The Well Digger's Daughter

Today is a Movie Review day at The Catbird Seat! At the insistent urging of my eldest daughter (The Fireman's Daughter), I recently watched "The Well Digger's Daughter" on Netflix. I'm so glad I did. It is easily one of the most beautiful movies I've ever seen. Cinemaphotography at its finest. The French countryside, the period clothing, cars, homes, and characters, the writing, the acting, the music (unremarkable, but fitting), the story - all combine smoothly and beautifully to create a lovely and memorable film.* 

It is the story of a widowed man, Pascal Amoretti,  a well digger by trade in Provence, France, working hard to care for his six daughters. The eldest daughter, the beautiful, virtuous Patricia, is considered by him to be a saint, and his love for her is deep and unaffected. "She isn't a daughter, she's a treasure from the Good Lord.", he tells a friend. Patricia (a young adult) has taken over the role of mother to her younger sisters and cares tenderly and competently for them and her father. In the opening scene she meets a handsome young man who helps her cross a stream as she is on her way to deliver lunch to her father. 

Their attraction is mutual and immediate, and we fully expect this handsome devil to play an important role in Patricia's life. And we are correct.

 We also meet the father's co-worker/employee. The kind, but older and...um...less handsome...Felipe, reveals his interest in Patricia, and Pascal agrees to approach her about accompanying Felipe to the local air show on the following day. The stage is set. She goes to the air show with the dear Felipe, but, you guessed it, ends the day with the dashing young stranger, whom we now know as Jacques, the wealthy son of a shopkeeper.

Jacques is suave, sophisticated, charming, exciting (he rides a motorcycle), and....persuasive. Patricia is soon "in trouble", and Jacques is called away to serve France in WWI, unaware of Patricia's plight. What ensues and unfolds is one of the most stirring stories I've ever seen on the screen.

Shaken to the core with grief, foreboding, shame, and fear, Patricia tells her father. And then we see something rarely seen in films or books or real life. This broken father simply loves this broken daughter. Sweet, solemn, sad comfort.

He joins her in grief, but unflinchingly faces the reality of their joint shame. 

"The Well Digger's Daughter" is the story of  how to face pain, adversity, poverty, shame, and human failing with grace and courage. The pathos of this cinematic narrative is palpable. It is the embodiment of all that is right and good and winsome about the human experience. It is a radiant light held aloft as a guide to the eternal truth found in First Corinthians of the Bible: "The greatest of these is love". Yes, indeed, "The Well Digger's Daughter" demonstrates in the most artful way imaginable that love...really does conquer all.

*Caveat: this is a French film with English subtitles, and it is simple, slow, and possibly predictable. If any of these are deal breakers for you, then...well...perhaps you should broaden your horizons a bit! :)

Ad Astra Per Aspera

Last year when I visited our state capitol, it was a mess, with makeshift plywood walls, tarps, and scaffolding everywhere. The renovations on the interior have been mostly completed since then, and I have been eager to get to Topeka to take a gander for myself.

Today I got lucky and hitched a ride to our Capital City with my darling daughter. Daughter Number Three serves on the state CURB (Citizens Utilities Ratepayers Board). Appointed by Governor Sam Brownback, she attends quarterly meetings at the Kansas Corporation Commission building in Topeka. I tagged along today, and while she attended her meeting, I went over to the capitol building to see the renovations and to speak to several legislator friends.

Wow. What a splendid treasure, our beautiful capitol. I went up, down, and all around snapping away.

This is a large hooked rug representation of our state seal, which hangs outside the Senate Chamber Visitor's Gallery. I love our state seal. Here is the Senate President's desk.

These beautiful copper columns, also in the Senate Chamber, were hand cast in Italy in the 1880's.

Our gorgeous rotunda from the ground floor.

(click on this one, you'll be glad you did!)

The fabulous copper columns at the top have been polished 'til they glow.

Here's a closer look... 

The library got a make-over too...shhhhhh...

They removed many layers of paint to restore the lovely artwork on the ceiling.

The new, stunning, highly polished brass railing hosts a Kansas sunflower garden! 

 The House

Look at those fabulous marble columns. The names you see all around the top of the room, are those of ten prominent abolitionists, and were discovered in the 1998 restoration. Cool, huh?

