Something the darkness can't take

I never thought I would like murder mystery TV shows, but I've discovered I do.

After enjoying seven seasons of Grantchester, about a vicar who helps the local police inspector solve murders in a village near Cambridge, England, I've recently been watching Endeavour. Set in Oxford, England in the 1960s, it's an excellent series that focuses on Endeavour Morse, a moody young detective working with his mentor, Inspector Thursday, to solve complex murder cases. 

(Hmmm... two shows about university towns with lots of murders... considering I live in a university town, should I worry? Or should I just get busy solving crimes?)

In an early episode, Morse is rattled by a psychopathic murderer whom they have just captured. Before he is taken away, the killer makes pointed comments about Morse's painful past and how the two of them are alike: brilliant but lonely.

As they stand on the roof of a college building after catching the killer, Morse asks Inspector Thursday how he does it -- how he can leave his work at the front door when he goes home to his family at the end of the day.

 image from Endeavour, "Fugue"

"'Cause I have to," replies Thursday grimly. "A case like this'll tear the heart right out of a man."

Then he says, "Find something worth defending."

Morse says, "I thought I had found something." (He doesn't elaborate.)

"Music?" Thursday asks, referring to Morse's love of opera and classical music. "I guess music is as good as anything. Go home, put your best record on -- loud as it'll play -- and with every note, you remember: that's something that the darkness couldn't take from you."

 image from Endeavour, "Fugue"

I've thought about these lines a lot since watching this episode. They remind me a bit of Sam in the movie depiction of J.R.R. Tolkien's The Two Towers, urging Frodo to hold onto the fact "that there's some good in this world... and it's worth fighting for."

I noted that Thursday doesn't say, "Find a cause or a project and put all your effort into it." There are definitely times when we need to throw ourselves behind a worthy cause. But not everyone is in a position to pursue a big project, become an influencer, blaze new trails, fight big battles. I think the deeper point is that anything beautiful and meaningful, anything you love (even something that's been misused, as the killer in the Endeavour episode had misused music by basing his crimes on scenes from various operas), can be a force that resists darkness, that can't be destroyed by the evil in this world.

I was going to continue this post with a list of things that might fit this description. Music. Poetry. Birds. Sunsets. Sunrises. But to be honest, it sounded a bit feeble. And anyway, Thursday says "music is as good as anything" -- as if it doesn't even matter that much what the thing is. So there doesn't seem to be any point in making a list.

Then today I read this paragraph in poet Maggie Smith's fantastic new memoir, You Could Make This Place Beautiful:

What now? I am out with lanterns, looking for myself.* But here's the thing about carrying light with you. No matter where you go, and no matter what you find -- or don't find -- you change the darkness just by entering it. You clear a path through it.

And it hit me: yes, we need to find something worth defending, something the darkness can't take away ... but we also are something the darkness can't take away. Just by being truthfully, genuinely ourselves we make a difference. Who we are can be an act of resistance to the forces that seek to destroy and divide. We can fight the darkness by being the carriers of light that we already are, and by letting our light reveal everything -- and everyone -- that is good and beautiful.

I find that well worth pondering. And I love it when the things I'm watching and reading, whether murder mystery or memoir, come together to tell me something.

*"I am out with lanterns, looking for myself": line from Emily Dickinson

What I've been doing - Summer 2018 edition

It's already August ... summer is half over! So far our summer has been a good one. Today I thought I'd write a post about some of the things I've been doing, in the following categories: Family, Writing, Reading, Watching, and Singing. 


(I'm also linking up this post with Leigh Kramer's "What I'm Into" linkup.)

 

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FAMILY

Jonathan has been enjoying Extend-a-Family day camp since school ended. He goes to this special needs camp every year and loves the staff, his fellow campers, and the activities they do (swimming, going to the Buskers Festival, taking the ferry to Wolfe Island, having talent shows, and more). Here he is with Nick, his best friend from camp.

Allison has been taking an online course in Children's Literature this summer (working toward her Arts degree from Queen's). I envy her her reading list, which included Peter Pan, The Secret Garden, The Golden Compass, and The Princess and the Goblin. She has her final exam tomorrow and then gets a break before starting up more courses again in the fall. The online format has been a good option for her: she now has five credits accumulated, so that's an excellent start. (OH! and on Saturday, she turns twenty!!!)

