The Character of Houses

Some people believe that a car can tell a lot about the owner's personality, but I do not subscribe to this notion in general. A person's car is far more indicative, in my opinion, of how much they are willing to spend, or of their personal needs, than it is of their character, in general. But go to a person's house, and there, I believe, you will discover far more clues to their habits, personality, and character than any car could ever display.
I have seen cars worth sixty thousand dollars and more, gleaming brightly in front of hovels. The yards were strewn with junk and trash, weeds were prolific, and the house itself was in disrepair. Perhaps the paint was peeling noticeably, or the foundation was unlevel, but all contributed to an air of chaos.
I have seen other houses, whose owners were clearly poor, yet who could be seen to be industrious and proud of their homes. Though the roof might be missing shingles and the paint peeling badly everywhere, the yard was clean of all junk. Lawn tools and furniture were neatly, tastefully arranged, and perhaps there were several potted plants or even a garden, in straight rows free of weeds.
And, of course, I have seen the homes of the well-to-do, with trim lawns and ornate houses, perhaps with a deck or a swimming pool. Houses whose yards are filled with yard ornaments, obviously arranged in some order, but so cluttered as to confuse the eye. Houses showing their owners of intricate detail and bright colours, often manifested in a surrounding garden as well. Houses of little individuality or personality (though not through the owner's fault) side by side with like houses, having like cars in their driveways. And once, a poorly maintained, cluttered house with two large pots of beautiful plants tastefully arranged in the midst of the clutter.
Because of such observations, it is a personal belief of mine that a good, though not infallible, clue to a person's character is their house. Here can be seen signs of industry, or laziness, order or chaos, beauty or ugliness, irrespective of apparent poverty or wealth.

A Poem

Though I do not consider myself a poet, there are times when an overwhelming urge-prahaps a few rhymes circulating in my brain, or a poignant strain in a song-inspires me to. write one occasionally.
As a child, I believed that rhyming was the sole element of poetry, such as I often heard in advertising jingles. There was no inkling in my mind whatever of the importance of meter, or even syllables. But that began to change when I read the Illid, and discovered that it was written in hexameter.
I still am fairly ignorant of all the nuances and meters of poetry, but I now have some sense of structure, as well as of rhyme. And here is a poem I wrote on the Beatific Vision.


What is it like to behold
A vision brighter than gold,
Beholding God in the face,
Comprehending but a trace?

What doth the heart and the mind
In that awesome sight do find?
What ecstasy in the sight
Of that most glorious light!

To glimpse that vision splendid
For which man was intended,
Of God infinite enthralls
The souls of those He calls.

The end of men's desires,
How it kindles love's fires!
Forever in unity,
One with the Divinity!

Lighter Fare

     One of my favorite hobbies (and a handy one) is sewing. I can't remember exactly how I first learned to sew, but I can recall stitching away by hand at doll dresses and even a few dolls.
     So, now that it's summertime and I wanted some new outfits for college, I took up my long-forsaken-for-the-sake-of-school pastime.

 This one is a pink jacket, with pleats and puffed sleeves (pleats and puffed sleeves are so pretty!)

 This is a yellow dress, also with pleats. The pink jacket is made to be worn over it.

 A plaid skirt, with pleats that can't be seen very well. This one should keep me warm on wintery days.

 A blue herring-bone jumper, also for winter. It's a 1950's retro pattern (love retro clothes-unless its 1920's. Blah. But never mind that.)

 This is just a plain cream-colored shell. Nothing exciting, but very useful.

This last one's a peasant-top-like casual dress. I actually disliked the print at first, so it sat in my closet for a year or so, until I decided that I might as well sew it up.
     As you can probably tell, I love pleats, gathers, darts, and puffed sleeves. Probably a holdover from my Victorian-mania days, when I insisted to my family that my (future) little boys were going to wear knickerbockers, and I was going to wear hoop skirts all the time. I'm glad I outgrew that notion! But I still love Victorian and Victorian-like clothes

Thankful for the Past

Many decent, thoughtful people have in their hearts a love of history, and often, an affection for a particular era. Whether the attraction of the era is the beautiful homes and clothes of the Victorians, the strong force of Catholicism in Medieval European society, or the military equipment used by the brave soldiers of the Second World War, the admiration is based upon something good.
For some, when they think of what the past means to them, feel a deep sadness that what they admire exists no more, at least in society at large. "Why can't things be that way now?" Some think. For some, this spurs them on to strive to rectify the wrong, but for others, it can lead to discontent with their lives.
I used to think this way, but have begun to think of the past, especially of things that have passed away, with gratitude that such things at least once were. At least their was once a time when women's clothes were consistently beautiful, or when Catholicism reigned supreme in Europe,or whatever other aspect of the past I admire.
I am not suggesting that nothing be done about whatever is wrong with the present using the past as a model for restoration. Far from it! Rather, let the past encourage rather than sadden most of the time. Think on how blessed we are to have good models to follow, unlike some who went before us. For instance, Catholics today have a model for the Christianization of society, while the early Christians had none to look back upon as teachers and guides. At least, they show us a way.
Let us be grateful for the past that is given to us.

