The sun was shining when I woke up Saturday morning. I showered, got dressed, pulled on a sweater, and took Lady for an early morning walk. As she pulled me around the neighborhood, I could see the whole story playing out in my mind. It was like watching a movie. The whole novel was there. I just needed to figure out someway to get what was in my mind out onto the paper. I didn't know if it would take 50,000 words. It didn't matter. I just needed to get it out. If only there were someway to download what was in my brain straight to the computer. That would make life easier. That wasn't the point, though, was it? The point was to actually go through the process of writing.
I got home and turned on the computer. Where to begin? I once read that the first line of a novel is the most important. It should grab the reader and leave them begging for more while at the same time shedding light on the story to come. That is a lot to ask of a few words, isn’t it? What if the author doesn’t know where the story is going? Thank goodness real life doesn’t have to come with an opening line. I would be in such trouble!
In my life, I had probably read thousands of “first lines.” Let's see - “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” I think that was already taken. “It was a dark and stormy night.” Isn't that the way Snoopy always started his tales? No, those wouldn't work. I decided to go with the old standby - “Once upon a time.” I could always go back and change it later. Once I started writing, the words came easily. It was such a release just to let out all the thoughts and emotions that had been weighing on me so heavily for the past eighteen months. Before I knew it, two hours had passed and I had written over 2000 words. I was impressed. That was a good start!
Monday when I went to work, I noticed the National Novel Writing Month bulletin board by the community room. A few participants had already posted their names and word totals. I scanned the listings to see whether Mike had posted his. He hadn't. I decided to post mine. What could it hurt? I grabbed a scrap of paper and wrote “Lucy – 3200 words” and tacked it up on the bulletin board. Then, I headed off to the children's room.
It was story time day. I love story time day. I run a group for preschoolers and their moms. The kids are so much fun. There is one little girl who comes along with her grandparents. It really seems to be the highlight of their week. That makes me feel good. Each week, I pick books about a certain theme and plan a craft to go along with it. This week, we were focusing on pigs. I was going to read the ever-favorite Three Little Pigs along with Pigs on a Blanket. We were even going to sing Ten Little Piggies – a take off of the more famous Ten Little Indians. For a craft, we were making paper plate pigs, complete with curly tails. I always feel like I've accomplished a good thing when story time is done.
When I was heading out for my lunch, I noticed Mike sitting in the cafe area, working on his laptop. He was working diligently, typing away with remarkable speed. He must have sensed me watching him because he turned around and smiled. That smile – no wonder it melted all the girls' hearts.
“Hey, Lucy! How are you?”
“I'm good. How are you?”
“Great! I saw your total up on the wall. You're doing really well. I'm glad that you decided to take the plunge,” Mike said.
“Yeah, I've been enjoying it” I admitted.
“See, I told you that you would.”
“Well, the month is just getting started.”
“True, but I think that you are going to do just fine. I look forward to seeing more of your word totals up on the board.”
“And how many words are you up to?” I asked.
“Honestly, I've gotten off to a rough start. Writing science-fiction isn't as easy as I had hoped. I've read lots of sci-fi. I thought I would be able to create a new world without much difficulty, but nothing is materializing at the moment. I'm only at about 1500 words. I have some work to make up. That's what I'm doing sitting here, trying to force myself to write. At home, there are too many distractions.”
“And here I am distracting you.”
“Don't worry about it – I like that kind of distraction,” he said. I couldn't help it. I smiled in spite of myself.
“Well, I need to grab some lunch and then get back to work, so I should be going.”
“Do you want to sit with me to eat your lunch?” he asked.
“Won't I bother you? I thought you said that you wanted to write,” I reminded him.
“I do, but like I said, this story is going nowhere in a hurry. Maybe talking to you will help give me some ideas.”
“OK, seeing that it is in the interest of keeping your novel moving forward,” I said. “Let me get my lunch. I'll be back in a few minutes.”
“I'll be here,” he said.
I went to the break room and took my lunch out of the fridge. I also checked my appearance in the mirror. Mmm. I straightened out my hair and pinched my cheeks. Unfortunately, I didn't have any makeup on me to freshen that up. It would have to do. At least I had my favorite shirt on. I always thought the green in it brought out the green in my eyes. Why did I care, anyway? This wasn't a date. He was just being friendly and trying to keep from working on his novel. I was a convenient procrastination tool, that was all.
I went back to the table Mike was sitting at. He had put his laptop away and was staring out the window. “What are you looking at?” I asked.
“Oh, I was just studying the people in the parking lot. Being a people-watcher is a good hobby for a writer. You never know when one of those people might make a guest appearance in a story. I think I just spotted someone who might make a good alien in my sci-fi novel. Everyone is fair game,” he replied.
“Even me?”
“Yup, even you!”
“Oh no. You're making me reconsider having lunch with you.”
“Don't worry. I promise to describe you in only the most flattering terms.”
“Good to know,” I responded. “Here, I picked up a soda for you in the back room.” I handed him the can. “I hope Coke is OK.”
“Sure, that's great. Thanks.”
“Would you like half of my sandwich? It's peanut butter and jelly, or maybe an apple?” I held up the fruit.
“No, thank you. I can't have you starving on my account. Besides, I ate right before I came here. “Oh, OK.” I put down the apple and took a big bite out of my sandwich.
“So, what is your job here at the library?” he asked. Unfortunately, my mouth was full of peanut butter and I couldn't respond. I motioned for him to wait as I tried to swallow as quickly as possible.
“I'm an assistant librarian in the children's section,” I answered when I could finally speak again.
“That sounds like an interesting job,” he said.
“It is. I like it a lot.”
“You're good at it, too. My nephews loved the Halloween party that you put on.”
“Thanks. It wasn't just me, though. All of the children's librarians were hard at work that day. It is fun to work with the kids. I had seen you with the boys. I had wondered who they were.”
“They are my sister's kids. Her husband split a couple years ago. The scum decided he didn't want to be a father anymore. So, I try to help her out as much as I can. I watch the boys when she is working.”
“Wow! Not many young men would do that,” I said.
“I'm not that young. Plus, I really don't mind. I like being with them. They are very entertaining!”
“Yeah, the kids I meet here at the library are pretty entertaining, too.”
“I like spending time at the library. I love the smell of old books,” he said.
“No way! Me, too!” I laughed. “I thought I was the only one! My friends growing up always thought I was a bit strange for sniffing books.”
“Don't listen to them! They don't know what they are missing!”
“Maybe you're right. Anyway, this is my first job working in a library. I feel lucky to have it. I was a volunteer in my library back home, but this is the first time I'm getting paid for something I enjoy doing so much. Most days it doesn't even feel like work.”
“I know what you mean. Most days what I do doesn't feel like work, either.”
“What, exactly, is it that you do?” I asked.
“Would you believe me if I told you I was an undercover FBI agent?” he responded with a straight face.
“Really?” I asked incredulously.
“No,” he laughed. “I'm kidding. The look on your face was priceless, though.” I tossed my rolled up tin foil at him.”
“So what do you do?” I asked again.
“Seriously, I am an artist. I work for myself. I also teach a couple classes at a local college and at the Springfield museums.”
“Oh, so that's why you have the time to be sitting here in the middle of the day working on your novel.”
“Yup. I'm a lucky man!” he replied.
“What type of art do you do?”
“Painting, mostly. I do portraits, murals, still lifes. I've even done pet portraits – whatever people are willing to pay me to do, really. I can't afford to be picky. I'm just happy to be painting and getting paid for it,” he paused to drink some soda. “I like teaching, too. It's fun to help people discover their hidden artistic talent.”
I looked up and noticed Rachel looking at me from the children's room. I also caught sight of the clock on the wall. My lunch break had been over fifteen minutes ago. Oops!
“I'm sorry,” I said. “I have to go. I need to get back to work before my boss kills me.” I hurriedly gathered up my trash.
“Well, we don't want that to happen,” he said. “It would be horrible to have a murder at the library.”
“I'll see you later,” I said as I walked away.
“I hope so,” he responded.
I rushed back to the children's room. “I'm so sorry, Rachel. I didn't realize how late it was.” I started sorting some books to be reshelved.
“That's OK,” she said. “I saw you out there with the good-looking Mr. Writer Man. How's he doing?”
“He's doing alright.” I responded.
“He's doing better than alright if you ask me,” she said with a smug look. “Are you going to go out with him sometime?”
“He hasn't asked,” I answered. “We're just friends.”
“Just friends, huh? You weren't looking like 'just friends' to me.”
“Well, we are,” I stated emphatically. “I told you, I'm not looking for a man. Anyway, from what I've heard, he already has a girlfriend.”
“That's too bad,” she sighed. “I suppose it's not surprising that a man that fine would have someone special. Still, there's no ring on his finger. All's fair in love and war. I say that he is still fair game.”
“Rachel, you're awful! I'm not going after another woman's man,” I said indignantly as I walked away to get back to my work.
Visit Anne Faye's blog at AnneFaye.blogspot.com
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
"Through the Open Window" by Anne Faye, Chapter 2
Chapter 2
I was shelving books in the juvenile paperbacks section when I looked up and saw Mike walking down the aisle toward me. He had a big smile on his face. In spite of myself, I smiled back.
“Hi! I’m surprised to see you in the children’s section.”
“I hope you don't mind me stopping by like this. I was hoping that you would be working today. The librarian at the desk said I could find you back here.”