Gazing down on the second floor rotunda - home to our four famous Kansans...

Dwight Eisenhower, William Allen White, Arthur Capper, and...

our particular Kansas Darling, Amelia Earhart! :)

The marble throughout the capitol is astoundingly beautiful. Rose marble, dark red marble from Belgium, black and white from Georgia, brown from Tennessee. Marble from Italy and Mexico found a happy home in Kansas, as well!

 Look at this lovely gold leaf molding and the vivid color of the fantastic murals that cover the walls of the second floor... 

...which, of course, includes the piece de resistance (in my opinion)...

our glorious Tragic Prelude by John Curry - the representation of John Brown and the antislavery movement. I have always been an ardent admirer of John Brown, and do not believe he was the crazed fanatic depicted here and in so many history books. Being willing to die for one's beliefs does not make one crazy...it makes one courageous and intrepid...a man or woman of valor.

Here is where I will interject my only criticism of the restoration/renovation process that the capitol has undergone. The lighting on the murals is horrible. What were they thinking? Did they consult anyone from an art museum for advice on how to highlight and showcase all these beautiful paintings without that dreadful glare? There is no vantage point from which to view these works of art without that garish glare. Disappointing at best, really aggravating at worst!

..................

One of the most striking elements of the work done can be seen on every floor...because it is the staircases! I've been to this great building many times, but never noticed the balusters that make up the balustrades. There are thirty of them from the ground floor to the fifth. And every single one is crafted of copper. I hadn't noticed them before, because they were tarnished and dark. Now they are stunningly polished and positively glow! Those beautiful copper balustrades, topped with shining brass handrails, make the whole place....glow. I can't think of another word! Not sparkle nor shine...because the effect is suffused with warmth. Yes. They just glow.

These lovely stained glass windows by Topeka artist Patrick McKinney, were installed in 1976 during the U.S. Bicentennial celebration.

Time to go. I'm so grateful I got to see this grand edifice that is a monument to all that I love about my home state. Kansas. Open and free, land of a rich heritage of pioneering spirit, hard work, determination, and courage. Temperate yet bold, modest yet proud, we embrace blessing with gratitude and face adversity with grit. As with all brilliant art, each of these characteristics are clearly depicted through the sculptors' gifted hands, the artists' skilled brushstrokes, and the mastery of the multitude of masons, carpenters, iron and metal workers, and architects. 

I walked back out into the crisp, clean Kansas February day. The work on the capitol dome continues, she still bristles with scaffolding. Even so, I thinks she's lovely.

Ad Astra, the bronze Kanza Indian created by Salina sculptor Richard Bergen, stands proudly atop the dome, depicting our state motto, "Ad Astra Per Aspera" - to the stars through difficulty - his arrow appropriately pointing to the North Star.

...and no, darling, I am not trying to peek beneath your loincloth...

I love you, Kansas! 

The Art of Homemaking

The January table bids thee adieu.

I adore my January table. My lovely, snowy vintage tablecloth, my new cream table runner from the Dollar Tree, my eclectic assortment of white candles, my silver candlesticks and darling silver snowflake votive holders. These all come together every January to create a clean, crisp, wintry tablescape that heralds the New Year and says goodbye to the Christmas table.

Decorating my home for the changing seasons and holidays has always been a particular pleasure for me. I love change. I love moving the furniture, I love changing the dining room tablescape, I love using different dishes, I love changing up little details in the decor. When the kids were home, and even now with just the two of us, I frequently set the dinner table with candles or fresh flowers. Beauty is all around us all the time, we must be the catalyst that causes our families to see it, to desire it, to appreciate and love it. I always took great care in the art and decor I chose for our walls. Scripture has always been paramount, and beautiful, classical art. Even though children seldom talk about such things, they are being influenced by what they see every day.

I also love sameness. Sameness is what most often appeals to children. Children tend to feel more secure when they can depend on certain things in their lives not changing. Children, especially small children, thrive on routine. They like their mealtimes at the same time with familiar foods, they come to expect their naptimes, even when they balk and cry, their little bodies and minds and hearts are comforted by counting on Mom performing the same rituals every day. It is the most important form of discipline that children receive, this confidence that Mom and Dad can be depended upon to perform the same tasks every day, meting  out the same correction for rules broken, reading the same books aloud before naps, greeting each day with a smile, a hug, and, when children are still small enough to allow it...a cuddle. Sameness. It instills a sense of belonging, family, home. It makes memories.

