Every uneducated person is a caricature of himself.
Friedrich Schlegel, 1798
What a profound thought.
Without education, you’re an outline with distorted features. Your worst is accentuated without the tempering impact of learning other perspectives, exploring other values, or discovering alternative possibilities.
Growth of personality happens when you seek wisdom and knowledge.
I stroll the mall, and check all routes
in search of perfect, tall, grey boots.
Store by store I search them all
On tidy shelves and crowded stalls.
I search the net in desperate state
At Fluevog.com The Boots await!
The perfect shape. The perfect heel.
The shade of grey, that’s dove not steel.
Alas, at five hundred bucks with tax,
My happy heart’s cleaved with an ax.
I check the site from time to time
To see if cost has dropped a dime.
But one sad day, the boots were gone
My face grew sad, my mouth was drawn.
.
The Grey Boot Quest began once more
Fruitless, I wandered store to store,
Til a clearance ad came to my in box
and now I can enfold my socks.
My Fluevog Logan boots, were on sale
A happy ending to the tale!
A single pair was in my size,
I quickly clicked, ready to BUY.
Soon from the store in Montreal
My boots will travel, pushed and hauled.
The first miracle was an end to the quest
The Second Miracle Logans are the best!
A week from now, or maybe two,
I’ll pose in those grey boots for you!
.
Sometimes you just get lucky. Unexpected discoveries, simple pleasures, a wish fulfilled…
Three years ago, I started looking for the perfect pair of grey boots.
My criteria:
I found the Second Miracle Logan’s on Fluevog.com and drooled big time. They met all the criteria except price. Unfortunately they were 3X the budget, and there was no way I could talk myself into them. >>sigh<< Every once in a while I’d go back to the site and stare dreamily at them. Then this fall, they were gone. I let go the dream that those were my dream boots. I kept searching for grey boots, but despite the odd ‘grey boots only’ shopping events, I remained empty handed..ur…bare footed?
Today, I was at the Fluevog site and clicked “Clearance.” There were 3 items in my size, and guess what was there? ONE pair of my Logan boots! AND they were so discounted that with tax and shipping they STILL met budget! My boots are in Montreal. Fantastique. Soon they will be here. My quest for the perfect grey boots has finally ended.
It’s a simple pleasure to have a goal achieved. Is this a lesson on the value of perseverence and patience? Perhaps. Lacing them up is definitely going to require perseverence and patience! (No kidding- there is no zipper in these).
I decided that I can’t buy a single additional bit of footwear this month.
Good thing it’s the 31st.
No wait. It’s the 27th! That’s 4 days to remain new shoeless! Wow. That will be hard, but I will fight my base urges and restrain myself.
I think, at least, that it was Buddha who said, “When the student is ready, the master appears.” It’s a good observation; however, the master will no doubt have been there all along, but until the student was ready, he had no focus to see him/her. What if the master is ready, but no student appears?
As a kid, I took ballet lessons from the founder of the Royal Winnipeg Ballet, Dr. Gweneth Lloyd. Not advanced, pointe work ballet, mind you. Twinkle-toe tots kind of of ballet. I think it was a complete waste of talent for her to have been teaching me. Perhaps others in the class went on to become amazing stars, but not me. Mind you, I can still do the 5 positions, but the discipline of mind and body required by ballet was definitely not mine. I am not of the “No pain, no gain” school. (My particular mantra is “No pain! No pain!” ) I remember her walking through the class, with her bright red lipstick on, stick in hand, prowling to poke at us “Move this, tighten that.” I was rather traumatized by the whole affair.
Then there was the recital. I was a swamp fairy. Unlike the cute flower fairies who got to wear pastels and tutus, the swamp fairies wore dyed khaki green waffle weave underwear. Yes. really. Undershirts and undershorts. Dyed pukey green. They made me go on stage in underwear. Did I mention that I had a personal seamstress who’d kept me in adorable little outfits since birth? All that work to learn a choreography only for public humiliation in underwear. I cried. I didn’t want to go on stage. It was not a happy day. I did dance, of course, because it was a stage, but plainly I’ve never gotten over it.
