The Discarded Image by C.S. Lewis has been on my shelf for several years. 

Last summer while I was talking to my beloved Latin teacher, I mentioned reading Stuart Isacoff’s Temperament.  I had found it fascinating how both the ancient and medieval thinker linked all of life together.  Thus the numbers and distances of the planets were thought to be the link between the distances and ratios of musical intervals.  Even though their facts weren’t always correct they were certainly significant.  They looked at the details of life as symbols for some other reality. 

“Carol,” my teacher said. “Have you read The Discarded Image?  That’s precisely what that book is about!”  The Image in the title refers to the Model of the Universe, “the medieval synthesis itself, the whole organisation of their theology, science, and history into a single, complex, harmonious mental Model of the Universe.” (p.11) We cannot read medieval works with modern or post-modern minds and really know what they meant without understanding how they thought.

The first chapter was glorious and exciting. But, I’ll be honest: it was a hard book to read.  The difficulty lay in my own ignorance.  There were so many unfamiliar references and background chapters to wade through.  So I went to the last chapter, The Influence of the Model, and read that.  Next, I dipped into sections which looked interesting and then began again.  What helped me persevere were the lovely little pearls that were scattered across the pages.

To medieval folk looking into a night sky was not looking at darkness but through darkness.  They believed that space was not dark, nor silent. 

This just made me smile:

This book is worth the effort required in reading it.  After reading this book I guarantee that you will read Lewis’s children’s literature differently. 

Here is a diamond of a quote which you need to copy into your journal or commonplace book. 

On Mother’s Day we told the kids stories from our first year of marriage. We lived in a self-contained apartment on the bottom floor of a brand new house in the country.  Our landlord (the guy upstairs) Doug was a jovial, gregarious, nice guy who loved to talk.  My husband Curt is genial, but he’s a man who puts his head down and works with a will.  Thus, while Doug was drinking coffee and talking about his plans for the day, Curt got the grass mowed.  Doug loved to analyze the differences between himself and Curt:

Ya gotta love the guy. As easy as it is for me to laugh at Doug, I do the exact same thing myself.  For years I’ve held a dichotomy between readers and cleaners.  I noticed that my girlfriends who loved to read and swapped books were (like me) on the slobbish side.  And the women I admired who cleaned the lintels on a weekly basis, women who wouldn’t dream of leaving the house with a dirty spoon in the sink, didn’t tend to gush over the latest book they’ve read because Good Housekeeping was the extent of their reading repertoire.  

The person who sports bona fide credentials in both camps neatly exposes this false dichotomy.  My dear friend Lisa’s middle name is organization and she has more bookshelves and books than some public libraries.  Lerrina is organized, energetic, and cleans like a whirlwind so she could sit down and read for two hours.  Elisabeth Elliot writes of order, cleanliness and discipline in the home, but her quotes and literary references are evidence of an active reading life.  Even Laura Bush loves to Clorox shelves in her free time and yet she is a librarian who cannot not read.  

Reading that paragraph made me think: well, the key must be to have an L in your name.  Yeah right, CaroL!

As always, my husband is my saving grace.  He loves order and he lives order. There’s no sense gnashing my teeth that I don’t have a native love of dust-mopping, doing crunches and drinking nonfat milk.  I wish I did.  How many days have I been lost in a
book, hear my husband’s footsteps on the threshold, look up and see the
house with his eyes?  My young son saw me scrubbing some porcelain one day and he innocently asked, “Who’s coming over?”  I have oodles of books on this subject and have tried various methods.  All have been successful to some extent; the question is always how permanent is that success? 