“No, it's no problem! What can I do for you? Did you need help finding a specific title?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that. I came by to give you a copy of that book I was telling you about. He held out the well-worn book in his hand. “I had an extra copy at home and thought that you might be able to make use of it.”
“Oh, wow, that is really thoughtful of you,” I said as I took the copy of the book.
“You didn't need to make a special trip just for that.”
“No, but I wanted to. It really wasn't any trouble.”
“Well, thank you.”
“Hey, can you take a break? Do you want to grab a coffee or something?” he asked.
“No, I'm sorry. I just got here a few minutes ago,” I lied.
“Oh, OK, then. Have you decided if you are going to come to the party Thursday night? I really hope you will.”
“You know, I don't think that I am going to be able to make it.”
“Oh, that's too bad,” he said disappointedly. “Well, I guess I'll see you around then. I still hope you'll do the writing project.”
“I'm still thinking about it,” I said. “Thanks again for the book.”
“You're welcome.”
I watched him walk away.
I had noticed that my boss Rachel had conveniently made her way over to my section of the library so she could casually eavesdrop on the conversation.
“And who was that beautiful specimen of a man?” she asked after Mike was out of earshot.
“Oh, that's Mike. He is the head of that novel-writing group I was telling you about,” I said. “Is he good looking? I hadn't noticed.”
“Yeah, right. You hadn't noticed. You'd have to be blind not to notice,” Rachel said. “So, what was that party he was talking about?”
“It's a kick-off party for the novel writing month. Everybody is supposed to come dressed as their favorite literary character in order to 'get them in the mood' for writing.”
“And Mike is going to be there. He's obviously sweet on you, so why, exactly, aren't you going to this party?”
“I don’t think he is interested – he is just friendly. Anyway, I'm just not looking for a relationship right now.”
“And why on earth not? In the six months you have been working here, you haven't talked about going on a single date, or any men at all. Now an amazing-looking man comes in here and invites you to a party and you don't want to go? I just don't understand.”
“I can't really explain it. I just don't want my life to be complicated. I'm still trying to get settled in around here,” I said.
“Well, if you ask me, your life could use some complication. I think you should go to the party. Having a good time certainly wouldn't kill you,” she said as she returned to the desk to help a patron who was waiting there.
Rachel means well. I know that. She is the closest thing I have to a good friend in these parts. She's a few years older than me, married for ten years with two little girls. Her life is crazy busy, but good. Every time she talks about her daughters, her eyes just light up. I have to admit, I'm a little jealous. I would really like her life, but mine just didn't turn out that way. Some people are just lucky, I guess.
Maybe she's right. Maybe I should go to that party. There will probably be enough people there so that Mike won't even notice I'm there. Maybe I could make some new friends. Maybe I would actually have a good time. When was the last time I actually had a good time? To be honest, I couldn't remember. It had been quite a while. Of course, that also meant I had to come up with a costume.
I arrived at the library a few minutes before the party was about to begin. I sat in my car seriously questioning my sanity. I considered putting the key back into the ignition and turning right around. But I told Rachel I was coming and I knew if I backed out, I would never hear the end of it. So, I gathered up my courage, and my carpet bag, and stepped out of the car.
There were several people at the party, but I saw Mike as soon as I stepped into the room. He had a straw hat, a torn shirt, and patched overalls with a paint brush in his hand. And he looked just as handsome as he had the other night in his pullover and tweed coat. He was talking to a woman dressed like Cleopatra. I should have turned and ran, but a woman dressed as Hester Prynne from “The Scarlet Letter” came over and offered me some punch. “Thank you,” I said.
“You look nervous,” she said.
“I'm a little out of my element.”
“Well, you look great!”
“Thanks!”
“I'm Chelsea. Is this your first time here?”
“Hi! I'm Lucy,” I said, shaking her hand. “Yes, this is my first time. Is it that obvious?”
“Yes! I had the same terrified look on my face last year when I came for the first time. I wasn't sure what I was doing with this group either, but they are a great group of people, and the writing is fun. You never know what stories are lurking inside of you until you actually try to get them out on paper.
“Look, here comes Mike now. He heads up our group. Have you met him?”
Before I even had the chance to answer, she was yelling over to him.
“Hey, Mike, come over here! There's someone here that you should meet!”
I could feel my cheeks turning red with embarrassment. If I could have, I think I would have sunk into the floor.
“Hi Chelsea! Hi Lucy! I'm so glad that you decided to come after all!” Mike said warmly.
“Oh, so you two do know each other,” Chelsea said.
“Yes, we had the pleasure the other night at the meeting,” Mike replied.
“Great! Well I can see that there are other people I should be handing out punch to. It was nice to meet you, Lucy, but duty calls!” and off she went.
Mike turned to me. “Wait – don't tell me who you are. Let me guess! ‘Anne of Green Gables’ – right?”
“Wow, I'm impressed! Not many men would recognize 'Anne!'"
“Well my sister absolutely loved her. She had all the books and the movies and an 'Anne' doll. My parents even took us on a family vacation up to Prince Edward Island just so Sara could see all the places talked about in the books. Have you ever been there?” he asked.
“No. I've always wanted to, though.”
“You should. Not just because of Anne either. It is just an absolutely beautiful place.”
“Hopefully, I'll get there someday.”
“Well, you look great as ‘Anne,’” he said.
“Thanks! I figured with the red hair and all. . . I hated my red hair when I was young, just like ‘Anne.’ Somehow, being like her made it a little easier to take.”
“I've always been rather fond of red hair myself. It makes a woman stand out in a crowd.”
My cheeks were starting to match my hair.
“Thank you. I've always been fond of Tom Sawyer.” Did I actually just say that?
“Yeah, it's a great book - one of my favorites when I was kid. Do you want to help me paint a fence?” he asked, holding up his paintbrush.
“No,” I laughed. “I think I'll pass. I don't want to get my outfit dirty!”
“Oh, that's too bad . . .Well,” he said, looking around. “I suppose I should go mingle with the other guests. I'll talk to you later. OK?”
“OK.”
He turned away, then turned back. “Did you get a chance to look at that book I gave you?”
“Yes, actually I read the whole thing. I brought it with me tonight to return it to you,” I reached into my carpet bag.
“Wow! You read fast. You don't need to return the book. I told you, I had an extra copy. If you don't want it, you can pass it along to someone else sometime.”
“OK, thanks.” I placed the book back into my bag as I watched him walk away. He greeted a few other people and then returned to his place next to Cleopatra.
Chelsea came back over to talk. “Mike is something, isn't he? I couldn't help but notice how you were flirting with him.”
“Oh, really, was I? I really wasn't trying to.”
“You wouldn't be a woman if you didn't! Every woman flirts with Mike, and he flirts with every woman! But he's spoken for. Cleopatra over there, also known as Jennifer, has claimed him.”
“I didn't realize that.”
“Oh yeah, they've been together for a while.”
“Oh.”
“Hey, don't feel bad,” she said. “Mike's so friendly. He's really easy to misread.”
“No, it's OK. I'm just getting tired. It's been a long day. I think that I'm going to go home and go to bed.”
“Are you sure you don't want to stick around and meet some more of the people in the group?”
“No, thanks. I'm just going to get going.”
“Well, I'll be hanging around the library during the coming month. I hope I get to see you!”
“I'm sure you will. I often feel like I live here!”
“Alright, have a good night,” she said.
“Good night.”
When I got home, I took off my costume, put on my comfy sweats and curled up with my dog. I love my dog. No matter how bad a day I've had, she's always thrilled to see me. She comes running over the second she hears me turn the doorknob with her tail wagging a mile a minute. I got Lady from the local animal shelter as soon as I moved here, both for companionship and protection, although admittedly she is not very scary. She's all black – half Lab, half Terrier. She basically looks like a miniature Black Lab. Unfortunately, she also suffers from illusions of grandeur. She's only fifteen pounds, but she thinks that she is a big, bad dog, especially if she encounters a cat, or a squirrel, or, heaven forbid, another dog, on our daily walks. She turns into her alter-ego, Ms. Barky. Mostly, though, she's very quiet and sweet and unassuming, and she loves to be near me. She sleeps right next to me in bed at night. I have a dog who loves me. Why on earth would I want a man? No man I had ever met has ever been so loyal or faithful.
I was a bit relieved that Mike was involved with someone. However, I was a little disappointed, too. Despite what I had told Rachel, I had thought he might be interested in me. It had been a long time since anyone had looked at me like that. But, if what Chelsea said was true, and I had no reason to believe that it wasn't, that was just how Mike looked at women. He was a natural-born flirt and I was just another woman to flirt with. Ugh! I knew I had no reason to be upset, but I buried my head in my pillow and went to sleep.
The next day was Halloween. My task for the day was to help out with the children's Halloween party. I had traded in my “Anne” outfit for a more traditional witch's costume. The library was having a costume contest and giving out candy. I was reading age-appropriate scary stories and singing songs - “Five Little Pumpkins” anyone? It really was a lot of fun. Surprisingly, Mike showed up with two young boys dressed as “Yoda” and “Anakin Skywalker” from “Star Wars.” They both looked to be about six or seven years old. Were they his children? I wondered. He hadn't said anything about children, but that didn't mean anything. After all, it wasn't like we had gotten into each other's life stories. I was too busy to talk to him at the party. He waved and I smiled and that was all. He and the boys must have left when I wasn't looking, because at the end of the party I looked around and they were gone.