We attended a family wedding in July: our oldest nephew, Josh Prinsen, got married to Jess Davies at Compass Rose Suites, a B&B in Prince Edward County (about 1-1/2 hours from Kingston). We were very happy to celebrate the marriage of this great couple. Jonathan has a special relationship with his cousin Josh. Here they are taking a little time to connect during the wedding reception; the affection between the two of them is evident.

And below is the happy couple:

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WRITING

This summer, for the first time, I had a poem published in a print journal. I've had a few things published online, which is an honour, but I've never had any poetry accepted in a print publication -- so I was very happy when Relief, a journal I admire, took my poem "Lakeside, with Jonathan." It appeared in their Spring 2018 issue. It was truly thrilling to see my name appear on the Contents page along with poets like Tanya Runyan, whose poetry I admire and whose book, How to Write a Poem, I've used to help me with my own work. 

(I don't want to print the whole poem here because that would undermine the journal's work of publishing it, but if you're interested in seeing it, let me know!)

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READING

In mid-July I posted about the most recent books I'd read; you can click HERE to see what those were. Since then I've also read Austin Channing Brown's book I'm Still Here: Black Dignity in a World Made for Whiteness. In this memoir the author chronicles her experiences as a black girl and woman exploring her identity and navigating the unconscious biases -- and even open hostilities -- of white friends, colleagues, and strangers. The most powerful part for me was the final chapter, where she rejects white people's wish that she and other black Americans would be more positive and hopeful, declaring instead that she dwells "in the shadow of hope."

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WATCHING

After seeing a couple of mentions of this series by online friends, I decided to start watching the 2009-11 British TV series Lark Rise to Candleford. It's set in the late 1800's and involves the people in the small rural village of Lark Rise and the nearby town of Candleford. The characters are interesting, quirky, and captivating. And if you watch a lot of British TV you'll see many familiar actors here, such as Brendan Coyle, who played Mr. Bates in Downton Abbey, and Julia Sawalha, who played the feisty, flirty Lydia in the BBC Pride and Prejudice. 

Richard often watches this along with me; we're currently halfway through season 2 and loving it. It deals with some tough issues (child abuse, debtors' prison, poverty) yet still has a light, romantic undercurrent.

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SINGING

A couple of months ago my neighbour, Bill, asked me to hang onto his new Martin guitar for safekeeping while he was away on a trip. To show him that I was putting it to good use, I recorded a YouTube video of myself singing Dougie MacLean's song "Caledonia," and posted it on Facebook. Anne Archer, a friend from Queen's who plays in the Kingston Ceili Band, saw the video, asked me if I sang any other Celtic-type songs (which I do), and then invited me to be the Ceili Band's special guest at their July gig downton at the RCHA club.

So on July 12 I joined the Ceili Band for the evening and sang four songs:

- "Caledonia" by Dougie MacLean

- "Waterlily" by Karine Polwart

- "The Reach" by Dan Fogelberg

- "John o' Dreams" by Bill Caddick

I hope it doesn't sound extremely vain to say this, but I love being able to share my gift of singing with others. Whenever I hear this verse from the MammaMia soundtrack,

I'm nothing special; in fact, I'm a bit of a bore

If I tell a joke, you've probably heard it before

But I have a talent -- a wonderful thing --

'Cause everyone listens when I start to sing

I'm so grateful and proud:

All I want is to sing it out loud...

I think "Yes, that is exactly how I feel." I don't think I'm the kind of person who unduly seeks attention or notice, but I love being able to share my gift of song. Maybe it's a bit like Eric Liddell in Chariots of Fire, with his running:  "When I sing, I feel His pleasure."

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Well, that's just a little bit of what I've been up to in the last month or so. Thanks for taking the time to read it.

I'd love to know what you've been doing as well, so please go ahead and leave a comment.

Five Minute Friday: TURN! TURN! TURN!

Today I'm linking up with Kate Motaung and the Five Minute Friday community, writing for five minutes on a given prompt.

This week's word: TURN.

To everything (Turn! Turn! Turn!)

There is a season (Turn! Turn! Turn!)

And a time to every purpose under heaven.