The sermon yesterday was a reminder to take the opportunities presented to us each day to nurture our relationships; it was a call for open communication and regular maintenance checks.  It was a bit off-topic, but my mind flew to a time when I was ten and God shut my lips.  The shutting of my mouth was a profound and incredible gift. Here’s what happened:

One afternoon in March of 1968, Missy (let’s call her that) and I had climbed a crabapple tree in her backyard and were exercising our imaginations and indulging in the sweet secret-telling that bonds silly, young girls.  Far sooner than we expected, Missy’s mom called to us to come; it was time for me to go home.  We were both disappointed, but Missy was verbally obstinate: “No!  We’re not finished!”  In a quiet, passive tone, Missy’s mom repeated her request.  Missy became more belligerent, more mouthy.  The tug-of-war was a jarring new experience for me.  Walking to the car, I was shocked to my core when Missy screamed  “I hate you!”  to her mom.  To this day I can see her pigtails, her wrinkled eyebrows, her curled lips, her passion in profile as she yelled.  Subconsciously, I must have noted that there was no immediate consequence for her talk.

For whatever reason, I kept this incident a secret and didn’t discuss it with any member of my family.  But I relived it; I pondered; I simmered; I wondered; most of all I tried to make sense of it.  Eventually I began to flirt with the idea of talking back to my mom.  I was no Elsie Dinsmore, but there were clear  ideas in our family, properly  taught and administered, on what were fitting words and fitting tones in which to speak to one’s parent. My mom brooked no disrespect from any of her children. 

At first I just played with the words in my mind.  In the same way that women can lust after imaginary men, I toyed  with a theoretical situation where I said those words.  I wasn’t angry; I was just curious. But, there were certainly times when I wanted my own way and the thought of getting it was appealing.

I rolled and swished those words around my mouth like an experienced wine-taster. But the process itself was unpleasant and stomach-achey.  It was just too weird.  I had sense enough to realize that those words were completely dissonant with my relationship with my mom.   After a week or so I made a conscious decision not to go there, breathed a sigh of relief, and carried on with my childhood.

Within a month, my mom died unexpectedly.  Shortly afterwards it hit me clean in the face what I had been spared.  This drama still resided strictly inside my head, but I knew – oh! I knew! – how gracious God was to shut my mouth.  For days on end I prayed before I slept, repeatedly thanking God that I had never spoken those words to the one person I loved more than any other. 

Our dear friends took a trip to Montana, taking in Yellowstone.  Btolly has a most unique travelogue entry full of wonder, enthusiasm, beautiful vistas, love of geology and connection to place.  Waaaaaay back in the mid-90′s our families did “Friday School” together.  I taught grammar and Bonnie taught science.  I’ll never forget my son’s excitement the first day, “Finally — a good science teacher!”

If you are looking for a gorgeous vacation destination, consider Elk Lake Resort.  The Lady of the Lake (her blog name) writes about her life among the wildlife in remote western Montana.  Think Confessions of a Pioneer Woman blended with Earth Is Crammed With Heaven.

~   As the academic dignitaries entered the room, my first thought was, “It’s positively medieval!”  I’ve been reading in Huizinga about color symbolism, so it was a lovely moment of recognition to see the academic regalia.  For all our culture’s embracing of non-conformity, we still savor ceremony. 

~   Graduations are great displays of belonging.  There was a sweetness in watching both the crowd and the graduates as they searched the arena for their people.  I can’t remember the name of the famous statue of a man pointing ahead, but I saw many replications of that statue on Saturday. In a room filled with thousands of people, it was wonderful to find my daughter-in-law and to make eye contact with her.

~   Cameras have made entertainers clowns of us all.  Roughly 900 graduates had five seconds each of coverage on the large screens before they received the empty red holder promising a degree in the mail in six weeks.  A large percentage could not resist making a face, blowing a kiss(es), hand gestures or mouthing words. 

~   Can’t resist this tidbit: summa cum laude.  It’s not official because she has three credits to complete.

~   Cute story: my friend Debbie, who is also Taryn’s mom, had Taryn’s cell phone.  Debbie needed to call Carson’s cell but couldn’t find his name anywhere on Taryn’s phone.  Finally she located it under Mr. Incredible!

~   Quote of the weekend from my Carson:  “You can tell you’ve been successful if Mom is crying.”