I did not go onto further ballet studies, which was probably for the best.
There was a master, but I was not meant to be her student.
Explain that one, Buddha.
Further to my determination to squeeze out some writing or die trying, I thought I’d share the day’s efforts on Grace Awakening Myth (Book 3 of 4 in the Grace Awakening series). It’s a first draft, remember. To be honest, there are already some changes, but you’ll get the idea. This is 1230 words. My goal is about 1200 a day, (5 pages) or 6000 words (25 pages) a week. That was the pace for the first 2 books in the series.
As I sat down to write, the image in my head was of blackness. I wrote about that while wondering exactly why it was so black, and then Kharon walked in…
Truly, I just take dictation. The story is just floating out there, waiting for me to listen to it. Ben is narrating.
It’s a black night, Stygian black, as they say. That’s very black. The River Styx drifts, black as crude oil, roiling and burbling with the murmuring sibilance of thousands upon thousands of lost voices. Its thick waters seem to suck the light from the sky, and leave all around it in an inky grey wash. Kharon the boatman floats along on his ferry, pole in hand, pushing it away from the banks, gathering the departing souls and taking them safely to Hades, for the price of a coin, of course. He shows up at the stops to collect what Hermes has dropped off: the confused half-shadows, some still not quite aware that they are ghosts, reclaimed from new graves. The shades dazedly cough up their coin, and they load into the ferry as Hermes waves to them heartily and wishes them luck on the next part of their journey like some jolly tour guide. Hermes can be quite an ass. The vacuous faces hardly stir in response, though. Those without a coin are on their own to get across the Styx. If you’re on your own, you’re not going to make it across. Simple.
I shivered at the memory of that blackness and the descent into the sucking void of the underworld. This was earth though, and not the underworld. This was Grace, not Eurydice. It was a Stygian black night, though, and the oppressive gloom was creeping into my gut.
“Hey, there. Ben is it?” The low voice held a faint glimmer of amusement.
“Hello Kharon.” I nodded courteously, recognising him at once. Had my thoughts summoned him? Or was this dismal atmosphere a result of his presence? “What brings you here? You’re a little far from the river.”
“Not so far. A guy needs a bit of a break from water now and then, after all. The river flows where it needs to. It’s near enough that I can step ashore for a moment.” He looked around with interest. “I thought I’d come have a chat with you.”
“With me?” My heart stopped for a moment. “I’m honoured, of course,” I said with a polite incline of my head, “but…uh…why?”
He smiled. His long nose and slightly blue tinged skin made it a rather eerie expression. Though it was probably meant to be reassuring, it made him look a trifle morose. It didn’t lighten the mood, at any rate.
I waited while he stood ponderously thinking. His thoughts seemed to move like he was punting through them with the stick he used on the ferry. They moved slowly and methodically in one direction. Patiently was the only way to communicate with Kharon. He would not be rushed.
Finally he said, “It’s about the girl.”
I took a deep breath. “Which girl? Grace?”
He shook his head. “No. The other one.”
“Other one?”
“From before. You know. The snake bit her, and you went to Hades to try to get her out? You snuck by the dog with some singing and got everyone down there all in a mush of sentimentality with your music, and they let you take her. But something happened and she had to stay, after all.”
“I looked back.” I whispered, suddenly cold.
“Ah.” Kharon nodded sagely. “Oh right. Looking back can cause a lot of problems for a person, can’t it?”
“Apparently.” I tried to bite back the sarcastic tone in response to his unintentional understatement.
“Yeah. Well. She was at the river bank the other day when I went by, and she asked me to give you a message.”
I swallowed. Then swallowed again. My mouth was the Sahara all of a sudden. I croaked, “She asked you…to give me a message.” She had never tried to communicate with me before. Why did she need to send a message now? What did she know?
He nodded in confirmation at my dazed expression, then after making sure that I was paying attention he looked up, as if trying to recall her exact words. He cleared his throat and intoned, “She said, ‘If you have a chance to see my love, when you’re above. Tell him that the song has many verses, some rich with hate and curses, but that he deserves whatever joy, that girl can give a boy.’”