Halloween night was quiet at my house. I bought tons of candy because I had no idea how many trick-or-treaters might show up at my door. In the end, I only ended up with eight. I suppose that's not surprising considering I live at the end of a dead-end street. It was just as well. Lady barks like she is possessed whenever anyone rings the doorbell anyway. Of course, now I had an obscene amount of candy left with no one to eat it but me. Not a good plan; at least not if I wanted to retain any semblance of a waistline. I'd have to figure out something to do with the candy – maybe I would donate it to the library – we could give it out there for prizes or something. In the meantime, there were some Tootsie Rolls just calling my name. It was Halloween, after all, and what's Halloween without at least a little candy?
I sat down with a notebook and pen. If I was going to do this novel experiment, I needed to come up with a plan. It had been a long time since I had written anything. I had loved writing as a child. I would make up stories with my dolls and then write them out. They led such interesting lives, at least in my nine-year-old imagination. When I was in sixth grade, I actually began work on a children's book called “Fairyland.” It was about a girl who discovered an underwater world inhabited by fairies. I was convinced it was going to be the next Alice in Wonderland! I would work on it in school when I had free time. After about a month, however, my teacher said that I couldn't work on it anymore at school. That was the end of that particular project.
As a teenager, I had filled up notebooks with romantic stories and teenage angst. My favorite birthday gift when I was fifteen was a beautiful journal full of blank pages. It had seemed so full of potential. I couldn't wait to start pouring out my heart. That journal had been followed by several others. I had a whole box of them buried in the back of my closet. From time to time, I had considered burning them – one big giant bonfire of my past. But, I couldn't bring myself to do it. I hadn't written in my journal since the day of the fire. In a lot of ways, I felt like my life ended that day. The darkness fell. That young woman with the fanciful stories was officially gone forever. Life would never be the same, but I was trying to start over.
I had hoped the move would be what I needed to rejoin the living. It had helped in some ways. I mostly kept to myself, though. I lived alone with Lady. I went to work. In my free time, which I had way too much of, I would go for a walk, lose myself in a book, or work on my quilting - anything to keep from thinking. It didn't work. I called my parents every once and a while. I knew my mom missed me. She kept asking me to come home. She didn't understand why I had left – not really. How could she? I had never told her the truth. I thought that maybe if I could start writing again, maybe I could bring back some of the person that I used to be. Maybe some of the pain could start to heal.
So, what could I write about? Could I even find 50,000 words to put down on paper? The book Mike had given me said to make a list of the things you liked in stories and a list of things that you didn't like. I suppose I could safely rule out science fiction. I was never the create-a-fantasy-world-on-the-fifth –moon-of-a-planet-to-be-named-later kind of girl. Maybe I could write a mystery. I liked mysteries. I wasn’t sure if I could figure out how to make the clues, however. Anybody with half a brain would probably solve my mystery on the first five pages. I also liked medical stories. I could go for a good hospital drama anytime. Of course, I don't know the first thing about medicine other than what I've seen on TV or read in a book. I suppose that would lend a certain lack of authenticity to my tale. I also loved romances. I loved stories with happy ever after endings, where the man and the woman are madly in love and go riding off into the sunset. There is a reason that they are considered fiction. I never understood why someone would write a book with an unhappy ending. Life is full of enough unhappy endings. I read books to escape, not to be reminded of pain and suffering. I don't know whether I could write a “happy ever after” story. I certainly didn't have much experience in that department. Oh man, this was getting me nowhere. I was supposed to start writing the next day, and I didn't even have an idea. This was going to be a losing effort if there ever was one. What on earth was I thinking?
And then, it came to me. I knew what I had to write about. So what if it wasn't going to be exactly what one might call fiction. I would change the names. Who would know? No one was going to read it anyway. This was just for me and my heart. I went to bed. For the first time in a long time, I was looking forward to the next day.
Visit Anne Faye's blog at AnneFaye.blogspot.com
I was shelving books in the juvenile paperbacks section when I looked up and saw Mike walking down the aisle toward me. He had a big smile on his face. In spite of myself, I smiled back.
“Hi! I’m surprised to see you in the children’s section.”
“I hope you don't mind me stopping by like this. I was hoping that you would be working today. The librarian at the desk said I could find you back here.”
“No, it's no problem! What can I do for you? Did you need help finding a specific title?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that. I came by to give you a copy of that book I was telling you about. He held out the well-worn book in his hand. “I had an extra copy at home and thought that you might be able to make use of it.”
“Oh, wow, that is really thoughtful of you,” I said as I took the copy of the book.
“You didn't need to make a special trip just for that.”
“No, but I wanted to. It really wasn't any trouble.”
“Well, thank you.”
“Hey, can you take a break? Do you want to grab a coffee or something?” he asked.
“No, I'm sorry. I just got here a few minutes ago,” I lied.
“Oh, OK, then. Have you decided if you are going to come to the party Thursday night? I really hope you will.”
“You know, I don't think that I am going to be able to make it.”
“Oh, that's too bad,” he said disappointedly. “Well, I guess I'll see you around then. I still hope you'll do the writing project.”
“I'm still thinking about it,” I said. “Thanks again for the book.”
“You're welcome.”
I watched him walk away.
I had noticed that my boss Rachel had conveniently made her way over to my section of the library so she could casually eavesdrop on the conversation.
“And who was that beautiful specimen of a man?” she asked after Mike was out of earshot.
“Oh, that's Mike. He is the head of that novel-writing group I was telling you about,” I said. “Is he good looking? I hadn't noticed.”
“Yeah, right. You hadn't noticed. You'd have to be blind not to notice,” Rachel said. “So, what was that party he was talking about?”
“It's a kick-off party for the novel writing month. Everybody is supposed to come dressed as their favorite literary character in order to 'get them in the mood' for writing.”
“And Mike is going to be there. He's obviously sweet on you, so why, exactly, aren't you going to this party?”
“I don’t think he is interested – he is just friendly. Anyway, I'm just not looking for a relationship right now.”
“And why on earth not? In the six months you have been working here, you haven't talked about going on a single date, or any men at all. Now an amazing-looking man comes in here and invites you to a party and you don't want to go? I just don't understand.”
“I can't really explain it. I just don't want my life to be complicated. I'm still trying to get settled in around here,” I said.
“Well, if you ask me, your life could use some complication. I think you should go to the party. Having a good time certainly wouldn't kill you,” she said as she returned to the desk to help a patron who was waiting there.
Rachel means well. I know that. She is the closest thing I have to a good friend in these parts. She's a few years older than me, married for ten years with two little girls. Her life is crazy busy, but good. Every time she talks about her daughters, her eyes just light up. I have to admit, I'm a little jealous. I would really like her life, but mine just didn't turn out that way. Some people are just lucky, I guess.
Maybe she's right. Maybe I should go to that party. There will probably be enough people there so that Mike won't even notice I'm there. Maybe I could make some new friends. Maybe I would actually have a good time. When was the last time I actually had a good time? To be honest, I couldn't remember. It had been quite a while. Of course, that also meant I had to come up with a costume.
I arrived at the library a few minutes before the party was about to begin. I sat in my car seriously questioning my sanity. I considered putting the key back into the ignition and turning right around. But I told Rachel I was coming and I knew if I backed out, I would never hear the end of it. So, I gathered up my courage, and my carpet bag, and stepped out of the car.
There were several people at the party, but I saw Mike as soon as I stepped into the room. He had a straw hat, a torn shirt, and patched overalls with a paint brush in his hand. And he looked just as handsome as he had the other night in his pullover and tweed coat. He was talking to a woman dressed like Cleopatra. I should have turned and ran, but a woman dressed as Hester Prynne from “The Scarlet Letter” came over and offered me some punch. “Thank you,” I said.
“You look nervous,” she said.
“I'm a little out of my element.”
“Well, you look great!”
“Thanks!”
“I'm Chelsea. Is this your first time here?”
“Hi! I'm Lucy,” I said, shaking her hand. “Yes, this is my first time. Is it that obvious?”
“Yes! I had the same terrified look on my face last year when I came for the first time. I wasn't sure what I was doing with this group either, but they are a great group of people, and the writing is fun. You never know what stories are lurking inside of you until you actually try to get them out on paper.
“Look, here comes Mike now. He heads up our group. Have you met him?”
Before I even had the chance to answer, she was yelling over to him.
“Hey, Mike, come over here! There's someone here that you should meet!”
I could feel my cheeks turning red with embarrassment. If I could have, I think I would have sunk into the floor.
“Hi Chelsea! Hi Lucy! I'm so glad that you decided to come after all!” Mike said warmly.
“Oh, so you two do know each other,” Chelsea said.
“Yes, we had the pleasure the other night at the meeting,” Mike replied.
“Great! Well I can see that there are other people I should be handing out punch to. It was nice to meet you, Lucy, but duty calls!” and off she went.
Mike turned to me. “Wait – don't tell me who you are. Let me guess! ‘Anne of Green Gables’ – right?”
“Wow, I'm impressed! Not many men would recognize 'Anne!'"
“Well my sister absolutely loved her. She had all the books and the movies and an 'Anne' doll. My parents even took us on a family vacation up to Prince Edward Island just so Sara could see all the places talked about in the books. Have you ever been there?” he asked.
“No. I've always wanted to, though.”
“You should. Not just because of Anne either. It is just an absolutely beautiful place.”
“Hopefully, I'll get there someday.”
“Well, you look great as ‘Anne,’” he said.
“Thanks! I figured with the red hair and all. . . I hated my red hair when I was young, just like ‘Anne.’ Somehow, being like her made it a little easier to take.”