Change and sameness. Both are important components to the art of homemaking. Homemaking is so much more than simply being a "stay at home mom". Homemaking is the fine art of creating a place in your husband's and your children's world where they are safe...in every sense. Safe from harm, safe from the elements, safe to be honest and vulnerable, safe to be angry, happy, silly, sad. A place where family members are safe from rejection, even at their very worst; and the absence of the fear of rejection births the most important safety of all....the freedom to fail. 

Creating this climate is what real "homemaking" is. It requires diligent, Herculean effort, eighteen hours a day, seven days a week. "A woman's work is never done" is far more than a cliche, it's the gospel truth. Because as important as making your home a safe harbor for your family is, what really matters...and what really requires so. Much. Time. ...is simply being available. The most difficult thing about homemaking is juggling the myriad tasks involved in running a household, while somehow at the same time availing yourself to each member of the family for whatever needs each individual has at any given moment. Hurt feelings, disappointments, failures, anger and resentment, jealousies, injustices, broken hearts, anxieties and fears...all these are brought to Mom. Sometimes by several family members several times a day! Wise homemakers become adept at making family members feel as if they are the most important people in the world at the moment of their need. Whirling thoughts of the dozens of things needing your attention are pushed aside as you rock that cranky toddler, hold that disappointed little sister on your lap murmuring sympathy and encouragement, sit on that teenager's bed while they cry bitter tears over lost love, listen with empathy to the husband's discouragement. Availability. Flexibility. Sensitivity. Homemakers must be all things to all people all the time. A very tall order...accompanied by heaping doses of guilt. 

A tough job indeed. One that can only be accomplished through the power and presence of our Father in Heaven. Women whose heart's desire is to know Christ and to make Him known, must be ever mindful that our work is not for our families. It is for our Lord. We do everything we do "as unto the Lord". This is the impetus behind it all, and what gives our work meaning and purpose far beyond ourselves and our families. 

So goodbye January! Hello February with your pink table cloth and red candles! Time to change it up...same as every February.     

 

The Hound of Heaven

I recently re-read The Hound of Heaven by Francis Thompson. It is profoundly moving and convicting to me. It has the unmistakable crystalline ring of Truth. Carefully crafted, beautifully written, a treasure. Do yourself a favor and read it. :) I've copied it here in its entirety following my review of this matchless poem.

"The Hound of Heaven" is one of the most beautiful and insightful poems ever written. It is a perfect word picture of deviant, depraved, defiant Man running, running, running from God...from Love...who is personified as the Hound of heaven. Thompson's skillful and brilliant use of language is unsurpassed.

Man's senseless, blind flight from God takes him "across the margent of the world...to the gold gateways of the stars", mindlessly thinking he can hide from Him - "I said to Dawn: Be sudden—to Eve: Be soon; With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over From this tremendous Lover—Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see!" How foolish - how childlike - we are.

The fear that drives the flight is always this: "For,though I knew His love Who followèd, Yet was I sore adread Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside." We run from Him seeking everything but Him, knowing in our heart of hearts that ending the chase means yieldedness...surrender. What a stiff-necked race is humankind. And yet He follows calling, wooing, loving open-armed: "Still with unhurrying chase, And unperturbèd pace,Deliberate speed, majestic instancy, Came on the following Feet, And a Voice above their beat—‘Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me.’"

This poem and its timeless truths and themes has stood me in good stead over and over as I guided five children through the difficult passage of childhood to adulthood. I've often gently reminded each restless, wistful, sometimes broken - sometimes angry, teenage heart that they are simply running from the Hound of Heaven. 

The inspired, profound truth and beauty in this poem always bends my knee to the Lord of Lords - sorry and shamed...again...that I've run from the Hound of Heaven. 

The Hound of Heaven

by Francis Thompson

I fled Him down the nights and down the days
I fled Him down the arches of the years
I fled Him down the labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind, and in the midst of tears
I hid from him, and under running laughter.
Up vistaed hopes I sped and shot precipitated
Adown titanic glooms of chasme d hears
From those strong feet that followed, followed after
But with unhurrying chase and unperturbe d pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
They beat, and a Voice beat,
More instant than the feet:
All things betray thee who betrayest me.