“She rhymed it?”
He shrugged. “I think she thought it’d help me remember.”
“Oh.”
“I think she misses you,” he added. “She looked sad.”
“She’s been in the underworld for a couple of thousand years. Of course she’s sad.”
Kharon shrugged again. “Not everyone is. They get used to it. Everyone has to be there eventually after all.”
“I suppose.” It hurt to think about Eurydice. It hurt to remember that my failure doomed her to that two thousand years in the underworld. She wouldn’t have been there if I hadn’t been inept. My failure. Mine. It wasn’t Kharon’s fault. “Thanks for passing along the message.”
He nodded. “I think she was afraid Hermes wouldn’t deliver it and Iris doesn’t have reception there.”
“Oh yes. Of course not. I appreciate you taking the effort.”
He stood waiting for something, with a studied nonchalance.
“Oh, wait.” I rummaged in my pockets and studied the coins. “I don’t have anything ancient. Will a twonie do?”
He eyed the polar bear on the two dollar coin dubiously. “A little on the cheap side, but whatever. Next time we meet in the Other Realm, you can top it up.” His mouth twitched in something that might have been a good-humoured smirk, but might not.
I chose to interpret it positively. “Thank you, Kharon.”
He started to stroll off with that particular, unsteady gait of sailors walking on land, and then looked back over his shoulder, “You take good care of that new girl, you hear? Don’t let looking back blind you to the possibilities ahead of you. What you’ve done before doesn’t have to bind your future.”
His words hit me like an arrow and I reverberated for a moment from the impact. When I went to answer him, he’d disappeared. With him went to ominous atmosphere of blackness, and I was able to take a deep breath again. The fresh air oxygenated my lungs and cleared my head, but his message sat heavily on my heart.
I thought of Eurydice from time to time, of course. If I was being honest with myself, it was her that made me most anxious about Grace. Eurydice was my first and greatest failure. My first love, my first wife, symbolized such an essential lack in my character that any thought of her ensured my elemental humility, despite the loud accolades about my brilliant talent. Such bone deep awareness of inadequacy is not overcome. Ever.
It is also why I am afraid that I won’t be able to protect Grace this time.
I’ll tell you a secret. I’m pretty sure that it is also why they appointed me her guardian. They don’t expect me to succeed. They think that it will appear they’re giving her a guard, when I’m actually so useless that she is doomed.
I know it.
I know it, and despite being overwhelmed with the awareness of my own inadequacies I am so damned full of pride that I’ll risk it anyway, rather than let Mars or Alexandros have the job. What kind of fool’s paradox is that?
Mine.
Arg.
You know, I had a rather easy teaching load first semester, and I thought, “Wow. There will be so much time to write!” and I didn’t. I had hoped to finish book 3, and maybe get a good start on book 4 in the Grace Awakening series, but it didn’t happen.
I completely blame Diana Gabaldon for this.
I was making good progress until Outlander came into the electronic library for me in October. Then I had to read every other book in the series. Have you seen this series? The first book is over 800 pages, and it’s the shortest one. Four of the seven books are well over a thousand pages. Like 400 pages over. The books were so good that I read every one of the books twice on my e-reader before they expired from the library, and then I went out and started buying the audio books to listen to while I knitted, sewed, cooked, or cleaned (okay, not so often while I cleaned, but only because I don’t do that very often). Then I had to find and read all Gabaldon’s Lord John books. Just because. Between reading and working and the other stuff- like making a traditional 8 yard kilt… I wasn’t getting much writing done. Much? Read ‘practically none.’
I was listening to the Diana Gabaldon podcast the other day (yes, it’s all gotten quite obsessive, I recognise) and this comment struck me:
I write every day. If you don’t write for a day or two, the inertia builds up on you and it’s hard to start again. (Diana Gabaldon podcast Episode 3: The “Kernel Process”)
Plainly, that is precisely my experience. I wrote the first two books in 6 months, writing 5 pages a day, or 25 pages a week, while I was working full-time and president of my Rotary club. Two years of editing those, and starting the research on the next series, and then Outlander brought me to a grinding halt. Gabaldon reminded me that it was time to find the hour a day that would break the deadlock and get me in the swing of working on the novel(s).