“I've always been rather fond of red hair myself. It makes a woman stand out in a crowd.”
My cheeks were starting to match my hair.
“Thank you. I've always been fond of Tom Sawyer.” Did I actually just say that?
“Yeah, it's a great book - one of my favorites when I was kid. Do you want to help me paint a fence?” he asked, holding up his paintbrush.
“No,” I laughed. “I think I'll pass. I don't want to get my outfit dirty!”
“Oh, that's too bad . . .Well,” he said, looking around. “I suppose I should go mingle with the other guests. I'll talk to you later. OK?”
“OK.”
He turned away, then turned back. “Did you get a chance to look at that book I gave you?”
“Yes, actually I read the whole thing. I brought it with me tonight to return it to you,” I reached into my carpet bag.
“Wow! You read fast. You don't need to return the book. I told you, I had an extra copy. If you don't want it, you can pass it along to someone else sometime.”
“OK, thanks.” I placed the book back into my bag as I watched him walk away. He greeted a few other people and then returned to his place next to Cleopatra.
Chelsea came back over to talk. “Mike is something, isn't he? I couldn't help but notice how you were flirting with him.”
“Oh, really, was I? I really wasn't trying to.”
“You wouldn't be a woman if you didn't! Every woman flirts with Mike, and he flirts with every woman! But he's spoken for. Cleopatra over there, also known as Jennifer, has claimed him.”
“I didn't realize that.”
“Oh yeah, they've been together for a while.”
“Oh.”
“Hey, don't feel bad,” she said. “Mike's so friendly. He's really easy to misread.”
“No, it's OK. I'm just getting tired. It's been a long day. I think that I'm going to go home and go to bed.”
“Are you sure you don't want to stick around and meet some more of the people in the group?”
“No, thanks. I'm just going to get going.”
“Well, I'll be hanging around the library during the coming month. I hope I get to see you!”
“I'm sure you will. I often feel like I live here!”
“Alright, have a good night,” she said.
“Good night.”
When I got home, I took off my costume, put on my comfy sweats and curled up with my dog. I love my dog. No matter how bad a day I've had, she's always thrilled to see me. She comes running over the second she hears me turn the doorknob with her tail wagging a mile a minute. I got Lady from the local animal shelter as soon as I moved here, both for companionship and protection, although admittedly she is not very scary. She's all black – half Lab, half Terrier. She basically looks like a miniature Black Lab. Unfortunately, she also suffers from illusions of grandeur. She's only fifteen pounds, but she thinks that she is a big, bad dog, especially if she encounters a cat, or a squirrel, or, heaven forbid, another dog, on our daily walks. She turns into her alter-ego, Ms. Barky. Mostly, though, she's very quiet and sweet and unassuming, and she loves to be near me. She sleeps right next to me in bed at night. I have a dog who loves me. Why on earth would I want a man? No man I had ever met has ever been so loyal or faithful.
I was a bit relieved that Mike was involved with someone. However, I was a little disappointed, too. Despite what I had told Rachel, I had thought he might be interested in me. It had been a long time since anyone had looked at me like that. But, if what Chelsea said was true, and I had no reason to believe that it wasn't, that was just how Mike looked at women. He was a natural-born flirt and I was just another woman to flirt with. Ugh! I knew I had no reason to be upset, but I buried my head in my pillow and went to sleep.
The next day was Halloween. My task for the day was to help out with the children's Halloween party. I had traded in my “Anne” outfit for a more traditional witch's costume. The library was having a costume contest and giving out candy. I was reading age-appropriate scary stories and singing songs - “Five Little Pumpkins” anyone? It really was a lot of fun. Surprisingly, Mike showed up with two young boys dressed as “Yoda” and “Anakin Skywalker” from “Star Wars.” They both looked to be about six or seven years old. Were they his children? I wondered. He hadn't said anything about children, but that didn't mean anything. After all, it wasn't like we had gotten into each other's life stories. I was too busy to talk to him at the party. He waved and I smiled and that was all. He and the boys must have left when I wasn't looking, because at the end of the party I looked around and they were gone.
Halloween night was quiet at my house. I bought tons of candy because I had no idea how many trick-or-treaters might show up at my door. In the end, I only ended up with eight. I suppose that's not surprising considering I live at the end of a dead-end street. It was just as well. Lady barks like she is possessed whenever anyone rings the doorbell anyway. Of course, now I had an obscene amount of candy left with no one to eat it but me. Not a good plan; at least not if I wanted to retain any semblance of a waistline. I'd have to figure out something to do with the candy – maybe I would donate it to the library – we could give it out there for prizes or something. In the meantime, there were some Tootsie Rolls just calling my name. It was Halloween, after all, and what's Halloween without at least a little candy?
I sat down with a notebook and pen. If I was going to do this novel experiment, I needed to come up with a plan. It had been a long time since I had written anything. I had loved writing as a child. I would make up stories with my dolls and then write them out. They led such interesting lives, at least in my nine-year-old imagination. When I was in sixth grade, I actually began work on a children's book called “Fairyland.” It was about a girl who discovered an underwater world inhabited by fairies. I was convinced it was going to be the next Alice in Wonderland! I would work on it in school when I had free time. After about a month, however, my teacher said that I couldn't work on it anymore at school. That was the end of that particular project.
As a teenager, I had filled up notebooks with romantic stories and teenage angst. My favorite birthday gift when I was fifteen was a beautiful journal full of blank pages. It had seemed so full of potential. I couldn't wait to start pouring out my heart. That journal had been followed by several others. I had a whole box of them buried in the back of my closet. From time to time, I had considered burning them – one big giant bonfire of my past. But, I couldn't bring myself to do it. I hadn't written in my journal since the day of the fire. In a lot of ways, I felt like my life ended that day. The darkness fell. That young woman with the fanciful stories was officially gone forever. Life would never be the same, but I was trying to start over.
I had hoped the move would be what I needed to rejoin the living. It had helped in some ways. I mostly kept to myself, though. I lived alone with Lady. I went to work. In my free time, which I had way too much of, I would go for a walk, lose myself in a book, or work on my quilting - anything to keep from thinking. It didn't work. I called my parents every once and a while. I knew my mom missed me. She kept asking me to come home. She didn't understand why I had left – not really. How could she? I had never told her the truth. I thought that maybe if I could start writing again, maybe I could bring back some of the person that I used to be. Maybe some of the pain could start to heal.
So, what could I write about? Could I even find 50,000 words to put down on paper? The book Mike had given me said to make a list of the things you liked in stories and a list of things that you didn't like. I suppose I could safely rule out science fiction. I was never the create-a-fantasy-world-on-the-fifth –moon-of-a-planet-to-be-named-later kind of girl. Maybe I could write a mystery. I liked mysteries. I wasn’t sure if I could figure out how to make the clues, however. Anybody with half a brain would probably solve my mystery on the first five pages. I also liked medical stories. I could go for a good hospital drama anytime. Of course, I don't know the first thing about medicine other than what I've seen on TV or read in a book. I suppose that would lend a certain lack of authenticity to my tale. I also loved romances. I loved stories with happy ever after endings, where the man and the woman are madly in love and go riding off into the sunset. There is a reason that they are considered fiction. I never understood why someone would write a book with an unhappy ending. Life is full of enough unhappy endings. I read books to escape, not to be reminded of pain and suffering. I don't know whether I could write a “happy ever after” story. I certainly didn't have much experience in that department. Oh man, this was getting me nowhere. I was supposed to start writing the next day, and I didn't even have an idea. This was going to be a losing effort if there ever was one. What on earth was I thinking?
And then, it came to me. I knew what I had to write about. So what if it wasn't going to be exactly what one might call fiction. I would change the names. Who would know? No one was going to read it anyway. This was just for me and my heart. I went to bed. For the first time in a long time, I was looking forward to the next day.
Visit Anne Faye's blog at AnneFaye.blogspot.com
Friday, October 23, 2009
"Through the Open Window" by Anne Faye, Chapter 1
Chapter 1
I sat in the back of the room surveying my surroundings, clutching my notebook, and desperately trying to fade into the woodwork. These people were writers! Conversations about plot concepts and writing techniques were going on all around me. What was I doing here? My boss Rachel had convinced me to come after I had casually mentioned seeing the flyer. I was in way over my head. I stood up to attempt a quick escape, but then the meeting leader came in and closed the door behind him. I was trapped. I slunk back into my seat and hoped no one noticed.
“Welcome to the National Novel Writing Month Support Group! For those of you who don't know me, I am Mike Duncan, your humble leader and fellow sufferer as we travel through this grand writing adventure. To you gluttons for punishment who are returning from last year, I praise your bravery and tenacity of spirit. To you new members, I hope that you find this month-long journey as exciting and fulfilling as the rest of us have. At the very least, at the end of it, you will have a great story to tell.”
Mike was tall with sandy hair, a goatee, glasses and a kind smile. A couple of times he glanced in my direction and I wondered if he could see the look of fear in my eyes. He continued talking about the rules of NaNoWriMo. “Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to write 50,000 words during the month of November. You need to shut off your inner critic and just write. Don't worry about the quality – just write. Try to get your word count out each day, so you don't end up with a huge word debt hanging over you that you are trying to make up the last day as you type for ten hours straight, consuming nothing but pure caffeine!” The people around me nodded and smiled knowingly. “Meetings will be held weekly at the library to get together and vent or get help on plot problems you were trying to work out. Word counts can be posted on the bulletin board that will be left up outside the Community Room entrance. Feel free to share your progress with others. A kick-off party will be held October 30th. Come dressed as your favorite character from a novel as a means of getting into the literary mood! If anyone has questions, please stay. I’ll be available to talk after the meeting.”