I pleaded, outlaw--wise by many a hearted casement,
curtained red, trellised with inter-twining charities,
For though I knew His love who followe d,
Yet was I sore adread, lest having Him,
I should have nought beside.
But if one little casement parted wide,
The gust of his approach would clash it to.
Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.
Across the margent of the world I fled,
And troubled the gold gateways of the stars,
Smiting for shelter on their clange d bars,
Fretted to dulcet jars and silvern chatter
The pale ports of the moon.

I said to Dawn --- be sudden, to Eve --- be soon,
With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over
From this tremendous Lover.
Float thy vague veil about me lest He see.
I tempted all His servitors but to find
My own betrayal in their constancy,
In faith to Him, their fickleness to me,
Their traitorous trueness and their loyal deceit.
To all swift things for swiftness did I sue,
Clung to the whistling mane of every wind,
But whether they swept, smoothly fleet,
The long savannahs of the blue,
Or whether, thunder-driven,
They clanged His chariot thwart a heaven,
Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn of their feet,
Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.
Still with unhurrying chase and unperturbed pace
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
Came on the following feet, and a Voice above their beat:
Nought shelters thee who wilt not shelter Me.

I sought no more that after which I strayed
In face of Man or Maid.
But still within the little childrens' eyes
Seems something, something that replies,
They at least are for me, surely for me.
But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair,
With dawning answers there,
Their angel plucked them from me by the hair.
Come then, ye other children, Nature's
Share with me, said I, your delicate fellowship.
Let me greet you lip to lip,
Let me twine with you caresses,
Wantoning with our Lady Mother's vagrant tresses,
Banqueting with her in her wind walled palace,
Underneath her azured dai:s,
Quaffing, as your taintless way is,
From a chalice, lucent weeping out of the dayspring.

So it was done.
I in their delicate fellowship was one.
Drew the bolt of Nature's secrecies,
I knew all the swift importings on the wilful face of skies,
I knew how the clouds arise,
Spume d of the wild sea-snortings.

All that's born or dies,
Rose and drooped with,
Made them shapers of mine own moods, or wailful, or Divine.
With them joyed and was bereaven.
I was heavy with the Even,
when she lit her glimmering tapers round the day's dead sanctities.
I laughed in the morning's eyes.
I triumphed and I saddened with all weather,
Heaven and I wept together,
and its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine.
Against the red throb of its sunset heart,
I laid my own to beat
And share commingling heat.

But not by that, by that was eased my human smart.
In vain my tears were wet on Heaven's grey cheek.
For ah! we know what each other says,
these things and I; In sound I speak,
Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences.
Nature, poor step-dame, cannot slake my drouth.
Let her, if she would owe me
Drop yon blue-bosomed veil of sky
And show me the breasts o' her tenderness.
Never did any milk of hers once bless my thirsting mouth.
Nigh and nigh draws the chase, with unperturbe d pace
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
And past those noise d feet, a Voice comes yet more fleet:
Lo, nought contentst thee who content'st nought Me.

Naked, I wait thy Love's uplifted stroke. My harness, piece by piece,
thou'st hewn from me
And smitten me to my knee,
I am defenceless, utterly.
I slept methinks, and awoke.
And slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep.
In the rash lustihead of my young powers,
I shook the pillaring hours,
and pulled my life upon me.
Grimed with smears,

I stand amidst the dust o' the mounded years--
My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap.
My days have crackled and gone up in smoke,
Have puffed and burst like sunstarts on a stream.
Yeah, faileth now even dream the dreamer
and the lute, the lutanist.
Even the linked fantasies in whose blossomy twist,
I swung the Earth, a trinket at my wrist,
Have yielded, cords of all too weak account,
For Earth, with heavy grief so overplussed.
Ah! is thy Love indeed a weed,
albeit an Amaranthine weed,
Suffering no flowers except its own to mount?
Ah! must, Designer Infinite,
Ah! must thou char the wood 'ere thou canst limn with it ?
My freshness spent its wavering shower i' the dust.
And now my heart is as a broken fount,
Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever
From the dank thoughts that shiver upon the sighful branches of my
mind.

