Give Beauty Back

In honor of national poetry month I leave you with Richard Burton's wonderful reading of two Hopkins poems.  They seem especially apt as we move from winter to spring, from lent to Easter, through the end of a semester.






The Leaden Echo And The Golden Echo
(Maidens' song from St. Winefred's Well)


THE LEADEN ECHO
How to keep--is there any any, is there none such, nowhere known some, bow or brooch or braid or brace, lace, latch or catch or key to keep
Back beauty, keep it, beauty, beauty, beauty, . . . from vanishing away?
O is there no frowning of these wrinkles, ranked wrinkles deep,
Down? no waving off of these most mournful messengers, still messengers, sad and stealing messengers of grey?
No there's none, there's none, O no there's none,
Nor can you long be, what you now are, called fair,
Do what you may do, what, do what you may,
And wisdom is early to despair:
Be beginning; since, no, nothing can be done
To keep at bay
Age and age's evils, hoar hair,
Ruck and wrinkle, drooping, dying, death's worst, winding sheets, tombs and worms and tumbling to decay;
So be beginning, be beginning to despair.
O there's none; no no no there's none:
Be beginning to despair, to despair,
Despair, despair, despair, despair.




THE GOLDEN ECHO
Spare!
There is one, yes I have one (Hush there!);
Only not within seeing of the sun,
Not within the singeing of the strong sun,
Tall sun's tingeing, or treacherous the tainting of the earth's air.
Somewhere elsewhere there is ah well where! one,
One. Yes I can tell such a key, I do know such a place,
Where whatever's prized and passes of us, everything that's fresh and fast flying of us, seems to us sweet of us and swiftly away with, done away with, undone,
Undone, done with, soon done with, and yet dearly and dangerously sweet
Of us, the wimpled-water-dimpled, not-by-morning-matched face,
The flower of beauty, fleece of beauty, too too apt to, ah! to fleet,
Never fleets more, fastened with the tenderest truth
To its own best being and its loveliness of youth: it is an ever-lastingness of, O it is an all youth!
Come then, your ways and airs and looks, locks, maiden gear, gallantry and gaiety and grace,
Winning ways, airs innocent, maiden manners, sweet looks, loose locks, long locks, lovelocks, gaygear, going gallant, girlgrace--
Resign them, sign them, seal them, send them, motion them with breath,
And with sighs soaring, soaring sighs deliver
Them; beauty-in-the-ghost, deliver it, early now, long before death
Give beauty back, beauty, beauty, beauty, back to God, beauty's self and beauty's giver.
See; not a hair is, not an eyelash, not the least lash lost; every hair
Is, hair of the head, numbered.
Nay, what we had lighthanded left in surly the mere mould
Will have waked and have waxed and have walked with the wind what while we slept,
This side, that side hurling a heavyheaded hundredfold
What while we, while we slumbered.
O then, weary then why should we tread? O why are we so haggard at the heart, so care-coiled, care-killed, so fagged, so fashed, so cogged, so cumbered,
When the thing we freely forfeit is kept with fonder a care,
Fonder a care kept than we could have kept it, kept
Far with fonder a care (and we, we should have lost it) finer, fonder
A care kept. Where kept? Do but tell us where kept, where.--
Yonder.--What high as that! We follow, now we follow.--
Yonder, yes yonder, yonder,
Yonder.

The Greatest Feast

Here are two quotes from Tolkien, which taken together illustrate a very profound theology of the Eucharist and wonderful food for thought in the Lenten season.  


"And yet this waybread of the Elves had a potency that increased as travellers relied on it alone and did not mingle it with other foods. It fed the will, and it gave strength to endure, and to master sinew and limb beyond the measure of mortal kind.”  - Lord of the Rings, Book VI Chapter 3, Mount Doom.

"The only cure for sagging of fainting faith is Communion. Though always Itself, perfect and complete and inviolate, the Blessed Sacrament does not operate completely and once for all in any of us. Like the act of Faith it must be continuous and grow by exercise. Frequency is of the highest effect. Seven times a week is more nourishing than seven times at intervals. Also I can recommend this as an exercise (alas! only too easy to find opportunity for): make your communion in circumstances that affront your taste. Choose a snuffling or gabbling priest or a proud and vulgar friar; and a church full of the usual bourgeois crowd, ill-behaved children - from those who yell to those products of Catholic schools who the moment the tabernacle is opened sit back and yawn - open necked and dirty youths, women in trousers and often with hair both unkempt and uncovered. Go to communion with them (and pray for them). It will be just the same (or better than that) as a mass said beautifully by a visibly holy man, and shared by a few devout and decorous people. (It could not be worse than the mess of the feeding of the Five Thousand - after which [our] Lord propounded the feeding that was to come.)"-The Letters of J. R. R. Tolkien.

In This World, Not of It

So many times a person drops a comment--"how could they have a child, it is so irresponsible" "Someone that sick is better off dead," "Tim Tebow's Superbowl ad is a sign that the world is reverting into barbarism and darkness"--little things passing in a conversation and I cringe and protest inwardly but keep quiet.  I feel like I cannot fight every comment, fight every minute.  But where is the line between between being a witness and being a coward?

The idea of drawing a line in the sand has its attraction; of setting oneself apart, being scorned and persecuted for one's faith, the romantic vision of the solitary martyr.  But the root of this is pride and fruit of it is not witness.

I keep reminding myself of the St. Francis' words, "preach the Gospel always and if necessary use words." But what constitutes necessary?  When is that line crossed when action becomes a necessity?  And is the light of my actions enough in a place like this?  Never have I been somewhere where I feel so isolated by what I believe, so completely alone.  How much does that impact to not speak, the desire to have friends, to be liked?  How many people would I alienate by speaking out?  And how can I find the community that is so important to human life?

God grant me the grace to shine your light to those around me, the courage to speak out, the wisdom to know when to do so, and faith to know I am never alone.

Self Help vs Self Knowlege

Among all of the confusing messages thrown at people by modern culture is that we won't be happy until we accept our selves just the way we are (along with the messages that we need nose jobs and jeans that cost $500). From comercials to motivational speakers and self-help books, it seems as though everyone is ecouraging people to celebrate their selves just the way they are. This is not necessarily a bad thing. Everyone is unique and and deserves to be celebrated and appreciated, by others as well as their selves.

This celebration of self, however, seems to lack seems to lack any introspection or restraints placed upon them. In fact, we have moved from Socrates dictum, "Know thy self" to one recommending blind acceptance. People relish in being loud, brash and presumptuous; traits they do not see as flaws to be worked on but things to be celebrated. Terms like "bitch" have even become badges that some people wear proudly.

This trend is thrown into even greater contrast at the start of Lent. We are encouraged to look within ourselves and make changes in our lives, adding, omitting, or amending habits in order to make us better people, better Christians. No longer is the goal just blind self acceptance of self, it is a realistic self appraisal. This does achieve Socrates' maxim, for the only way to truly know yourself is to see your faults and to work to change them. That is worth celebrating.