Picking Apart the ‘Literary Princess’


On the way home from lunch, I sang Disney songs to my daughter as I drove. When “Belle” from Beauty & the Beast came on, I found myself pondering the lyrics of the song, which I had never really considered before. Not really. Belle puts down her life in this “poor, provincial town”, which I consider quite unfair now.

I would dare say that she is not only dreaming of “something more” but she does so because she is bored. How can one possibly be bored in her day and time? But then I realized something. Not once throughout the film does Belle show any particular skill, aside from attracting birds like Snow White and reading. She doesn’t cook, she doesn’t clean, though might assume she does so for her father. However, we see no evidence of it. For all we know, it’s Maurice who does the cooking and cleaning, as well as the inventing, in their house. (And just how do they make the money they need to survive if her father cannot sell his inventions?) She bemoans her provincial life, though almost all I see throughout her trip through the village are folks who work hard at whatever it is they do: the baker, the farmers and vendors at market, the barber, the milliner, the bookseller. What does Belle do? Wander the village and purportedly read all day, if she finishes books as quickly as she claims. By the way, being able to read in and of itself in this time period, THAT took time and tutelage and position. And yet she cries out, “There must be more than this provincial life!” However, the fact of the matter is that she seems to have it easiest of anyone in town aside from, forgive me, Gaston.

Belle was always my favorite ‘princess’ growing up because she loved to read so much. In my mind, I had never seen a heroine so like me. But now that I think about it in-depth, her character is a sort of social double-standard. I do envy Belle her version of a “provincial life”. I should dearly love to be able to sit around and read all day long and then run into the village and trade out books from the book store that I never had to pay for. I will admit that I have always romanticized the idyllic life, though I know that my imaginings of it are more like Marie Anoinette’s little manor, the Petit Trianon, or as sweet and simple as Buttercup’s farm in The Princess Bride or even the Shire. And Belle’s little village life that she so despises and wishes to get away from is nothing if not idyllic.

So let’s think about this. Belle goes from a discontent lower-middle-class (though a head above just about everyone else around her) village girl who wails that she wants “adventure in the great wide somewhere”, to a settled, pampered princess in a castle that, no doubt, now survives and thrives on the taxes of the surrounding villages, including the one where she lived. They do have a HUMAN staff to feed, clothe, and pay wages to now, after all, don’t they? But, in all of this, I should have liked to see her boil a kettle for her own cup of tea just once. A woman who can take care of herself; now that’s inspiring.

Art Made Nightmare


Disclaimer/spoiler alert: If you watch “Downton Abbey” and have not yet seen the 1/27/13 episode from Season 3, you may want to skip this blog post.

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I adore “Downton Abbey”! It has been a very long while since I’ve been that enthralled with a television drama. We started watching it two years ago this month and, for Valentine’s Day in 2011, my husband bought me seasons 1 and 2 for my gift, and then season 3 for Christmas this year. So wonderful!

However, there is one episode that I do not allow myself to watch, not again – Season 3, episode 4. Sybil, the youngest of the Crawley girls, arrives home with her husband Tom Branson (the former chauffeur) close to giving birth. In her early labor pains, Sybil starts to exhibit signs of pre-eclampsia (swollen ankles, muddled mental state), which are ignored by the stately Harley Street doctor that Lord Grantham prefers over the local Dr. Clarkson. Dr. Clarkson insists in taking measures to protect Sybil from going into full eclampsia but is shouted down. Sybil gives birth to her baby, a girl, but, late in the night, she begins to have headaches and seizures. It is eclampsia and there is nothing to be done. The family stands by helplessly as Sybil slips away, her husband sobbing over her, her newborn girl now motherless.

