I’ve been doing one of my periodic re-readings of Moby Dick. Here are a few passages from the end (the three-day chase) that struck my eye this time through.

Starbuck, of late I’ve felt strangely moved to thee…But in this matter of the whale, be the front of thy face to me as the palm of this hand–a lipless, unfeatured blank. Ahab is for ever Ahab, man. This whole act’s immutably decreed. (509)

Against the wind he now steers for the open jaw…God keep us, but already my bones feel damp within me, and from the inside wet my flesh. I misdoubt me that I obey my God in obeying him! (512)

“The ship! The hearse!–the second hearse!” cried Ahab from the boat; “it’s wood could only be American!” (519)

And from earlier in the narrative,

Not seldom in this life, when, on the right side, fortune’s favorites sail close by us, we, though all adroop before, catch somewhat of the rushing breeze, and joyfully feel our bagging sails fill out. (452)

Out of Nowhere I remembered something one of my priest friends had said once, that grace is having a commitment to–or at least an acceptance of–being ineffective and foolish. That our bottled charm is the main roadblock to drinking that clear cool glass of love. I remembered what Grace’s stories were all about: self-forgiveness, and taking care of one another. It wasn’t far away from Jesus saying to feed his sheep. Now, I’m not positive he meant room service. But maybe he did. So I ate strawberries and melon and cookies, then put on the heat, and got in the tub.

It was amazing. I do not at all understand the mystery of grace–only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us. It can be received gladly or grudgingly, in big gulps or in tiny tastes, like a deer at the salt. I gobbled it, licked it, held it down between my little hooves.

The review in the newspaper the next day was not very good. But by then I’d figured out the gift of failure, which is that it breaks through all that held breath and isometric tension about needing to look good: it’s the gift of feeling floppier. One of the things I’ve been most afraid of had finally happened, with a whole lot of people watching, and it had indeed been a nightmare. But sitting with all that vulnerability, I discovered I could ride it. I felt ungainly, the way Marlon Brando looked on those ice skates, but at least I was back on my feet. I had come through.

And he said–gently–that they believe when a lot of things start going wrong all at once, it is to protect something big and lovely that is trying to get itself born–and that this something needs for you to be distracted so that it can be born as perfectly as possible.

I believe this to be true. And I especially believe it when other people’s things are breaking down. when it’s my stuff, I believe the direct cause is my bad character.

In preparation for the Glenn Workshop this year, I’m going to be reading Anne Lamott’s Travelling Mercies and Annie Dillard’s For the Time Being. So, I thought I’d share various tidbits as they came to me. This morning, I read the following from Anne Lamott:

The lifelong fear of grief keeps us in a barren, isolated place and [...] only grieving can heal grief; the passage of time will lessen the acuteness, but time alone, without the direct experience of grief, will not heal it.

and

Sometimes grief looks like narcolepsy.

On Friday, Ted and Nancy came over so that we could celebrate the two family birthdays that occured this week: Sherry’s on the 5th and Ted’s on the 8th. After a nice lunch out at Reino’s, we hurried back to the homestead to dive into some serious card playing. (Joy and Chris, please note the scorepad in the picture.) Todd “won” the first round by amassing an exact 100. Sherry repeated this dubious feat in the second round. By then it was decided by all that cake should be eaten. And so it was. After a third lightning fast round of Hearts, the group decided that before Ted and Nancy departed for Strongsville, that supper was in order. And so it was.

In the end our day with Ted and Nancy looked like this: eat, look at pictures, presents, cards, cards, eat, cards, eat.

All in all, a very nice day.

——->

Last night I finished cataloging all of the books that are in our bookcases. I’ve still got a couple of boxes to do in the basement, and we’ve still got Sherry’s books in her office.

However, here are some fun facts about our library as it currently stands:

1271 total books
1240 distinct titles
69 Avg # of other LibraryThing users who own each of our books
176 # of books that are unique to us among LibraryThing users
2368 # of LibraryThing users who own Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
95 # of books I’ve had to enter manually
508 # of books published in the 1990’s
28 # of books by/about C.S. Lewis
34 # of books by/about J.R.R. Tolkien

Yesterday (March 5) was Sherry’s birthday. Yey! We celebrated Saturday night by having our 4th (or 5th) Monty Python Party. There was cheese, laughing, carving of pressed meat, and much rejoicing. Check out the full (image laden) report for all the juicy details.

As the profound calm which only apparently precedes and prophesies of the storm, is perhaps more awful than the storm itself; for, indeed, the calm is but the wrapper and envelope of the storm; and contains it in itself, as the seemingly harmless rifle holds the fatal powder, and the ball, and the explosion; so the graceful repose of the line, as it silently serpentines about the oarsmen before being brought into actual play — this is a thing which carries more of true terror than any other aspect of this dangerous affair. But why say more? All men live enveloped in whale-lines. All are born with halters round their necks; but it is only when caught in the swift, sudden turn of death, that mortals realize the silent, subtle, ever-present perils of life. And if you be a philosopher, though seated in the whale-boat, you would not at heart feel one whit more of terror, than though seated before your evening fire with a poker, and not a harpoon, by your side.

Herman Melville, Moby Dick