Such is. What is to be ?
The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind ?
I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds,
Yet ever and anon, a trumpet sounds
From the hid battlements of Eternity.
Those shaken mists a space unsettle,
Then round the half-glimpse d turrets, slowly wash again.
But not 'ere Him who summoneth
I first have seen, enwound
With glooming robes purpureal; Cypress crowned.
His name I know, and what his trumpet saith.
Whether Man's Heart or Life it be that yield thee harvest,
Must thy harvest fields be dunged with rotten death ?

Now of that long pursuit,
Comes at hand the bruit.
That Voice is round me like a bursting Sea:
And is thy Earth so marred,
Shattered in shard on shard?
Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest me.
Strange, piteous, futile thing;
Wherefore should any set thee love apart?
Seeing none but I makes much of Naught (He said).
And human love needs human meriting ---
How hast thou merited,
Of all Man's clotted clay, the dingiest clot.
Alack! Thou knowest not
How little worthy of any love thou art.
Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee,
Save me, save only me?
All which I took from thee, I did'st but take,
Not for thy harms,
But just that thou might'st seek it in my arms.
All which thy childs mistake fancies as lost,
I have stored for thee at Home.
Rise, clasp my hand, and come.
Halts by me that Footfall.
Is my gloom, after all,
Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly?
Ah, Fondest, Blindest, Weakest,
I am He whom thou seekest.
Thou dravest Love from thee who dravest Me. 

No Footprint Too Small?

I watched just a few minutes of the morning "news" programs today. This is a rarity for me; I probably catch a total of thirty minutes of the Big Three about twice a year. Every time I do, I am reminded of why I do not.

Anyway, the news today is, of course, the Sandy Hook Elementary murders in Newton, CT. My heart is so heavy. On Friday, the day of the tragedy, I felt numb. Grief-stricken. Teary. I prayed a lot and found myself shaking my head frequently in disbelief. And, as always when face to face with sudden, seeming senseless death, I was struck by the hard fact that the world goes on. Keeps whizzing on. People laugh, bustle, talk. I know this is natural, and the way of the world, but it always grips my heart and wrenches it. For those twenty-six families the world came to a screeching halt. Everything shifted, changed. Forever. My heart breaks for them.

One of the photographs the Talking Heads flashed on the screen was a hand-lettered banner someone in Newtown had hung in a public place. I didn't catch where or by whom, I was taken by the words.

"There is no footprint so small that it cannot leave an imprint on this world"

Emblazoned in blue. It is a common quote, seen most often in situations of miscarriage, still births, and the loss of very young life. Very appropriate for Newtown, CT now. It has the ring of truth, and brings a modicum of comfort.

But here is the cold, hard fact that really gripped my heart. Boggled my mind. Made me even more incredulous. Made me ashamed.

Since 1973, 55,760,389 babies have been killed by abortionists in the U.S. alone. That's 1, 200,778 every year. 1,205 every day.

Where are my tears for those children? Children for whom science has clearly proved are molecule for molecule just as fully human as the twenty children killed last Friday. For cryin' out loud, we know that the unborn child's DNA is wholly different and unique from the moment of conception, even from the mother's! A human being. A person. A child. Yet, even this knowledge hasn't been enough to stop the slaughter.

No footprint so small that it cannot leave an imprint on this world? Apparently there are. Nearly 55 million of them.

Today I weep for them.

SOME GIRLS ALLOWED

                                     Darla Moore  Condi Rice

No Girls Allowed. The Augusta National Golf Club has opened its membership to women for the first time in  its eighty year history. This post may be a little rambly, I'm sort of talking aloud here, trying to sort out exactly how I feel about this, so bear with me.

My first reaction was, "Yay! Finally. How could this have taken so long?" and "Yay! I love Condoleeza Rice!" Then my second reaction was, "What about the rights of private organizations to set their own rules?" Obviously, these two reactions are conflicted in this situation. Let's think it through.

I read through a long list of comments that were in response to a post by Mike Huckabee regarding the news about the ANGC, and, understandably (given it's a Mike Huckabee post), most were disgruntled with the decision by Chairman Billy Payne to buck an eighty year old "tradition". Here are a few I gleaned on the opposing side (all quotes were copied/pasted, so those errors are theirs! ...highlights are mine):

Shannon "Still trying to prove they can be like men which is ridiculous; we're not like men at all. I'm glad to be a woman and be feminine."