As brilliantly as the episode was acted, it was too close to the center of fears that plagued my heart and mind during my pregnancy.  Granted, I watched it after Elizabeth was born but it made no difference. I still sobbed and ached and hid my face in Ben’s shoulder. My mother had two pregnancies before she became pregnant with me, and suffered from pre-eclampsia with her first and full-blown eclampsia with her second. She lost both babies, the first (my brother) was stillborn and then Mom had seizures with the second (my sister), the baby born early and passed away from respiratory distress three days later. So, when I was diagnosed as pre-eclamptic, I was terrified. I feared so much something happening to me and leaving Ben and Elizabeth without me or, ever more the worse, something happening to us both and my beloved husband being left all alone. They did weekly blood and urine tests, non-stress tests to monitor Elizabeth twice a week, put me on blood pressure medication, and when my swelling did not decrease, nor did my protein levels, I was put on bed rest a full three weeks early (I was teaching at the time and Elizabeth was originally due to arrive a week after the fall semester ended). I was scheduled to be induced 9 days before Elizabeth’s original due date and, when I went in for it, they put me on magnesium to keep me from going into seizures, pitocin to induce labor, and saline to keep me hydrated. Still, I was afraid. I do not remember much of the day but, when it was announced that a cesarean was going to be necessary to keep Elizabeth’s heart-rate from dropping, I began shaking and didn’t stop until the operation was over.

This episode embodied everything I feared. Art become nightmare indeed. Perhaps, some day, I will find the fortitude with which to watch it again but, until then, the fear is still too fresh, my heart still too tender from it. Again, it was perfectly executed and intensely acted. Just a little too much for me.

Unique as a Snowflake


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This was my window today

We have all heard that phrase: “unique as a snowflake”, though my favorite version of this aphorism is Fight Club’s admonition that “you are not a unique, beautiful snowflake”. And it’s true. We aren’t snowflakes and to equivocate our personal individuality to a weather phenomenon whose own “uniqueness” is relatively short-lived is unfair, I think. We as human beings are of a far greater complexity than snow, rending it simple by comparison. We are made up of unseen variables that cannot be counted, measured, or quantified. We don’t simply disappear when we are joined with other people; even though we mix, we are still individuals.  We do not blend so that no one can tell where one person ends and another begins.

People are not snowflakes, however pretty and momentarily-unique the latter might be. People are so much more than that. There will always be more to a person than you know, more than I believe we can fully fathom. Their individuality does not melt away, no matter how heated the situation, nor does it freeze into stagnation, no matter how icy the world outside is.

The Two Sides of Me


I am a woman of two elements: fire and water. Fire burns with passion and intent, fierce and engulfing. It can destroy but also smelt and refine. Water flows, finding new ways around when one is blocked, nourishing and refreshing where it goes.

And that’s where my brain kind of stops. Well, the eloquent side of it anyway. I wanted to talk about the two sides of me: the emotional and the rational. It’s been foremost on my mind lately, as they have been foremost in what I have been dealing with in the new year, but the truth is: I got nothin’. I have no idea how to voice what’s in my head. How to talk about the rational decisions and the emotions that follow. Less and less easy a task the more I think about it. I thought I had it, I did. I thought I could just let the words fan out from my brain in a semblance of order that makes even a modicum of sense or contains value. But, yeah…

I got nothin’ this time around.

A Time Lord’s Auld Lang Syne


The night is waning, the year is bidding farewell, her family is asleep, and her world is quiet. Until she hears it. On her back porch, that whooshing thrum that echoes through the New Year’s Eve air. Standing from her blanket cocoon on her couch, she makes her way to the back door, reaching for the handle, only to have the screen door open without warning, leaving her to jump back from the blast of cold night air.

And there he is, standing in the snow-swirled doorway like the proverbial bow-tied Peter Pan at her window.

“Happy New Year!” he crows.

“Shhh!” comes the retort and he instantly shrinks down, hand before his mouth, eyes wide with mirth.

“Happy New Year?” comes the greeting once more, only much, much quieter.

“You’re on the western side of the Atlantic, love. It’s not New Year’s quite yet,” she says with a smile at the mad man with the police box, reaching behind him to close the door and shut out the cold once more.

“Really? My timing must be off, though I’d get here right after they knocked the ball off. Oh, well, no matter! Time left then!”

“Shhh!” she reprimands again but, this time, he just smiles.

“How are you?” he asks, crossing his arms behind him.

“Seeing out the old year and welcoming the new,” she replies leading him through her small house and into a living room warmed by a small fireplace. She offers him a seat on the sofa, if he wishes.

“What brings you here on New Year’s Eve?” she then asks as she sits.

He doesn’t answer for a moment but then his words are soft and honest. “To say goodbye as well.”

Her face falls as she reads his. “This seriously is it, isn’t it? You are saying goodbye.”

This adorable maniac purses his lips and nods slowly. “Times change and so must we.”