The group slowly but steadily filed out. I lingered behind as Mike was gathering up his things. My first instinct was to run, but something compelled me to gather up my courage and walk forward.
“Hi! I'm Lucy. I work here at the library.”
“Oh, do you? I've always thought it would be fun to work at a library. I love libraries.”
“Me, too,” I laughed nervously.
“So, have you written a novel before,” he asked
“No, not at all. I haven't done any creative writing at all since I was in high school, and I'm sad to say that was quite a while ago. How about you? How many times have you done this?”
“This will be my fifth year.”
“Five?! Wow! Have you had any of your novels published?” I asked.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I just do it for the creative challenge. It's like when people run a marathon. They train and train just to see if they can do it. This is like that, except I don't need to train for a year and it doesn't require as much exercise!”
“What do you write about?”
“Things I know about mostly. I've written about schools I've gone to, places I've worked. Except, in my stories, it's my world. I can make people do whatever I want. I can combine people I know and make them into someone new. It's really a whole bunch of fun. This year I thought I might do something different, though. I was thinking of maybe attempting to write a sci-fi novel.”
“Really? I have no idea what I'd write about,” I said. “I'm not even sure why I came to this meeting. I have to admit the whole idea sounds a bit crazy. I was actually trying to sneak out right before you came in.”
“Ah, I see. I blocked your well-timed escape,” he laughed.
“Yes, exactly!”
“Well, something must have drawn you here.”
“I don't know. . .it just sounded intriguing. Part of me has always wanted to write a book, but I've never really felt like I could do it. Books have such power. I've always loved to read and escape to other places ― pretend I was other people. I don't know that I could create a world that other people would want to escape to.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” he said. “It does sound intimidating when you put it like that. But that is the beauty of NaNoWriMo. Nobody is asking you, or expecting you, to write the Great American Novel. You saw all those other people in here tonight, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, eighty percent of the stuff that any of them write next month will be lousy, absolutely awful. You probably couldn't pay someone to waste their time reading it.”
“Does that include what you write, also?” I teased.
“Oh absolutely! I have a drawer at home full of manuscripts that are mostly drivel. But every now and then, when I'm writing, I'll get into this amazing zone where the ideas just come and the words flow and it is just pure magic. That magic makes all the drivel worth it.”
“Do you really think that I could do it?”
“Sure you could. Anyone can. There is no secret formula. You just need to be willing to sacrifice some time for a month to sit in a chair and write whatever comes to mind.”
“I still don't know,” I mused. “I'm not even sure where I would begin.”
“Do what I do. Pick places and people you know about, changing the names and identifying details of course. You want to still have friends when the month is over! You'll be amazed how a story will just start coming.” He paused. “There is a great book by Chris Baty called No Plot? No Problem! He's the guy who came up with the idea for NaNoWriMo in the first place. He offers some really good suggestions about getting started and how to survive the month should you choose to take the plunge. They probably have a copy of it right here in the library. You should check it out.”
“Maybe I will,” I said as I glanced down at my watch. “Wow, I didn't realize how late it was! I'm sorry to have kept you so long.”
“Don't worry about it. It was my pleasure. I'm always happy to help someone get started on a writing adventure.”
“Well, thank you,” I smiled. “You have been very kind,” I said as I turned to head out the door.
“Wait!” he called after me. “Are you going to come to the party Thursday night? Whether you decide to try writing a novel or not, the party will be fun. When else can you get together with real life versions of your favorite literary characters?”
“I'll think about it.”
“OK. I hope I'll see you then.”
As I drove home, I couldn't help but think over the events of the evening. Did I really think I could write a novel? Did I actually want to try? What would I write about? Mike said that I should write about something I knew. Mike had such beautiful blue eyes. I caught my breath just thinking about them. OK, I needed to stop thinking about his eyes. I wasn't looking for a new love interest. I wasn't looking for love at all. Besides, a guy like that must have a love interest of his own anyway. Even if I went ahead with the project, I decided I would do it without the help of the support group. I didn't want to see Mike again. I didn't want life to get complicated.
Visit Anne Faye's blog at AnneFaye.blogspot.com
Monday, August 17, 2009
"Elizabeth of the Epiphany" by Charlotte Ostermann, Part Four
Chapter Four – A Proposal
To be considered as a first order of business at Faculty Formation meetings until a final form can be adopted by unanimous consent.
Proposed:
1. That constant growth in virtue is required of all who would teach well
2. That no one should teach who is not also, in academic pursuits, an adept learner
3. That no one should teach who has not recently experienced being utterly inept at learning something
4. That the Faculty should spend some time studying the history of, and various philosophies of, education so as to be more clear on the place of Epiphany in the historical scheme of things, and to better clarify Epiphany’s similarities to and differences from other educational models
5. That the faculty study the dynamics of pedagogy both experientially and theoretically in order to become better teachers
6. That the faculty develop the habits of studying, conversing together about (and thus teaching one another) the materials covered; responding in writing to the ideas studied; reporting formally to one another and to the ‘public’ on the key ideas and their reflections upon them [Monthly reports, quarterly symposia]
7. That the first subject taught to new students be a synthesis of these Foundational Studies of the Faculty with the most current history of the development of the school, in a course to be titled, History and Philosophy of Epiphany…a liberative arts university. (Perhaps this course should be a prerequisite to admission as a student.) [Agreed, FF Mtg. 1/14 – See Manifest V1,#1]
8. That when the Faculty have succeeded in articulating fully the overarching vision, operational model, and underlying educational philosophy of Epiphany, and have mastered the Foundational Studies material to the degree they can communicate it fluently both orally and in writing, then it shall be said the doors are open to Epiphany’s first students – ‘epiphanies’ – as their faculty will have earned Masters Degrees in Education [until this point, all formal admissions will be made to the Faculty Formation program and limited to students seeking Masters Degrees]
9. That the final step in awarding the first Masters Degrees will be the design and unanimous acceptance of the ‘closed canon’ of the Master of Education curriculum – design of this program must include a clear vision for the role and qualifications of the student, and prerequisites as they apply
10. That the Masters Degree requirements shall include some form of Practicum in teaching, by which Epiphany will open opportunities to share courses in the special interests of its forming Faculty with the interested public
Read more at OurElizabeth.org
To be considered as a first order of business at Faculty Formation meetings until a final form can be adopted by unanimous consent.
Proposed:
1. That constant growth in virtue is required of all who would teach well
2. That no one should teach who is not also, in academic pursuits, an adept learner
3. That no one should teach who has not recently experienced being utterly inept at learning something
4. That the Faculty should spend some time studying the history of, and various philosophies of, education so as to be more clear on the place of Epiphany in the historical scheme of things, and to better clarify Epiphany’s similarities to and differences from other educational models
5. That the faculty study the dynamics of pedagogy both experientially and theoretically in order to become better teachers
6. That the faculty develop the habits of studying, conversing together about (and thus teaching one another) the materials covered; responding in writing to the ideas studied; reporting formally to one another and to the ‘public’ on the key ideas and their reflections upon them [Monthly reports, quarterly symposia]
7. That the first subject taught to new students be a synthesis of these Foundational Studies of the Faculty with the most current history of the development of the school, in a course to be titled, History and Philosophy of Epiphany…a liberative arts university. (Perhaps this course should be a prerequisite to admission as a student.) [Agreed, FF Mtg. 1/14 – See Manifest V1,#1]
8. That when the Faculty have succeeded in articulating fully the overarching vision, operational model, and underlying educational philosophy of Epiphany, and have mastered the Foundational Studies material to the degree they can communicate it fluently both orally and in writing, then it shall be said the doors are open to Epiphany’s first students – ‘epiphanies’ – as their faculty will have earned Masters Degrees in Education [until this point, all formal admissions will be made to the Faculty Formation program and limited to students seeking Masters Degrees]
9. That the final step in awarding the first Masters Degrees will be the design and unanimous acceptance of the ‘closed canon’ of the Master of Education curriculum – design of this program must include a clear vision for the role and qualifications of the student, and prerequisites as they apply
10. That the Masters Degree requirements shall include some form of Practicum in teaching, by which Epiphany will open opportunities to share courses in the special interests of its forming Faculty with the interested public
Read more at OurElizabeth.org
Sunday, August 16, 2009
"Elizabeth of the Epiphany" by Charlotte Ostermann, Part Three
Chapter Three – The Faculty
In odd moments, as Epiphany took shape before her wondering eyes, Elizabeth stumbled deeper into the new universe. Of course, as such things must, it became by turns more fantastic and more real. Just where Maria Ogelthorpe fit in, was difficult to say. On the one hand, Epiphany seemed a product of her own imagination, but on the other hand, she seemed a product of its. In the moments when Epiphany was in focus, she saw that she always had been Elizabeth. She felt the finally-coming-home elation of one who watches as on-shore blurs gradually become the welcoming faces of dearly missed loved ones. The fact that she herself was simultaneously in the waiting throng and on the homecoming ship made perfect sense…in those moments.
Trouble was, the ordinary life through which Epiphany had been born seemed to go on oblivious to it, for the most part. Although Maria could entertain thoughts of it while shopping, cooking, caring for children, paying bills, and the like, the experience of actually being there receded bit by bit until she wondered if it had been a dream. The more she shared the emerging details with key people, however, the more comfortable she became moving back and forth between the campus and her home.