In the last week, I’ve been making a concerted effort to at least read through the previous work, edit here and there, add a scene, etc. It’s not a lot, but it’s getting into the habit of spending time with Grace and Ben again, which is the important thing.
Diana Gabaldon is very active on the internet. She interacts with her fans, she travels, she has family commitments, and yet she is writing every day. I was reading a section of The Outlandish Companion yesterday that particularly hit me. She describes her day (December 15, 1995), in amusing detail. Since I had already read the completed scene in situ, it was very interesting to read the process of its development. She writes like I do on too little sleep, images come in, she asks questions, and the story evolves. At the end of that particular day, she was 1700 words short of her 2000 word goal, but she had several threads developing in her mind and she had 300 words more than nothing. As I read how she wove her writing into her day I decided I need to be far more disciplined if I’m ever going to get Awakening Myth finished for this spring.
Next week the new semester begins, and I’m full-time again. Guess what? I bet I’ll find more time than I’ve been able to find for the last five months. I’ll be squeezing it in between other tasks with intention. I’ll probably have to cut back on the knitting, but since I have made 3 sweaters, 5 scarves and 5 pairs of socks already, that shouldn’t be too much of a sacrifice. We’ll see.
PS. If you want to read about Diana’s day some 16 years ago, it’s here. If you have The Outlandish Companion, it’s on page 453.
PS2. Didn’t I say in yesterday’s blog that the student is responsible for learning, and the teacher can only inspire? Thanks for the lesson, Diana. I guess it’s my own fault your great books completely distracted me from my responsibilities. I get it.
The pupil can only educate himself. Teachers are the custodians of apparatus upon which he himself must turn and twist to acquire the excellencies that distinguish the better from the poorer of God’s vessels. ~Martin H. Fischer
As we start a new semester next week, I’ve been thinking about education. I liked this quote, because it places the onus on the student. A teacher is indeed simply the guardian of the skills and strategies in assorted proficiencies, but it is only the student himself who can absorb, apply, consider, evaluate and in the end, learn. A teacher can inspire. A teacher can model life-long learning. A teacher can value the learner and encourage confidence, but at the end of the day, the only one who can do the learning is the student.
Let’s hope we have a great second semester!
I needed a poem for the English 9 final exam. It needed to fit the theme, and have some poetic devices. After scanning assorted books, I gave up and wrote my own. The title comes from a literal transliteration of eulogy- Good words.
.
If I could
I would
Follow you forever, friend
Through years of fears, of tears.
I’d follow you
Through toys, boys, noise, joys
To poise.
If I could,
I’d follow, friend
But I am as a hollow end.
Be brave,
I am a memory saved
Despite the cave
of grave.
“What do English teacher authors read for fun?” you ask.
Well,thanks for your curiousity! ;-P We are full of interesting explorations of the literary and linguistic world.
Today, I’ve been pondering the development and usage of the second person pronouns in the English language…
Yes, really.
So, if you‘re curious about ‘you’ too, you might be interested in this interesting article by University of Toronto alumnus and current St Mary’s University professor, Sara Malton PhD:
http://homes.chass.utoronto.ca/~cpercy/courses/6361Malton.htm
Shawn L. Bird 
7 keys January 26, 2012
Tags: Charlotte Boyett-Compo, keys, publishing, Wind Legends, writing
Charlotte Boyett-Compo, author of the Wind Legends series among other things, (www.windlegends.org) shared this brilliant bit of extended metaphor about publishing at Linked In the other day:
That’s quite profound, isn’t it? Even with my limited experience here at the beginning of the journey I know there is a lot of truth here! It is hard work to get your work out there. Big or small, the publisher requires authors to be skilled in story and active in the promotion and marketing of their work. Every writer has to develop his/her talent and keep plugging away at the craft in order to have any success at all. It’s a hard reality I think. Sometimes you have the luck, and sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you just don’t have the ability to stick it out. Sometimes you don’t have that special spark of talent that makes your work worth the effort.
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