She cannot help but glance down the hall towards the bedrooms where her husband and toddler daughter slumber peacefully. “We do change, don’t we?” she murmurs softly. “I remember the first time you and your crazy box came to me. Seems like so very long ago.”

A smile, sad and joyous all at the same time, curls his lips. “I do, too. The Girl Who Stayed Behind.”

She chuckles. “Oh, I get a title, now do I?”

“Well, of course!” he replies, “It’s a thing I do.”

Reaching out gently, she cups that cheek in her hand. So young that face but so old those eyes. Neither of them says anything for the longest time, though everyone knows that the most significant words are spoken in the space between. In the silences.

“Thank you for stopping for me that day,” she finally says, “Though I have not regretted not going with you.”

“I know you haven’t; you think I haven’t kept an eye on you? You’ve had some pretty amazing adventures of your own,” he says, “I wouldn’t have offset that destiny for all the stars in the expanse.” He stands then, moving through her home as if it was his own. Coming to her daughter’s room, he pauses in the doorway, watching the toddler dream in her crib.

“Never stop dreaming, little one. Your mum didn’t and look what it got her,” he whispers his blessing on a breath of golden stardust. He then steps from the door, closing it most of the way again before returning to the living room and her couch.

“You don’t forget, do you?” he asks, and she instinctively knows what he’s asking about.

“Not the important things, no,” she replies lowly, “And you are one of the important things.” Reaching out, she takes his hand gently. “Don’t you ever think that you’re not. You won’t be forgotten, not by anyone who has ever met or been blessed by you. It doesn’t matter where you go, what you do…what face you wear…you will always be the adorable mad man with a box. You will always be the Doctor to me.”

His smile is wobbly, his eyes limpid in the firelight, as he grasps her hand with both of his, lifting it to kiss it ardently. “Thank you,” he whispers, “Thank you for that.”

Suddenly, there comes a faint beeping from the arm of the couch. Her phone. It’s midnight.

“Happy New Year, Doctor-dear.”

“Happy New Year, my girl,” he murmurs in reply.

The moments pass and she is alone on her couch once more, her house locked up safe and sound, and there is a void in the snow on her porch, a square large enough for a person to stand in. The fire has burned down, the world is quiet. The New Year has begun.

May it be blessed.

Credit to Ashley Feiler on Pinterest

The Light Around the Door 2013


As the year begins to slip through the door fastly closing and the light of the new one shining around the one waiting to open. I am not sure where to begin. I mean, you all have been with me over the past year. I am not sure what more I can say than what has already been said. But maybe I’ll try.

This time last year I was awash with worry, fear, and despair over the care of my family, of how I was going to help take care of them. This year, the New Year has almost snuck up on me. I don’t feel so much trepidation at its arrival. There are still things to worry about but so much more to be thankful for and celebrate in.

My husband found a new job, two of them actually, teaching in a new school but also as a preacher for a small country church. I’m so amazingly proud of him for bearing through a very difficult school year last year and then going through all the rigamarole of interviews in order to find a new job. I also am extremely proud of him, even more so because he has gotten back into ministry, to which he has felt a  leading for a long, long while. It is a great amount of work but I cannot express just how proud of him and proud to be with him I am. He is an amazing man with an even more amazing heart and I am proud to call him my husband, my lover, my mate, and my partner.

My baby girl has gone from a tiny, swaddled newborn to a stepping, babbling toddler with bundles of personality.  I am amazed by her every day. Amazed, overjoyed, stressed out, chest puffed out with pride, made a nervous wreck, a sobbing mess, and a woman with stitches in her side from laughing so much at this little girl’s antics. She can now show you that she is one year old (by holding up that little index finger), and we are working on teaching her to sign “tiger” so she can tell us when she would like to watch her favorite cartoon: “Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood”.

It has been a whirlwind year of changes and growth. We have been blessed by friends and family beyond words and for that I am grateful beyond measure. Thank you for an amazing year and I look forward to another such one.

The End of the Eleventh (Twelfth?) Age


Thank you, Matt Smith, you clever boy!

I am not a die-hard Doctor Who fan, not what you would call one anyway. I have not watched the series from its inception, up through Nine and Ten to get to Eleven. I started with Eleven, with Matt Smith’s portrayal of a manic, adorable Doctor with more than a slight case of the disorganized savant. I am a fan of Eleven (or is he Twelve?), having enjoyed his three series, the 50th Anniversary, the Christmas Specials, and his runs of “Doctor Who at the Proms” immensely. Yes, I have somehow managed to catch them all, without cable for the past few years.