The commute should have been a short one, as her home was the campus, but now and then the journey seemed unbearably long. When, in the second month, her friend Cecilia joined the faculty, the commutes were shortened, as their conversations extended Epiphany‟s reach into both lives. The two of them puzzled long and earnestly over a few burning questions: Whether the university rapidly growing on paper and in their minds was already a reality, or had yet to be actualized. Were the words being written, in fact, the first emergence of some sort of reality outside time into their temporal existence? Would Epiphany exist if they stopped writing its story, or would it push through other people if they failed to realize it? How much was it a pure Ideal, and how much was it just a reflection of their own personalities and wishful thinking? Was this a whim, or a divine calling? Were they mad, or very, very sane?
Luckily, the two months of pondering and quibbling over these issues were passed pleasantly – largely over beer and pizza – and, luckily, they were over before Mara signed on to the faculty. A brash young lady who served the ladies pizzas, beer, and witty repartee on Monday nights at Luigi‟s, Mara won a spot on the faculty without ever knowing she was being interviewed. “That’s a girl you won‟t ever catch being someone she‟s not,” remarked Maria one evening. “There does seem to be a great depth of presence about her,” replied Cecilia, “despite appearances.”
Those appearances were more than a little disconcerting, but from that night dated the keen interest of Epiphany‟s Faculty Search Committee in Maravilla Lopez. Mara‟s blowsily clad cleavage, triply pierced ears and butterfly-tattooed left thigh (all too visible below the scanty skirts she favored) contrasted strikingly with the proud cheek bones and regally condescending eyes and bearing (“Queen of all she surveys, that one is!”) of a high-born Spanish doña. Her frank familiarity and cheerful contentment with what, by her own accounts, had been a difficult life, charmed the ladies.
They brushed away whatever troubling elements she presented to their more mature sensibilities, with indulgence born of growing affection. She was true Dulcinea to these non-quixotic Dons; Sigrid Undset to the Jane Austen Society; flaming blood-orange orchid to Cecilia‟s cottage garden and Maria‟s wildflower meadow. Mara had journeyed far from a childhood of faith, in a close-knit family, and just recently returned, wounded and wiser, to a surprisingly warm welcome. “I can‟t believe they want me back just as I am,” she had said, “but after seeing a world without families, I sure do want them just as they are!”
“Just like Innocent Smith in Manalive!” Cecilia had exclaimed. Which led to Mara‟s reading a copy borrowed from Maria; which led to them all agreeing they sometimes felt most sane when onlookers clearly thought them loopy, or thoroughly dotty; which almost led to Mara getting fired when two customers she forgot to wait on stomped out unamused by the ensuing exchange of hilarious stories of good intentions
gone haywire and generous gestures misunderstood as madness. Mara‟s studies under their tutelage thus commenced (“Now that’s an event that deserves a Commencement Ceremony!”), and she pestered them weekly for loans from Epiphany‟s new Circulating Library. Finally, they agreed to invite her to join the faculty, but not without one qualifying question.
“How would you like to go to college, my dear?” “Well, I‟d love a chance to go crazy learning whatever really interested me, but I don‟t imagine I could ever fit into the box labeled „student‟. I guess the minute I began studying to get a job, or a grade, or a pat on the back, the real Mara would jump up and say, „To heck with this, let‟s go to Europe and live a little‟. I‟m just not the type.” “Perfect!” the ladies cried in unison. “You simply must read the story of Epiphany and tell us what you think.” When she returned the unpublished manuscript the next Monday night, Mara seemed suitably affected.
“Is it real?” she asked, her eager brown eyes shining hopefully. “Do you hope so?” “With all my heart!” “Then, please, do attend next week‟s Faculty Development meeting with us. Can you get off work Monday?” Two weeks later they held an official Welcome Social, and changed meetings to Tuesday nights so Mara could join them at Sisters Pub and Pool Hall. One of the sister-owners of this bistro – the chef, Haley Commett – took particular interest in her regular customers. Camaraderie sprang up quickly with the faculty trio. (“What a mixed bag you three are, if you don‟t mind my saying so!” “Well, you have said it, and once it‟s in the minutes, there‟s no getting around it. I suppose now we‟ll need to schedule Mixed Bag nights at a pub for some reason.”)
Soon, she was introducing them to her sister Clem (Clementine Juster), whose husband Jim called her „oh, my darlin‟” (“Of course!”) with great affection. Clem was mannish looking in a lady-country-vet kind of way: short and stocky, curly graying hair too-closely cropped in a well-meant attempt at saving on salon fees, predictable loafers, corduroy slacks and tailored-shirts-under-vests. She and Jim took right to the faculty meetings, so business took a back seat to the fun of discovering each other for the next few weeks. Clem had great strong opinions whenever she had any opinion at all, but was unconcerned about convincing anyone else. In this company she felt unusually free of the typical social inhibitions that keep anything anyone actually considers important from being said.
Maria, Cecilia and Mara also spoke freely, even of Epiphany itself, which fits into very few typical conversations. When Clem accepted a faculty position, they all agreed Jim should be invited to meetings as an honorary Lecturer in the Faculty Formation program. It was so handy to have him there to fill in the details about science, history and current events – areas of their collective weakness – just enough to get on with an interesting story or metaphor.
Helen St. James, at this point, though not officially a faculty member, was tangentially involved with Epiphany‟s inception. Easily overlooked, bookish, and shy, Helen was one of Maria‟s dearest friends. Maria had discovered, beneath the layers of various ethnic costumes and a perpetual air of puzzlement, a dry wit and a capacity for rather oracular pronouncements. Not at all an academic „type‟, but well and widely read, Helen entered the monologues and conversations of others with confused and confusing insights that seemed to emerge from deep within a mind paying only scant attention to the flow of words.
Like a swatch of velvet whipped crazily onto the top of a patchwork piece, though, her utterances were sometimes the making of the whole. Maria often found that, on reflection, the key to the central meaning of such encounters was Helen‟s contributions. Helen herself, while listening with genuine interest to the unfolding story of Epiphany, did not perceive it as something that pertained to her. Not until her review of the first year (Manifest, Vol. 1, No. 6) did Maria even realize Helen‟s pivotal role in Epiphany‟s formation and rectify the omission by a public invitation to join the faculty. Helen readily accepted, and is credited with authorship of the Faculty Prayer, though her first rendering of it had surprised Helen as much as everyone else.
“Are you quite sure, Maria, that we should be writing so much?” Clem had asked. “After all, though we are called „faculty‟, we really are only students, and it seems a bit uppity to publish, doesn‟t it?” “I can see why she has us writing (Maria had coined the maxim, “It isn‟t a great idea until it‟s well-expressed.”), but I just wonder about the publishing,” said Mara. “After all, aren‟t there too many words in the world as it is, and more blather being foisted on it every day?” “But most of those are empty ones,” suggested Cecilia. “And if they are not just empty, but are really emptying, maybe we‟d better write to staunch the flow of meaning.” “Here, here” intoned Maria, “let it not ever be said that we could have written windows into another world and instead kept them to ourselves.”
“I think I understand,” breathed Helen dreamily. “It‟s like that prayer: Pour forth, O Lord, thy Words into our hearts, that we, to whom the Manifestation of thy Son was made known by the message of an Epiphany, may by that same Presence of Heaven in which we live and move and have our being, be brought to the glory of His coming into the world by creating places of words where the world may meet Him and enter His Kingdom.” She was unaware that „that prayer‟ was an original, but Clem copied the whole utterance into the minutes, and the Faculty have prayed it together ever since at the closing of all their intimate meetings.
Read more at OurElizabeth.org
In odd moments, as Epiphany took shape before her wondering eyes, Elizabeth stumbled deeper into the new universe. Of course, as such things must, it became by turns more fantastic and more real. Just where Maria Ogelthorpe fit in, was difficult to say. On the one hand, Epiphany seemed a product of her own imagination, but on the other hand, she seemed a product of its. In the moments when Epiphany was in focus, she saw that she always had been Elizabeth. She felt the finally-coming-home elation of one who watches as on-shore blurs gradually become the welcoming faces of dearly missed loved ones. The fact that she herself was simultaneously in the waiting throng and on the homecoming ship made perfect sense…in those moments.
Trouble was, the ordinary life through which Epiphany had been born seemed to go on oblivious to it, for the most part. Although Maria could entertain thoughts of it while shopping, cooking, caring for children, paying bills, and the like, the experience of actually being there receded bit by bit until she wondered if it had been a dream. The more she shared the emerging details with key people, however, the more comfortable she became moving back and forth between the campus and her home.
The commute should have been a short one, as her home was the campus, but now and then the journey seemed unbearably long. When, in the second month, her friend Cecilia joined the faculty, the commutes were shortened, as their conversations extended Epiphany‟s reach into both lives. The two of them puzzled long and earnestly over a few burning questions: Whether the university rapidly growing on paper and in their minds was already a reality, or had yet to be actualized. Were the words being written, in fact, the first emergence of some sort of reality outside time into their temporal existence? Would Epiphany exist if they stopped writing its story, or would it push through other people if they failed to realize it? How much was it a pure Ideal, and how much was it just a reflection of their own personalities and wishful thinking? Was this a whim, or a divine calling? Were they mad, or very, very sane?