Stanley "I guess women will continue to try to be men until the end of time. I have no respect for the Augusta national golf club . If women do not like my post I am sorry but there are just some things you need to leave alone." 

Larry "This is ridiculous! Can we not create a private group, club or organization with our own rules of membership? Can we have this in our nation without some other group of people crying foul and just having to be a member just to make a point? Some people should just go on living their lives and stop worrying about if they get access to places that they really don't even care about anyway. I think I want to be able to use the women's locker rooms and bathrooms anytime I want because they are cleaner. I think I am being discriminated against that I can't do that. I should protest that only women can go in and I can't. Seems like that should be fair. Sound really stupid doesn't it? It's about as stupid as people that just have to poke their noses anywhere they want to feel good about themselves and force everyone else to bow to their will."

Carla "It's a sad day in America when we can't even make fun of ourselves. I think it shows the haughtiness of women that they think they are more than they are and above all others. Why does disagreeing mean hate?" 

Nella "I think it is so sad they broke their tradition of being a mens only club....their are plenty of other pretigious clubs women can join."

Shannon Hall "If women wanted to be a part of an exclusive golf club, they should've formed their own. I am all for equal rights and such, but a private institution should be able to accept or deny membership to any person they choose, and NOT feel like they have to give in to public scrutiny"

.
Dagmar (female) "I think its stupid, leave the men alone, form your own Ladies golf club and give it a rest.
Vince I want to join the Girl Scouts, then I want a college scholarship from the United Nergo College Fund to attend an all girls college, then I want to play on the Men's polo team in the next Olympics. If I don't get my way then I'm going to protest!!!!" 

Sharon "Once again, women shove their way into places they aren't wanted. * Let men be men and have THEIR space. Women can have their own too. This is disgusting and pitiful. You can't or shouldn't legislate who people have to like"

 I couldn't agree with them. In fact, they really annoyed me and made me feel a little hopeless. "Prove they     can be like men", "...women will continue to try to be men until the end of time.", "...stop worrying about if they get access to places that they really don't even care about anyway.", "...shows the haughtiness of women" 

Wow. Really? What drives that kind of obtuseness? You really believe that women wanted to be members of the ANGC because they wanted to be like men? You really think women should just "stop worrying about if they get access", because they don't really want to be members there anyway? (We don't really want to golf, we simply care about the policy of exclusion, so just give it up.) You seriously believe that women who desire equality are haughty?

So. What drives that kind of obtuseness? In a word, ignorance. Simply a lack of education and a full understanding of the root issue. At issue is not women wanting to be men, or even be like them. At issue is not women worrying about gaining "access to places that they don't even care about anyway". At issue is not women thinking they're better than men. No, at issue is the undeniable fact that women were excluded from this club based solely on their gender. The exact same reason women were denied the right to vote, had no control over their own property, their own children, even their own persons. Fathers, husbands, and judges had dominion over every area of women's lives. Ignorance of and apathy toward the Suffragist Movement and all it gained for American women, coupled with indifference toward instances of gender inequality that don't effect them personally...that's what's behind that kind of obtuseness.

Exclusion based solely on gender. So what? Why is that wrong? "..there are plenty of prestigious clubs women can join", "...they should've formed their own", "form your own Ladies golf club".  Okay, I recognize I have the right to do that, but I want you to recognize that I shouldn't have to do that because you have denied me access to your club.

 Of the 280 comments on Huckabee's post, I found one that had the ring of clarity and understanding:

Randee (female) "Frankly, men, you see this as pointless because you've never been denied anything to you based on your gender. Sure, you can't get in to girl scouts and curves. But would you really want to? This golf club is prestigious and competitive and women, conservative or liberal, should be able to enjoy and compete as well as men do."