Modernist Architecture and the Soul

     The following is an essay of mine, written for pleasure.


     Around the beginning of the twentieth century, roughly accompanying the emergence of abstract art was a new form of architecture, often known as Modernist. Its classification is baffling, for its forms and expressions varied widely, and still do, even among works by the same architect. But it is most frequently characterised by starkness, randomness, and ugliness.
     Distorted and contorted, their chaotic forms pervades modern life. The exteriors and interiors of these buildings convey little sense of order, glass walls leave nothing mysterious and hidden, and there is almost no notion of beauty present, unless twisted, geometric, concrete facades and gleaming steel pipe pillars is one's ideal of architectural beauty.
     But these buildings convey something, something beyond the whims of their makers. Behind this form of architecture is the philosophy of modernity, written in concrete,glass, and steel. Like these buildings, modern man is random, aimless,without a sense of order, purpose, mystery, or beauty. He, like these Modernist edifices, is merely a creature of whim and practical function.
     If architecture is to improve, to convey order, truth, purpose, beauty, and mystery, then modern man must change. Man must regain a sense of, an appreciation for, and a love of the supernatural. Otherwise, what he constructs today will become the monuments of his despair tomorrow.

     (I am not an architect or a student of architecture. This is merely based upon musing and observation.)

The Outdoors

Despite my fondness for sturdy trees, green grass, and breezes smoothing over my cheeks, I am not an outdoors woman. I am not one to go racing ten miles over hilly meadows with ease, nor am I one to spend an entire day outside (except when camping).
What I do enjoy is looking around at the display of nature, admiring the subtle shades of green and brown, browsing my mind to conjure up fitting descriptions for what I see so that I can write it down. Listening to the grasses rustle as I watch their wave-like ripples in the wind. Watching the trees gambol in the wind, storing their delightful, frisking movements in my memory.
I also enjoy watching the miniature drama of our local flying creatures, such as hummingbirds braving territorial carpenter bees for a sip at the hummingbird feeder, only to be forced to grapple with the aggressive carpenter bees in mid-air. Or, the neighbourly mockingbird, forced to move to another bush when he tried to land on his former favorite-only to find a pale brown stump. And, how could I forget the invading blackbirds of the fall, who were seen flying away bearing pecans in their beaks from our neighbours two, aged pecan trees!
Now, searching my mind, I believe that I love the outdoors, not for the challenges it provides, but for its inherent beauty, the stories it whispers to the wind, noisy yet voiceless. In it, I see the beauty and providence of God.

Reading for Pleasure: A "Visit" or an "Escape"?

     Why do I prefer to call reading for pleasure a "visit" rather than an "escape"?
     Reading stories of various kinds is one of my favorite pastimes. But, when I first encountered the notion of reading for pleasure as "an escape" from everyday life, I recoiled from it with an inexplicable distaste. Gradually as I matured, I began to understand why I felt an aversion to the notion.
     Though I derive satisfying pleasure from reading stories, I have come to comprehend a truth that I have known vaguely since childhood. The purpose of reading stories is not merely for pleasure, but also to absorb truth, to ponder the truth as it enters the mind, and thereby to gain understanding and wisdom. To me, to read stories solely to escape into a pleasure land counters this purpose, and hampers one from fully experiencing all the enjoyment that can be derived from and through stories.
     The notion of reading as "an escape" also hints to me that life is a drudgery, and that pleasurable reading is a "drug" to alleviate the tedium of ordinary life. But the very fact that one chooses to live daily life despite routine elevates living from drudgery to a heroic struggle. Combined with the extraordinary events that happen to all, an exciting, intriguing picture of ordinary life emerges, if one wills to see it.
     A by product of the notion that life is drudgery could be that the fictional worlds in stories are sometimes viewed as more thrilling or enjoyable than reality. But from whence came the stories? The authors did not conjure them from nothingness, but from reality, either directly or from reflections of it, and they compiled that reality into new forms. This refashioning of reality touches the reader most deeply when it points to truth because it reflects a reality they subconsciously know to exist, or that ought to be.
     Thus, stories are meant to be an experience, not of escape from reality, but of enduring truths. These truths are conveyed in stories through common human actions, thoughts, and emotions. Though reading, enjoying, and pondering stories, the reader experiences these truths, and comes to a deeper understanding of human nature and the world.