This is the chorus of the song "Turn! Turn! Turn!" written by Pete Seeger and popularized by The Byrds. Except for the "Turn!" part, the words come (with minor alterations) from the King James translation of Ecclesiastes 3, the passage that says there is a time for everything:

² A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
³ A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
⁴ A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
⁵ A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
⁶ A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
⁷ A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
⁸ A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

We have this passage on an embroidered wall hanging in our house, and I look at it and think about it often. I draw comfort and reassurance from these words, from the suggestion that everything, even things that appear to be bad, have their time and place. 

This list of opposites reminds me of the verse in Colossians 1 that says Jesus is "before all things, and in him all things hold together." 

Somehow there is room for birth and death in our lives. Weeping and laughing. Loving and hating. I don't understand all those paradoxes, yet I sense that they all have a role to play. They are all things Jesus can use in making us, and this world, new again.

The "Turn! Turn! Turn!" part of the song isn't in the Bible, of course, but I imagine it as a call to attention and action:

- Turn away from seeing yourself as the centre of the universe; instead recognize that you're part of the human community. Rejoice with those who rejoice; weep with those who weep.

- Turn away from patterns that are enslaving you and others. Recognize when it's time to enter a new-more life-giving season.

- Turn away from black-and-white thinking, and recognize the gray areas, the in-betweens, the transition times when the old is dying but the new hasn't been birthed yet.

Turn. Turn. Turn.

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Oh, and here are The Byrds singing the song:

Five Minute Friday: PRIVILEGE

 Today I'm linking up with the Five Minute Friday community, writing for five minutes on a given prompt. This week's word is PRIVILEGE.

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A couple of days ago I saw this meme on Facebook: 

It's a play on Bonnie Tyler's popular 1980's song "Total Eclipse of the Heart," which starts with a man's voice singing hauntingly "Turn around..." between Tyler's lines.

The joke is, imagine if a cop told you to "Turn around" and you responded that way? They'd get so annoyed with you, they might taser you!

My first response was to laugh. It's the kind of "groaner" joke that I like -- and of course I always enjoy anything that pokes fun at the days of big hair and overly emotive power ballads.

But my second response was different: If I were a person of colour, I might not find that so funny.
  
There have been so many examples of people of colour (usually men) being killed in confrontations with police when it appeared that deadly force was unnecessary. So the idea of responding flippantly to a police officer's command really isn't funny at all -- you might get killed if you did that. You might get killed even if you responded obediently.

It's privilege that allows my first response to that meme to be laughter. I don't have to go about my days worrying that a seemingly innocuous encounter with police will end with my death. I can feel reassured by those who say "But most police officers are good people," because I've never known any different.

Acknowledging our privilege, whether in terms of race, or sex, or wealth, or many other often-intersecting areas, is kind of like putting on glasses for the first time. We start seeing things in a different way than before. It's not always comfortable. Even mentioning to other people that we're starting to notice things differently may elicit complaints about what a drag it is that now we're not even allowed to laugh at a little joke without (ahem) "turning around" to see how other people might interpret it. The words "politically correct" -- and boy, do I hate that expression! -- may be wielded.

Actually, now that I think of it, acknowledging our privilege is more like reversing the selfie mode on our cell-phone camera. Instead of focusing everything on ourselves and assuming the entire world is a mirror of our own experiences, we click that little icon so that the camera swivels and faces outward. We're no longer the focal point, but we can see so much more than we could before.

Are there areas in your life where you recognize your privilege? And if you've recognized it, what are you going to do about it? What am I going to do about it?

Poem: Mass for a fallen leaf

I wrote this poem a few years ago. It's appropriate to the season, so I thought I'd share it here.

 photo pixabay

Mass for a fallen leaf

On the street I saw a yellow leaf that

a car had driven over, leaving a

tire print resembling a staff of music.

I looked around for someone to show it

to, but everyone was hurrying through

sheets of rain. I gave it my most solemn

attention for a moment. I could have

taken the leaf home and dried it between

the pages of a book, but I left it

at rest on the pavement. I saw this as

a minor act of love: I thought someone

else might see it, commiserate with its

flattened, tired condition, read the notes, and

take comfort – just as I did when I walked

off, humming its autumnal requiem.