It's not about golf or country clubs. No one begrudges men their "space". But we smell a rat with this particular club. The whole truth about the Augusta National Golf Club is that their membership policies have drawn criticism for many years, particularly their refusal to admit black members until 1990 (!!), and a former policy requiring all caddies to be black (club founder Clifford Roberts once quipped, "As long as I'm alive all the golfers will be white and all the caddies will be black.") That's just reprehensible. But is it any more reprehensible than excluding women because they're women? ANGC didn't want African Americans or women because they do not see them as equals; they did not belong in ANGC's hallowed halls of smart and important businessmen, politicians, and sports figures. Until...oops. IBM (a major Master's Tournament sponsor) appointed Virginia Rometty as CEO. The four previous male IBM CEO's were all offered memberships. Not Ginny. Smart and important businesswomen? Nope. How can you argue that gender doesn't matter?

Still. There's that nagging premise that a private institution should be allowed to make any rules they wish. This is a hard one for me, because I believe so strongly in individual liberties. Let's break it down. Can a private institution do anything it wants? There are federal laws against sexual harassment which apply to private businesses. The Civil Rights Act prohibits employment discrimination, so this would apply to the private sector. So private institutions must abide by the rule of law. But I submit we should all endeavor to answer to a higher law...to do the right thing. When we have knowledge of inequity or injustice, we must act to change it, eradicate it. What would motivate us to cling to a "tradition" or policy that disenfranchised anyone? I see it as indefensible. Your freedom ends where mine begins.

Further, in a kinder, gentler, more noble world, the solution to the gender issue at the Augusta National Golf Club would not involve "giving in" on the part of the club's administration. What should have happened? Simple. Every man who was ever invited to join the ANGC should have asked two questions. First, "Are you admitting people of color?", and, second, "Are you admitting women?". When the answer was, "No", to a man they should have responded, "Then, no, thank you."

* Sharon? It would behoove you to remember that if women had not "shoved their way into places" they weren't wanted, you would not be voting on November 6th. 

Markers, Pencils, and Pens, Oh My!

Hooray for markers, pencils, pens, watercolor pencils, micron pens, colored micron pens, Tombow and Copic Markers and blender pens, tortillions, scissors, precision scissors, and ring knives! ...in this "byte driven age".

To Tangle, Tangle, Tangled, Have Tangled

I like the word tangle. I am specifically often fond of words that seem to have the power to conjure images in the mind that look like the word sounds. Vertices is a lovely word that instantly sweeps you to the top of a group of towering...triangles? But then one has to wonder if these words really do sound  like they look, or do we project our own mental images from years of exposure to knowing what these words mean? For instance, would someone learning English as a second language have the benefit of the mental images to which some English words lend themselves? Language is irresistibly fascinating.

Back to "tangle". In the verb form, "to twist together into a confused mass". It summons up visions of windblown hair, snarled necklaces, knotted, intertwined tree branches.

"O, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive" - Sir Walter Scott
"I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions" - James Michener
"We always did feel the same, We just saw it from a different point of view - tangled up in blue." Bob Dylan

Now tangle has a new meaning for me. It is the verb form of the new art form noun known as Zentangle. Zentangle was created by Maria Thomas and Rick Roberts and defined on their website: http://www.zentangle.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=7&Itemid=30, 

"Our Zentangle method is a way of creating beautiful images from repetitive patterns"

One aspect I love about Zentangle, is the tangled, complex look many of the patterns have, but, when broken down into steps, are simple lines and geometric shapes that can be easily untangled. Untangling is always so satisfying.

So, I'm going to post some of my tangles here. I've recently tangled the lampshade that hangs over my desk and I tangled a tiny pumpkin last fall. Tangling on objects is fun. I also have branched out from traditional Zentangles (3 1/2" X 3 1/2" tiles of art paper that consist of only Zentangle patterns) to ZIA - Zentangle Inspired Art. It still seems a little odd to me that something so new has a lingo all its own already...but I've become so familiar with Rick and Maria, their website and blog, and so many other Zentangle artists and their blogs, that they (and their lingo) all feel like old friends to me. I feel part of a community, albeit an online one. It is one of my sincerest wishes to attend one of their CZT (Certified Zentangle Teacher) Seminars. They hold them in Rhode Island and they are three days in length. There is one scheduled for August and one for September of this year. September in Rhode Island....then maybe a fall folliage jaunt northward. Wouldn't that be grand? sigh....

More another day. All this uploading is tedious.

(((hugs to everyone who reads this))), and I'd feel so validated if you left a comment. I promise not to go all Sally Field on you...

"You like me!  *sob*  You really like me!"

Really...I won't....not where you can see anyway...