Minimalist Writing

     It seems to me that modern writing, in fiction and non-fiction, is not very descriptive. More like Ernest Hemingway and less like Charles Dickens. True, Dickens' styles may have been overblown and long winded, and Hemingway crisp, but to write in newspaper prose deprives readers of one of the chief pleasures of good reading: Beautiful language.
     Writers are often told to expand their vocabulary, only to be warned against using many adjectives and adverbs. This advice is sound in itself, and prevents, long winded adverbial and adjectival descriptions which add nothing worthwhile to a description and weigh down prose, confusing the reader. But too rigid an adherence to this maxim, and newspaper prose in abundance streams from the keyboards of aspiring writers.
     Perhaps this maxim, modified, can be reconciled with the expansion of vocabulary. Perhaps what should be emphasized is the acquisition of vivid nouns and verbs, instead of a general "expand your vocabulary" advice. Then, combined together with a moderate usage of pertinent adverbs and adjectives, a powerful, descriptive writing style, filled with beauty, can emerge.
     Language is meant to describe things so accurately that one can see what the author is trying to convey. It should inspire awe, invoke the admiration of beauty, teach truths to the ignorant, and admonish the heedless. But how can this be done well with bare-minimum prose?
     As a closing statement, I shall compare Jane Austin's classic opening to Pride and Prejudice with my "newspaper prose" rendition:
     "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife."
     "All know that a wealthy young bachelor needs a wife."

Utter Randomness

The first bit is a random excerpt that I wrote a good while ago (though edited).


"Seething madness swirls round me. Darkness shuts upon me. All is a whirling of confusion. Then, a tabernacle I suddenly perceive in its midst. I reach out, clutch it and cling to it with all my might. For within is my haven, my stability when all else is chaos."

When I was about 14-15 years old, Suddenly,startlingly, began to noticed the eyes of the people around me when I went out in public. From the aged to mere toddlers, nearly all bore a dull, glazed, jaded expression. An expression of deep sadness. A sadness that prevailed even when they laughed.
I felt a stabbing pain to my soul, as a desire to reach them, teach them, was aroused in my heart. I would wonder what could so deaden and crush joy that a mark of boredom nigh to nihilistic despair would be stamped upon their eyes even in the midst of abundance and pleasures.
I wanted to catch these souls with a woven net of prayers and draw them to God. I was so full of peace, yet around me were billions of souls in pain, agony, fear. Souls that did not know or who had forgotten the God I knew.
Now, as I am about to go to college, I realize what a grace it was to be allowed to see the sorrow in their eyes. Though I am imperfect,there is a task to be done, there is something that God wants to do through me. Perhaps it is to show one of them the way to Himself.
Only in eternity shall I know.

Bright Days: Why I Write Part Two

Outside, the pale white-gold sunlight shines through the pale green leaves, lending them a yellow glow. In contrast, the Eastern Redceaders make a contrast with their dark forest green needles, which seem to remain perpetually in shadow. A few other trees, mostly pecans and oaks, bears leaves of a deeper hue than the former, but brighter than the latter ceaders.
Verdant, lush grass, refreshing to walk upon and to gaze upon, covers the land. Flowers of vivid yellow and purple, always the heralds of spring where I live, spring up in sparse, scattered groups. Above is a clear, pale blue sky.
I love the place that I live at.
Once more, I am reminded of why I write. Around me, the color that symbolises hope is blazoned brightly,boldly. I wish to inspire, to remind people in these days that hope yet remains. I wish to defy empty, nihilistic literature by boldly proclaiming that though fallen, we have hope. We can find redemption. We can find joy. We can find God.

Redemptive Sufferring

I fear suffering, yet it pursues me. My burdens are infinitesimal, ones that most people in the world would regard as nothing compared to their trials, and they would be right. But interior pain, caused by a conflict of self-love and a desire for sanctity, is my habitual companion.
I desire to embrace, to love suffering as the saints did, but lacked any degree of understanding of the nature of that love, until now. To love anything on earth, especially suffering itself, is to suffer. It will maim your pride, and crush you beyond anything you thought could be endured. It will hurl your dearest thoughts, plans-even possesions-into a maelstrom of bitter disappointment and obliterate them. What you cherished it seems to transform into a hollow mockery. You begin to wonder if you have done anything worthwhile.
If the advances of suffering are welcomed, though in tears, joy will come. It will force you to gaze outward, then above. First at your fellow men, then upon the Suffering Christ on the Cross.

(Note: I live a very happy life. But I am a melancholic, and redemptive suffering has filled my thoughts of late, giving me a fervent desire to write of it)

Introduction: Why I Write Number One

     On a grey-white fall day two years ago, I sat upon my bed, glanced out of the window, and stared, rapt in calm wonder at what I saw, jotting down meanwhile what I have posted below (slightly edited):

     Towards evening, a white mist began to descend from the hilltops into the valleys, lending an ethereal mystique to the trees, which were great, fluffy clumps of deep green, burnt red, and rust yellow. Shrouded beneath the translucent veil of mist, they solemnly and mechanically swayed in the mild gusts that traveled by, over, and through them.
     The clouds above were a pale, bright grey, reflecting an unearthly brightness onto the hills and valleys. In the wood glades and tiny fields stood coarse grasses of chocolate brown, orange-brown, straw-brown, lime and forest green, sticking up like pliable needles or feathers on a feather duster. Flowers frosty white and lemony yellow mingled with the grasses, as tokens of summer past, as forebodings of winter to come.
     The fog grew thicker, and crept nearer...

     To describe, to capture in writing such scenes as written above is a driving motivation that inspires me to write. To write vividly in beautiful English, to learn to see beauty around me, this is why I write.
     But there are other reasons that inspire me, even more compelling.