciate what you have while the other kids just spend a lot of money and get into debt. You're just skipping some steps--you're growing up. It's hard, but it's necessary."

I think the same advice applies now. Growing up is hard, but then, nobody gets out of life alive anyway. To a certain degree, you just have to suck it up and punch through as best you can. Sure, I'm terrified of having to make the decisions of where to go to graduate school and what to do with my life. But I do know how to take care of myself, and I do appreciate what I have. Sometimes you just have to bite the bullet and buy the tennis shoes, and sometimes you just have to make the decision, even if it's an uncomfortable one. Whining about the unfairness of life just gets you rolled eyes and bitterness.

I really, really miss my PawPaw. I wonder what he'd think of me now?

SHAKESPEAREAN VISITATION!!!!

HOLY CRAP! 

According to my handy-dandy map down at the bottom of this page, somebody from Stratford-upon-avon was on MY blog! MINE! AHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!! *dies* That is just way, way, way cool. First was the bard...then a sarcastic southern chick, connected across time and space. Way past cool!

I just realized that I sound like a fangirl. At least I'm a fangirl for an incredible author, not for something like High School Musical. Which I must admit I'm seeing tomorrow.

But that's not the point.

It's kinda sad how much this had jazzed me.....

Sam Rides Again

As I suspected would happen, Obama won the race. I shall therefore spend the next four years burying myself in the following distractions:

1.) Finishing college and hopefully graduating magna (or summa...whichever one is the highest. I never can remember. I'm pathetic, I know. I can't even remember what weather watch and weather warning mean...I get them confused. Sigh.)

2.) Graduate school (Where to go?)

3.) The multitude of weddings that are going to be happening. I'm going to be maid-of-honor in two of them, and bridesmaid in a few more, so I'm gonna need to eat my Wheaties.

4.) The trip to England and Ireland Mom and I are planning. I'm so excited I just about can't stand myself. AHHHH! *dances a jig*

Anyway, that's the way of the world. I accept it. There's a reason for everything, even this. I can face the following years with dignity and trust...that is, until some lamebrain tries to rub my nose in the election like I'm some disobedient puppy.

Anyway, Sam (of six-times-the-charm-in-jail fame) starting putting Obama's name to hymns this morning, as well as requesting a moment of silence in honor of the big O, and being generally annoying and obnoxious. I bore it in comparative silence, but I had to put my head down on the table when he said loudly, "Obama's president! Now he can pay my child support!"

Oh, yeah. This guy's a model parent, all right. Not to mention a doofus. I need a thesaurus to describe how much of a blockhead this blockhead is. A SOCIALIST blockhead, too. That's a very dangerous combination.

What has been amusing about all this mess is that my mom has suddenly found a number of websites that sell private islands. Seriously. She's leaning toward the Canadian area, obviously. After all, it's not the tropics, which means no snake, sharks, or Joran van de Sloots to worry about. She was seriously cracking me up--I think she was honestly considering it! 

When I pointed out that it would be a little difficult for me to go to graduate school on an island, she started spouting off stuff about satellites. I looked at the descriptions of the islands, and I said, "Whales, Mom? Do you want to be Moby Dick now?" She said, "Whales are beautiful!" I replied, "Yeah, and we can always get oil." Never mind the fact that my favorite childhood song was "Baby Beluga" and if I were to see a dead whale, I'd probably cry like a three year old who can't understand why she isn't allowed to go on the jungle gym. 

My mom's crazy, but I love her.

Oh, and I just thought I would add that I find it highly amusing that my spellcheck on here doesn't recognize "Obama." Hee, hee.