Luckily, the two months of pondering and quibbling over these issues were passed pleasantly – largely over beer and pizza – and, luckily, they were over before Mara signed on to the faculty. A brash young lady who served the ladies pizzas, beer, and witty repartee on Monday nights at Luigi‟s, Mara won a spot on the faculty without ever knowing she was being interviewed. “That’s a girl you won‟t ever catch being someone she‟s not,” remarked Maria one evening. “There does seem to be a great depth of presence about her,” replied Cecilia, “despite appearances.”
Those appearances were more than a little disconcerting, but from that night dated the keen interest of Epiphany‟s Faculty Search Committee in Maravilla Lopez. Mara‟s blowsily clad cleavage, triply pierced ears and butterfly-tattooed left thigh (all too visible below the scanty skirts she favored) contrasted strikingly with the proud cheek bones and regally condescending eyes and bearing (“Queen of all she surveys, that one is!”) of a high-born Spanish doña. Her frank familiarity and cheerful contentment with what, by her own accounts, had been a difficult life, charmed the ladies.
They brushed away whatever troubling elements she presented to their more mature sensibilities, with indulgence born of growing affection. She was true Dulcinea to these non-quixotic Dons; Sigrid Undset to the Jane Austen Society; flaming blood-orange orchid to Cecilia‟s cottage garden and Maria‟s wildflower meadow. Mara had journeyed far from a childhood of faith, in a close-knit family, and just recently returned, wounded and wiser, to a surprisingly warm welcome. “I can‟t believe they want me back just as I am,” she had said, “but after seeing a world without families, I sure do want them just as they are!”
“Just like Innocent Smith in Manalive!” Cecilia had exclaimed. Which led to Mara‟s reading a copy borrowed from Maria; which led to them all agreeing they sometimes felt most sane when onlookers clearly thought them loopy, or thoroughly dotty; which almost led to Mara getting fired when two customers she forgot to wait on stomped out unamused by the ensuing exchange of hilarious stories of good intentions
gone haywire and generous gestures misunderstood as madness. Mara‟s studies under their tutelage thus commenced (“Now that’s an event that deserves a Commencement Ceremony!”), and she pestered them weekly for loans from Epiphany‟s new Circulating Library. Finally, they agreed to invite her to join the faculty, but not without one qualifying question.
“How would you like to go to college, my dear?” “Well, I‟d love a chance to go crazy learning whatever really interested me, but I don‟t imagine I could ever fit into the box labeled „student‟. I guess the minute I began studying to get a job, or a grade, or a pat on the back, the real Mara would jump up and say, „To heck with this, let‟s go to Europe and live a little‟. I‟m just not the type.” “Perfect!” the ladies cried in unison. “You simply must read the story of Epiphany and tell us what you think.” When she returned the unpublished manuscript the next Monday night, Mara seemed suitably affected.
“Is it real?” she asked, her eager brown eyes shining hopefully. “Do you hope so?” “With all my heart!” “Then, please, do attend next week‟s Faculty Development meeting with us. Can you get off work Monday?” Two weeks later they held an official Welcome Social, and changed meetings to Tuesday nights so Mara could join them at Sisters Pub and Pool Hall. One of the sister-owners of this bistro – the chef, Haley Commett – took particular interest in her regular customers. Camaraderie sprang up quickly with the faculty trio. (“What a mixed bag you three are, if you don‟t mind my saying so!” “Well, you have said it, and once it‟s in the minutes, there‟s no getting around it. I suppose now we‟ll need to schedule Mixed Bag nights at a pub for some reason.”)
Soon, she was introducing them to her sister Clem (Clementine Juster), whose husband Jim called her „oh, my darlin‟” (“Of course!”) with great affection. Clem was mannish looking in a lady-country-vet kind of way: short and stocky, curly graying hair too-closely cropped in a well-meant attempt at saving on salon fees, predictable loafers, corduroy slacks and tailored-shirts-under-vests. She and Jim took right to the faculty meetings, so business took a back seat to the fun of discovering each other for the next few weeks. Clem had great strong opinions whenever she had any opinion at all, but was unconcerned about convincing anyone else. In this company she felt unusually free of the typical social inhibitions that keep anything anyone actually considers important from being said.
Maria, Cecilia and Mara also spoke freely, even of Epiphany itself, which fits into very few typical conversations. When Clem accepted a faculty position, they all agreed Jim should be invited to meetings as an honorary Lecturer in the Faculty Formation program. It was so handy to have him there to fill in the details about science, history and current events – areas of their collective weakness – just enough to get on with an interesting story or metaphor.
Helen St. James, at this point, though not officially a faculty member, was tangentially involved with Epiphany‟s inception. Easily overlooked, bookish, and shy, Helen was one of Maria‟s dearest friends. Maria had discovered, beneath the layers of various ethnic costumes and a perpetual air of puzzlement, a dry wit and a capacity for rather oracular pronouncements. Not at all an academic „type‟, but well and widely read, Helen entered the monologues and conversations of others with confused and confusing insights that seemed to emerge from deep within a mind paying only scant attention to the flow of words.
Like a swatch of velvet whipped crazily onto the top of a patchwork piece, though, her utterances were sometimes the making of the whole. Maria often found that, on reflection, the key to the central meaning of such encounters was Helen‟s contributions. Helen herself, while listening with genuine interest to the unfolding story of Epiphany, did not perceive it as something that pertained to her. Not until her review of the first year (Manifest, Vol. 1, No. 6) did Maria even realize Helen‟s pivotal role in Epiphany‟s formation and rectify the omission by a public invitation to join the faculty. Helen readily accepted, and is credited with authorship of the Faculty Prayer, though her first rendering of it had surprised Helen as much as everyone else.
“Are you quite sure, Maria, that we should be writing so much?” Clem had asked. “After all, though we are called „faculty‟, we really are only students, and it seems a bit uppity to publish, doesn‟t it?” “I can see why she has us writing (Maria had coined the maxim, “It isn‟t a great idea until it‟s well-expressed.”), but I just wonder about the publishing,” said Mara. “After all, aren‟t there too many words in the world as it is, and more blather being foisted on it every day?” “But most of those are empty ones,” suggested Cecilia. “And if they are not just empty, but are really emptying, maybe we‟d better write to staunch the flow of meaning.” “Here, here” intoned Maria, “let it not ever be said that we could have written windows into another world and instead kept them to ourselves.”
“I think I understand,” breathed Helen dreamily. “It‟s like that prayer: Pour forth, O Lord, thy Words into our hearts, that we, to whom the Manifestation of thy Son was made known by the message of an Epiphany, may by that same Presence of Heaven in which we live and move and have our being, be brought to the glory of His coming into the world by creating places of words where the world may meet Him and enter His Kingdom.” She was unaware that „that prayer‟ was an original, but Clem copied the whole utterance into the minutes, and the Faculty have prayed it together ever since at the closing of all their intimate meetings.
Read more at OurElizabeth.org
Saturday, August 15, 2009
"Elizabeth of the Epiphany" by Charlotte Ostermann, Part Two
Chapter Two – The Foundress
Elizabeth of the Epiphany was born on the day of the founding realization of the University. At least, that was the day Maria Ogelthorpe took her new name, on the basis of a most extraordinary occurrence. Accustomed as she was to the phenomenon of stumbling through ideas as through magic doors into new worlds, Maria never had grown able to anticipate its coming and was ever freshly surprised. Before she knew where her thoughts about poems, education, water, holograms and Sabbath rest were taking her, she saw the Sign of the Question*E and knew the University whole cloth, seamlessly, as one imagines the disciples suddenly knew the risen Lord in the instant of breaking bread.
Looking at Maria, it would hardly be supposed she was the foundress of a university. She has neither the aquiline nose and high brow of the aristocratic intellectual, nor the lean and leonine bearing of presidential power. Yet, preside she does over the small domain of Epiphany…a liberative arts university. Her appearance – a somewhat faded, dumpy middle age nondescript enlivened by a ready smile – does not so much belie the deep interior fire as garb it in an apron and ready it for domestic duty. One might notice in her eyes a piercing capacity for plumbing the depths of things and an almost pathetic eagerness to see the quickening of kindred spirit in another‟s eyes, but only if one meets that gaze a while, and it is hard to do. Now and then she vows to “toss the hair dye and let the mop become a silver crown of wisdom”, but has not yet taken that step.
A wordy, but not verbose, woman, Maria collected into herself, in the one word „Epiphany‟, all the words that have since been written about it. She and the faculty consider it their first priority to study those words until the university becomes whole in and among them all. Though it is complete in one word, it would take volumes to contain it. The faculty intends to become living volumes and then to open the doors to Epiphany as they publish whatever overflows from that experience. Hence the early need for Epiphany Press, and their rich plans for its future.
You may ask what credentials such a woman brings to the leadership of a university. And she might answer, “Only that the notion came to me and I love it with all my heart and feel responsible for it.” Her faculty would add that her love of learning inspires them. She just seems to be the place within which the universe of Epiphany consists and has its being. It isn‟t as though she‟s lording it over anyone. She‟d be the first to tell you she is not yet even a fully qualified faculty member.
Though epiphanies scoff at the notion of credentials meted out as feed to complacent cattle, they take quite seriously the idea of true faculty formation. It is a holy calling to prepare one‟s faculties to receive and nurture the faculties of others. To this end, Maria – now Elizabeth of the Epiphany – dedicates all her leisure. A free university being free of – among other things – work for hire, she and the others are compelled to spend only their free time at the task of making ready to receive Epiphany‟s students.