As I said, I am not a die-hard fan. I do not believe that you must watch Eccleston’s Nine and Tennant’s Ten to appreciate Matt Smith’s Eleven. But that’s just me. Remember that I said that: it’s just my opinion. Personally, I loved the stories woven into Eleven’s series: Amy and Rory (The Ponds, as in ‘Come along!’), the full story of the Doctor and River Song, and Clara the Impossible Girl. I also loved the emotion, the passion, and intensity that developed through Matt Smith’s portrayal of the Doctor. From episode one, that not-so-subtle “Hello, I’m the Doctor. Basically…run!”, I fell in love with this manic, centuries-old young man who “needed a proper shirt” to face an alien race that was prepared to exterminate an entire planet to get rid of one escaped inmate. A proper shirt to threaten an entire race. Talk about ballsy.

I was on pins and needles over the 50th Anniversary “The Day of the Doctor” set to star Smith, Tennant, and also John Hurt (beloved from his days as “The Storyteller”) as the Doctor. I wanted to be able to see in theatres but plans would not allow, so my wonderful, fabulous husband bought the dvd for me for Christmas. And a friend was kind enough to download the Christmas Special “The Time of the Doctor” and send that along my way, too. So, today, I closed the chapter upon Matt Smith’s lovable Doctor. There were heartstrings pulled, triumph experienced, and tears shed.

So, thank you, Matt Smith, for your blood, sweat, and tears (and hair) that you dedicated to this wonderful character. It makes my heart proud to say that you could not have gone out in any better way than with these words: (I feel compelled to put SPOILER ALERT here, just in case)

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“Times change and so must I. We all change. If you think about it, we are all different people all through our lives. And that’s okay, that’s good. You’ve got to keep moving, so long as you remember all the people that you used to be. I won’t forget one line of this, not one day. I swear. I will always remember when the Doctor was me.”

And so will I. And I will visit, you clever boy, because the truth is: you make me happy. You make me smile. And that is no little thing.

The Wonder of Story


Have you ever held a new book in your hands, fresh and clean and so ripe with possibilities? You want to start reading, immediately, leap into its pages, but you don’t know where to start, as silly as that may sound. This is one of those books.  For those of you who may not know, I am in love with Mercedes Lackey’s Elemental Masters books. So when her first anthology of fellow-author-written stories based in the world of Edwardian England under the veil of the White Lodge (Elemental Magic) was published, I was ecstatic. I bought a hard copy, as well as an e-copy on my Kindle. I read it to my infant daughter to put her down for  naps and thrilled at it in the quiet of my private time.

And, then, this morning – Christmas morning – I unwrap a gift from my husband to find this particular beauty waiting for me. I was wide-eyed, slack-jawed, and absolutely thrilled. I jumped up, ran to the bookshelf, and picked up the previous anthology to make sure that they were indeed different, and then I did a little happy dance in the living room and told my husband that he is simply amazing (which is very true). But I cannot describe the butterflies in my stomach as sit here with this book next to me. It’s like I want to rip into it but, at the same time, I want it to be the right time. The right time when I can have a substantial amount of time to myself to dive into these stories properly. I just can’t wait!

I am Charlie Brown


Every year, at Christmastime, I have the same realization: I am Charlie Brown. I’ve been depressed with Christmas shopping, run off my feet with activities, stressed out with preparations, and just not very much in the Christmas spirit, honestly.  At some point in the holidays, I “always end up feeling depressed”. And I forget.

I forget the quiet moments, the still small voice that seeks to remind me of the reason why we celebrate Christmas and this season. I forget the Lord that came to earth, bringing hope with his life, and joy amidst the fears of the day-to-day. I forget His peace. And I wish I didn’t. But peace is fleeting in this season, and I snatch it in the few moments that I can. Five minutes in the snowfall after taking out the trash. Twenty minutes in a nearly-empty Bob Evans while waiting for my order. It’s that tranquility that I should be keeping with me all the time, not snatching them like islands in a sea of chaos. But that’s what the season has become for so many of us: chaos. The peaceful moments are so few and far between in everyday life, and I wish that weren’t the case. But sometimes, those fleeting instants of peace are all we can do.