Heroes, Episode II

Laura Ingalls Wilder

One of the first (real) books I remember reading was Little House in the Big Woods.  We had all of Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House books, in slightly crumbly, butter-cream colored paperbacks, pages yellowed with age like so many good books - except Little House in the Big Woods, it was of the more modern, shiny-covered variety.

Within the first few pages, Laura was tucked deep in my heart.  She was curious and fierce and a dreamer.  Her stories were wild and unbelievable whilst being plain and earthy.  Most of all, they were vivid and real, and to me she was vivid and real, and so was her family.

Laura (right) with Mary (center) and Carrie

I don't know the extent to which the details of the books line up with the details of Laura's life, but the fact remains that she wouldn't have been able to write them if she hadn't actually lived that kind of life, lived in one of the last pioneer generations.  It was truly a hard life, fraught with failure and illness and uncertainty, but it's what built our country - pushing west to find more room, more land, and hopefully prosperity.  And even though the Little House books are written for children, they don't skip over many of the hard facts.

(For the record, I've seen a few episodes of the TV show.  They didn't really stick with me.)

Laura herself not only lived as a pioneer, but lived well on into the twentieth century, becoming a journalist and writer and even working for the Farm Loan Association.  She went from the world of horse-drawn wagons to one of commercial air travel.  She saw two world wars.

I would love to have dinner with Laura.  I can't, but I can always go back to those crumbly books - which I have refused to let go of and still sit in my old room in my parents' house (now a guest room) - and live a little bit of her life, vicariously, and know the thoughts she chose to share with the world.

Ma, Pa, and the Ingalls girls - I think Laura is directly behind Pa

Images from hoover.archives.gov and www.discoveringlaura.com.  Some information may have been borrowed from Wikipedia...

Heroes, Episode I

I'm very wary of idolizing people.  We're all broken and flawed.  But through that brokenness, something inspiring can glimmer - like a hint of a secret human destiny - suggesting that we can not only aspire to something beyond our assumed lot in life, but achieve it too.
There are a few of these people - my heroes and heroines - that have helped me believe in that aspiration.
Since today is Amelia Earhart's birthday, and yesterday Sally Ride passed away, I think today will be about the two of them.

I love them both because they both broke into a difficult field previously reserved for men.  They had to be both capable and really smart.  Also, they (along with other pilots and astronauts) pushed the boundaries of what we previously believed humans were capable of.

I've never held the delusion that I could be an astronaut.  I'm not smart enough and, well, like a lot of academics, I'm kind of soft.  So I hold an almost child-like awe for the men and women smart and strong enough to go into space...that's SPACE, folks.  It's like real-life science fiction.

But I do know that I can - and hopefully someday will - become a pilot.  Being a passenger on a commercial jet is pretty tedious (though I do love watching the takeoff and landing) but sitting in the cockpit of a little Cessna or Piper is exhilarating, controlling the means by which humans have actually conquered the sky.  Amelia Earhart was not only a pioneer for women, she was a pioneer for air travel.  She was daring to the end.

So those are my two heroines for today.  Two women concerned with more than societal norms.  Smart, brave women, not perfect, but possessing the guts and determination I'd like to have.  I'd like to be that kind of pathfinder, a bit reckless and willing to at least attempt to do exemplary and audacious things.

Last Summer

Missing it.

Boats

Here's a boat.

It's in Nyhavn, Copenhagen.

Here's another boat:

It's the Sea Stallion from Glendalough , berthed in Roskilde, though at the moment I believe it's sailing around Denmark.

And here's a few more:

We rowed and sailed the one in the foreground.  Like the Sea Stallion, it's a Viking reconstruction.

I like boats.  Sailboats, particularly.  Using ingenuity and creativity to maneuver the vast uncontrollables of wind and sea to your own advantage.  Not that I've ever been sailing on the open sea, or even sailing for more than a few hours, and never by myself.  I think I would like to, though the thought is somewhat terrifying; after all, wind and sea ARE uncontrollable, and no amount of wood or rigging will bring them under your power.  But I do like the idea.  I think that's why I like planes, as well; both are reminders of both the far-reaching capabilities of humans and our ultimate helplessness at the end of the day.  Perspective.  

I also like the quietness of sailing.

Be careful of caring

I'll only be here another couple of months.

So I frantically want to capture the smiles and laughs of everyone who is dear to me here now and bottle them for safe transatlantic travel.

