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...

Hillary Rosen Is Right

Hillary Rosen doesn't think my job is a real job. Her quote heard round the Twitter World about Ann Romney, "His wife has never actually worked a day in her life", means that women who don't work outside the home don't have real jobs. She knows that raising kids and keeping house is actual work, so she didn't mean that Mrs. Romney, and the 5.5 million+ of us women who also don't work, don't actually work. What did she mean?

What Hillary Rosen meant was, women who stay home with their children and work at homemaking, rather than enter the workforce, do not have real jobs. And she's right. A job is defined as, "a regular activity performed in exchange for payment". The work I have been doing for the past 36 years could most definitely not be classified in any sense as "regular activity" and I certainly was not paid for it. No, I don't have a real job, and neither did Mrs. Romney. So why all the outrage? The answer makes me smile. The answer lies buried deep within our culture's frenzied efforts to eradicate ideas like selflessness, femininity, masculinity, female dependence upon men, and the original intent of the real American Dream.

I smile, because your outrage means, you really do care, America. In your heart of hearts, you know this heedless remark was not about work. You were instantly, instinctively angered, because you understand...and value...what the nonworking, stay at home mother is doing.  Most of us had one, many of us are one, all of us know one. And we know that some things in this life transcend remuneration, are beyond valuation, and that  mothering possibly tops the list. So I'm simply gratified that for all our high sounding, progressive ideals about equality and empowerment...there's within us still that spark of truth - of knowing - what's really important in life. And like it or not, the knowing involves recognizing that the old fashioned models of selflessness, real gender roles that embody femininity and masculinity, and, horrors, female dependence upon men, are incumbent upon the brave woman who chooses this most difficult of...er...jobs.

So, no, it wasn't Ms. Rosen's stay-at-home-moms-don't-really-work remark that lit my fire. It was the one she made in a CNN interview later:  "This isn't about whether Ann Romney or I work. Other women of some means can afford to make a choice to stay at home and raise kids. Most women in America, let's face it, don't have that choice."  Now that made me mad.

"Other women of some means can afford to make a choice to stay at home and raise kids". Really? You really think the millions of us who have chosen to rear our own children are all women of means and do it because we can afford it? How could one so educated and experienced, and having risen to among the highest ranks of highly paid working women in the world, be so ignorant of the simple demographics of her own gender? Surely she knows that the median income for men is currently in the neighborhood of 50K. This is not a figure that gives families a sense of financial freedom and whimsy! And given that this wage is an average, many millions of men are earning far less than this. No, dear, we don't do it because we can afford it. The vast majority of us really can't, and are making significant sacrifices to manage it. We do it because we believe.


We believe it is the best thing for our kids. We believe it is the best thing for our husbands. We believe we are responsible for our own kids and we welcome it. We believe in the American Dream of our founders: that any American, male or female, can be anything he or she desires with hard work and honesty, and we want to be the ones to help our children grasp this vision. We believe we are better equipped than anyone on the planet to give our children the unshakable and tangible knowledge that we love them more than anybody or anything else. We believe we are the ones from whom our children should learn about right, wrong, good, bad, and yes, Virginia, there really are moral absolutes. We believe we are the ones who can instill a deep sense of familial identity, security, and belonging in the hearts and minds of our kids. And we believe all this is more important than money and is really a matter of priorities.

What kind of obtuseness, Ms. Rosen, fails to see that we, Mrs. Romney included, are neither motivated nor unmotivated by money in this stay-at-home endeavor? We do it, Ms. Rosen, because we are women of conviction, commitment, and courage. And we'll take it over your real job any day.

"The Trip To Bountiful"

I recently watched "The Trip To Bountiful" again. What a gem.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XczocuuAMV8

It is based on a play by Horton Foote. I love him; such an insightful writer.  Geraldine Page won a well-deserved  Oscar for her performance, and the music score is....perfect. An altogether understated, quiet film, but so powerful.

With facial expressions, body language, and a few pointed remarks and barbs in the opening scene, we instantly recognize the plight in which Carrie Watts finds herself. Old, lonely and wistful,  forced to live with her only son and his selfish, carping wife in a two room apartment, Carrie longs to go home. To Bountiful, Texas. She'd really rather be almost anywhere but here, but Bountiful calls her, pulls her. She remembers happy days there, and shares a poignant memory of running in the moonlight there with her son when he was small...she was young.

 Ludie, Carrie's son,  is a weak, ineffectual man, who, unlike his mother, fails to find joy in the small things of life. He denies any recollection of the moonlit excursion with his mother. He has clearly shut the door on his past, and is struggling, grim-faced and white knuckled, to simply hang on to the present.

The story unfolds as Carrie escapes the prison of Ludie and Jessie Mae's apartment. We feel her sense of urgency and longing. We cheer as she foils their attempts to stop her; especially when we learn Carrie has tried many times to run away to Bountiful. Carrie befriends the sweet and accommodating Thelma on the bus. Thelma learns about life from Miz Watts and becomes protective of her. Carrie learns Thelma's husband has gone off to the service, and is kind and sympathetic. She knows about heartache.

Carrie is the recipient of kindness and generosity from strangers; which makes the absence of these from Carrie's own family all the more striking.

We feel the weight of Carrie's grief and disappointment as the reality of the ravages of time hit home. Her friends, her family, her way of life, Bountiful...all changed, all gone. We are sharply aware that this is the way of old age. That it awaits us all. Oh, that we could meet it with the grace and courage of Carrie Watts. A gentle, humble, unsung heroine of uncommon grit and valor.