It's a time of personal renaissance as I immerse myself in the Middle Ages using several resources:

I finished Cantor's book last week and picked up Autumn last night.  It is my habit to become familiar with a new book: by reading the contents and introduction, looking at the layout, glancing at the 40+ plates of artwork, reading random paragraphs, and scanning the notes and index.  Huizinga wrote about life, thought and art in the fourteenth and fifteenth century France and Netherlands. 

Kathleen Norris writes about laundry and liturgy in The Quotidian Mysteries.  This was my first exposure to her writing. Finding the sacred in the everyday, discovering communion in the common, is a life-long pursuit of mine.   Intrigued by Norris,  I went on to read The Cloister Walk. 

Norris wrote this book during a residence at St. John's Abbey, a Benedictine monastery. Since the book follows the liturgical year,  I read the short chapters slowly, correlating my reading to the liturgical calendar.  I found The Cloister Walk a welcome companion to my medieval studies.  After reading the Rule of St. Benedict, it was fitting to read how the living by the Rule fleshes out today.  Norris references many of the works I have studied; she quotes many of the lights of the early and medieval church.

Restricting your reading and studies to people with whom you agree often leads to tedium.  On one level it is warm and comfortable, but you end up feeling cramped and stoved up because your mental muscles aren't being stretched.  I appreciate reading authors outside of my worldview, outside my theology, outside of my chronology, and outside of my culture.  Interacting with different frameworks provokes me to think; it challenges me and keeps me alert.   

In the past I have described Norris as very L'English.  By that, I mean that reading Kathleen Norris is very similar to reading Madeleine L'Engle.  They are both articulate poets.  There is a considerable bit I disagree with when I read both authors.  However, after I have skipped over or disregarded that which I would describe as stubble, I discover chunks of gold.  Here are some nuggets I've been examining:

I'm home from a special Women's Weekend that our church had.  Women are so about relationships.  It's such a good time to be with other women, to bounce ideas off each other, to stay up late talking, to tell funny stories about our foibles, to pray together, to sing, to sigh, to squeeze hands, to listen, to nod our heads. 

Before I go to bed tonight, I will transfer notes and quotes into my common book (aka a journal).  My husband, bless his open ears, has already listened to a good half-hour of processing and piecing together of thoughts. 

It's a tradition to pause at the end of a meal and listen while one of the woman in our group shares her story.  This year's tellers had dramatic tales.  Here is part of one:

Amazing grace!

My son struggles with algebra.  Eventually he gets it, but it takes time to work through the mistakes. 

When I was a student, math was an easy chew and swallow which tasted delicious.  The music-math connection helped, but I just adored the order and tidiness of equal signs.  So now, when my student has muffed a problem, I have the capacity to whiz through it on the board and get to the answer in double quick time.  This does not impress him. It presses him down. 

The frustration level got so high a year ago February that I decided to change from 1 lesson of algebra/day to 1 hour/day. By eliminating the "rush" factor, we could concentrate on comprehension.  It was a good temporary tactic which I, by default, gave permanent status.  We are back to a lesson/day with a goal of mastery and completion by the end of June. 

As rudimentary as that is, I have missed the mark.  Self-centered thoughts intrude: "Oh, I can do this; why can't he?"   I want to eradicate the little girl with her hand waving in the air, Miss Smarty Pants, wanting recognition and validation.  Grow up.  It's not about me.

What does it take to be a good teacher?  It takes patient observation, careful analysis, and well-devised corrective measures; it requires focus on the the student's progress and improvement.  A good pitching coach doesn't  have to  throw 90 mph fastballs: he must be a good diagnostician.  My son and I are working together to improve his work.  As his scores and speed improve, confidence will propel attitude. He has read this post and permitted me to discuss it publicly.  Thanks, dude!

Finally, here are two things I learned about teaching math in 1994, my first year of home schooling.

When I decided to learn more about the Arthurian legends I had a choice between Thomas Malory's lengthy Le Morte D'Arthur or Rosemary Sutcliff's trilogy written for children.  Mark Twain is quoted as saying that "the reading of any two chapters of Le Morte D'Arthur would put even the Knights of the Round Table to sleep."

Heh, heh.  It's no agony to choose, for apart from time limitations, I believe that Sutcliff is one of the most gifted writers of children's books.  She has been steeped in the old literature (yes, even Malory); she comes as close as a modern author can to replicating the cadences and word pictures of the great medieval poets.  Her turns of phrases (he drew a breath of quiet), the kennings (compound expression used in place of a noun, i.e. hunger-water for saliva), the pulsing verbs (horses went bucketing along the road) and in particular the vivid similes are quite extraordinary. 

So much separates us from medieval thought; many stories are thus inaccessible.  Some are plain cheesy. There, I said it. Others ate around the edges of my heart, to quote my friend Di.  My favorite is Gawain and the Loathely Lady.  It  touches the tender psyche of women, most of whom are insecure about their appearance.

In short, King Arthur gets in a bind; an ugly, deformed, misshapen hag (Lady Ragnell) saves Arthur in exchange for one wish.  She asks for one of his Knights of the Round Table to marry her.  He's devastated to have to honor his word.  All the married knights praise God they don't qualify to serve their king this time.  Gawain takes one for the team, really for his king, and offers to marry her.  He is kind-hearted and determined to make the best of it.  On their wedding night he steels himself to be a true husband in the biblical way, ahem, and when he arrives at the bed, lo! she is changed into the babe of all babes.  

Lady Ragnell tells him that his kindness broke half of the spell and now he must choose whether to have the babe at night and the hag at day, or vice versa.  He bounces between the options and then asks her which she would prefer.  In asking her preference, he breaks the entire spell, because he allowed her to choose.  The next day the court is astounded at the beautiful woman who is his wife.

It's a sensitive story, well-told, but it leaves lingering questions.  The puzzle Arthur could not solve without the hag's help was this: What is it that all women desire?  The correct answer is: Their own way.  Gawain profited from giving Lady Ragnell her own way.  Does Genesis 3 come to mind when you read this?  While the story doesn't indicate that this will be the pattern of their marriage, the thought of a marriage where I always got my own way is terrifying.   Hmmmm.

New neighbors moved in next door to my in-laws.  This is the kind of family that is often featured in newspaper insert magazines.  Two ordinary people open their home and their family to foster and adopt several kids from difficult backgrounds.   This  family has a van-load of children with varying abilities and disabilities.

My in-laws are the loveliest people, a rare combination of tidy + tidy.  Their life is neat, clean, ordered, structured, and predictable.  Enter the new neighbors. 

Grandma (what we call my MIL) was in the backyard working when  a four-year old  towhead  came to the fence. 

For an hour the little blonde boy was occupied looking for rocks to deposit through the chain-link fence. Eventually he approached for more chat.

That night his folks were tucking him into bed and saying prayers, when little Danny revolted. 

Mystified, they asked couldn't imagine who he was talking about.  A little probing brought illumination.  Their neighbor had said she'd be his grandma.  They explained that she wouldn't be able to come over and tuck him in every night, but that was nice, wasn't it, that she said she'd be his grandma.

The next day one of the older boys  was running around and spotted Grandma.  He waved and shouted, "Hi, Grandma!"  Danny was furious.  "That's.   My.  Grandma!"