"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.” - C.S. Lewis

Curse my vulnerable heart.  Should've put it in a box instead of taking it around the world.

Fresh Coffee and Drums

On Saturday I went to a Refugee/Asylum Seeker event at St. Fagan's open-air museum.  I admit I hadn't given much thought to the situation of refugees until I met some a few months ago, and now it's something I increasingly care about.  I also love the warm, vibrant cultures that many of these refugees come from; it stands out brightly against what can sometimes be a rather dreary context here in rainy Wales (sorry, Welsh friends - I do love Wales.  It's just awfully cold and gray, and a bit formal sometimes).  Saturday was intermittently rainy and characteristically overcast, but St. Fagan's was a lush green and the tent that housed the event was filled with the nutty smell of roasting coffee beans as Almas performed the traditional Eritrean coffee ceremony - washing, roasting, and grinding the beans before finally brewing and serving the thick, sweet coffee.

Modernity means camp stoves and electric grinders

 We stood outside the museum for a while as Max from Liberia played drums, inviting passers-by to give it a try and encouraging them to come by the tent later.  As numbers lagged, we each sat down in turn and tried to drum along.  Max showed me harder and harder rhythms but I kept up ok, though I can't seem to get a very loud "boom" out of the center of the drum head; he told me I needed to cup my hand and that helped a little bit.  "You're good," he said, "Do you want to play again with me later?"  

Can I just tell you now that drumming is ridiculously fun?  Naturally I said yes.  I've tried to play a djembe before but never really grasped it like this before, and I was itching to play more even though my hands ached already.

Back in the tent, a Zimbabwean refugee animatedly told the crowd stories from his childhood, and a Sudanese man sang two hauntingly lovely songs in Arabic, a capella.  Then they called Max up to the front to perform- there were maybe 40 people gathered to watch, I guess, I'm bad at numbers so I could be really off - and he said to me, "Come on - you're playing with me, right?"

So he announced me as his drum assistant and we played together, me on one drum and Max on two.

It was a long day, cool and rainy, but warm and filling nonetheless.  I got to observe most of the time, which is what I really love doing, but I was pushed out of my comfort zone in many ways (not just by impromptu drumming), with delightful results, and made a few lovely new friends.  Also, the food and coffee was delicious.

Any minute now...

I'm sure you know the song "Down Under" by Men at Work..."Do you come from a land down under?  Where women glow and men plunder?"  Well, this post is not about that song - even though it's a great song.  Naw, Men at Work frontman Colin Hay does acoustic albums now, which I discovered several years ago.  One of the most memorable is "Waiting for My Real Life to Begin". (YouTube it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cvrzqcfv9mY)

Any minute now, my ship is coming in

I'll keep checking the horizon

And I'll stand on the bow

When I awoke today, suddenly nothing happened

But in my dreams I slew the dragon

And down this beaten path

And up this cobbled lane

I'm walking in my own steps once again.

Don't you understand?

I already have a plan

I'm waiting for my real life to begin.

I admit that, against my better judgment, contrary to the knowledge of the things I know to be true, I have lived long periods of my life with this mindset.  That someday soon, next month, six months from now, next year, "real life" will finally begin.  Like I'm waiting for something.  Like I'm just in the first chapter of the book of my life and we're just trying to get all the back story out of the way.
I know that this is a shallow, lazy, and unfaithful mindset, yet I continue to come back to it.  I think Paul hits the nail on the hammer when he says in Romans 7: "For I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate...For I have the desire to do what is right, but not the ability to carry it out."  That's not an excuse, though - just an acknowledgement that I can do very little, if anything at all, without God's help.  Even now, I am planning and waiting and regarding my present time as just something to "finish up" before the next stage of life, instead of fully embracing the time here as purposeful and God-given.  That's how I regarded last summer, how I regarded the last couple years of college, last two years of high school, etc.  
This post is not going to have a neat, self-revelatory, problem-solving ending.  It's merely a confession.  Maybe you can empathize with it.
In a few months, I will be moving back to the US.  I don't expect that my "real life" will begin then.  It's happening now, and I'm missing it because I'm dreaming about slaying dragons.  (Not literally, I haven't dreamed about dragons in a while...)  
Life is not a dream, and dragons are real.  They just don't always look like dragons.

Pic source: http://www.flickr.com/photos/joel_r/5590291023/in/photostream/

Where I've been, What I've seen