Under the Sign of the Question*E the faculty are even now laboring not to question, not to answer, but to be questioned, and to respond. An „answer‟ is too like a „solution‟ to a problem, a fill-in-the-blank mask over the pain of unanswered questions. Not this easy path take Epiphany‟s profs to knowledge, but the path of patient willingness to be wounded by unanswered questions; to dwell in unknowing so as to recognize Truth when it answers. Daily they study and write, weekly they meet, monthly they report, quarterly they give public symposia and in due time should find themselves feeding a student body – like mother pelicans – from their own life‟s blood. How they dream of that day!
Read more at OurElizabeth.org
Elizabeth of the Epiphany was born on the day of the founding realization of the University. At least, that was the day Maria Ogelthorpe took her new name, on the basis of a most extraordinary occurrence. Accustomed as she was to the phenomenon of stumbling through ideas as through magic doors into new worlds, Maria never had grown able to anticipate its coming and was ever freshly surprised. Before she knew where her thoughts about poems, education, water, holograms and Sabbath rest were taking her, she saw the Sign of the Question*E and knew the University whole cloth, seamlessly, as one imagines the disciples suddenly knew the risen Lord in the instant of breaking bread.
Looking at Maria, it would hardly be supposed she was the foundress of a university. She has neither the aquiline nose and high brow of the aristocratic intellectual, nor the lean and leonine bearing of presidential power. Yet, preside she does over the small domain of Epiphany…a liberative arts university. Her appearance – a somewhat faded, dumpy middle age nondescript enlivened by a ready smile – does not so much belie the deep interior fire as garb it in an apron and ready it for domestic duty. One might notice in her eyes a piercing capacity for plumbing the depths of things and an almost pathetic eagerness to see the quickening of kindred spirit in another‟s eyes, but only if one meets that gaze a while, and it is hard to do. Now and then she vows to “toss the hair dye and let the mop become a silver crown of wisdom”, but has not yet taken that step.
A wordy, but not verbose, woman, Maria collected into herself, in the one word „Epiphany‟, all the words that have since been written about it. She and the faculty consider it their first priority to study those words until the university becomes whole in and among them all. Though it is complete in one word, it would take volumes to contain it. The faculty intends to become living volumes and then to open the doors to Epiphany as they publish whatever overflows from that experience. Hence the early need for Epiphany Press, and their rich plans for its future.
You may ask what credentials such a woman brings to the leadership of a university. And she might answer, “Only that the notion came to me and I love it with all my heart and feel responsible for it.” Her faculty would add that her love of learning inspires them. She just seems to be the place within which the universe of Epiphany consists and has its being. It isn‟t as though she‟s lording it over anyone. She‟d be the first to tell you she is not yet even a fully qualified faculty member.
Though epiphanies scoff at the notion of credentials meted out as feed to complacent cattle, they take quite seriously the idea of true faculty formation. It is a holy calling to prepare one‟s faculties to receive and nurture the faculties of others. To this end, Maria – now Elizabeth of the Epiphany – dedicates all her leisure. A free university being free of – among other things – work for hire, she and the others are compelled to spend only their free time at the task of making ready to receive Epiphany‟s students.
Under the Sign of the Question*E the faculty are even now laboring not to question, not to answer, but to be questioned, and to respond. An „answer‟ is too like a „solution‟ to a problem, a fill-in-the-blank mask over the pain of unanswered questions. Not this easy path take Epiphany‟s profs to knowledge, but the path of patient willingness to be wounded by unanswered questions; to dwell in unknowing so as to recognize Truth when it answers. Daily they study and write, weekly they meet, monthly they report, quarterly they give public symposia and in due time should find themselves feeding a student body – like mother pelicans – from their own life‟s blood. How they dream of that day!
Read more at OurElizabeth.org
Friday, August 14, 2009
"Elizabeth of the Epiphany" by Charlotte Ostermann, Part One
A Tribute, Perhaps a Sequel, to G. K. Chesterton‟s “Manalive”
* Epiphany:
- Manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles – Feast: January 6
- A sudden, intuitive perception of, or insight into, the reality or essential meaning of something, usually initiated by some simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence
- A literary work presenting, usually symbolically, such a moment
- A student at Epiphany: A Liberative Arts University
Chapter One – The University
Epiphany was founded January 6, 2008 by its faculty and a woman named Elizabeth of the Epiphany. Since then, its primary purpose has been the development of its faculty – a laborious process expected to take five to ten years. Epiphany‟s students must be, above all things, patient. They will likely tire long before graduation if seeking a degree (at least, that is the hope). The motto on the Epiphany seal is Semper Incipe (Always Begin), and it is this constant beginning of things that puts the brakes on the education engine here. For instance, Epiphany had hardly existed an hour before new institutions were springing up on the campus: Epiphany Press, the Blessed Order of Elizabeths, Incipe – a foundation dedicated to the beginning of good works, Euphonium – Epiphany‟s chorale, and Manifest – its news and literary journal.
Elizabeth, as soon as possible after the Epiphany, began the formation of her faculty. One by one she selected the young ladies, poets, eccentrics, clowns and G. K. Chesterton enthusiasts who had the wherewithal and what-not to get on board. She looked for women with full, yet unbusy lives – women for whom one more full time job would be a mere bagatelle. By the end of the first year, they were four – the Founding Faculty – and were ready to begin.
Meanwhile, Manifest had quadrupled its circulation (from four to sixteen subscribers) and was in a fair way to become a leader in the Catholic Renaissance of the 21st century. Epiphany Press had plans on the drawing board for six book-length manuscripts, two study guides, a collection of essays and poems, and several pithy pamphlets. Euphonium had held its first public recital and several members of the chorale expressed interest in becoming students. Incipe had begun at least eight truly good works, and the entire faculty, by year‟s end, aspired to become Elizabeths in the Blessed Order. In fact, life at Epiphany barely left time for faculty formation. This is what made it so delicious to steal away together, just the four, and prepare themselves to be feasted upon by future students.
Their preparation was very like the preparation of a banquet – great slabs and haunches of common meats roasted manfully on spits, delicacies with complex recipes and flavors fussed over with detailing love, hearty portions of honest buttered vegetables and bread, lovely and whimsical table decorations and garnishes fashioned with creative flair…but I digress. Alas, such is the way of things at Epiphany. One thing leads deeper, backward, higher, onward to another until one‟s path through the curriculum describes a veritable maze. This first year, as we have seen, was a rich one, and bodes well for the future of the University.
It should not be supposed that, because Epiphany is a young school, it is bereft of traditions. Indeed, its traditions took off like its institutions, blossoming wherever Elizabeth dropped a little maxim, or a hint to the faculty of great things to come. Beloved of all epiphanies (for each student will be known as an „epiphany‟) are the words Semper Incipe. It is the animating permission, the empowering edict of every heart, to be told “always begin” and thus, to be freed from always rushing to complete delightful things. End a thing if you must, or if it insists, or if it is odious to you, but do, do begin with abandon. (You may well ask how the heart of the students can possibly be known before any matriculation has begun. I can do no better than answer, in the words of the foundress, “Oh, my dear, how could you ever imagine we would accept any student whose heart we had not known and prepared our own to receive?”)
Other early Epiphany traditions are rooted in its mottoes:
We take ourselves seriously, that others may, and unseriously that we may fly.
(A great sense of whimsy, wry humor and self-spoofing buffoonery traditionally pervades life at Epiphany.)
Free education for free persons
(Yes, an Epiphany education may be costly in some ways, but shall always be free to students. This accounts for much of the long wait for proper students. Rare is the bird that judges grass better than gold thread for building a nest.)
Epiphany … a liberative arts university
(Never, in the history of Epiphany, would Elizabeth have it called either conservative or liberal. With true human freedom in mind, she made swift work of omitting the worst of those terms from the Epiphany tradition, and keeping the best.)
Banquets figure prominently in the body of Epiphany tradition. The annual, catered Fancy Dress Ball – to raise money for Incipe‟s good works; the as-required and thus rare Solemnity of Investiture in the Blessed Order of Elizabeths; the summer Family Choir Encampment offered by Euphonium, which includes a week of fireside feasting; and the Quarterly Faculty Symposia for public discussion of the faculty‟s studies, which must have food aplenty to go with the home-brewed beer – traditions all, from Epiphany‟s first weeks. The Founders Tea, begun on Epiphany‟s first anniversary, is sure to be as stimulating and delightful as the four ladies and their invited guests – potential faculty and students with the requisite conversational skill that makes Epiphany events so pleasant – made it this year. If one word could give the essence of Epiphany tradition, it is “commonplace”. Flush with layer on layer of warm allusions and associations, “commonplace”, though inadequate, will do nicely.
Read more at OurElizabeth.org
* Epiphany:
- Manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles – Feast: January 6
- A sudden, intuitive perception of, or insight into, the reality or essential meaning of something, usually initiated by some simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence
- A literary work presenting, usually symbolically, such a moment
- A student at Epiphany: A Liberative Arts University
Chapter One – The University
Epiphany was founded January 6, 2008 by its faculty and a woman named Elizabeth of the Epiphany. Since then, its primary purpose has been the development of its faculty – a laborious process expected to take five to ten years. Epiphany‟s students must be, above all things, patient. They will likely tire long before graduation if seeking a degree (at least, that is the hope). The motto on the Epiphany seal is Semper Incipe (Always Begin), and it is this constant beginning of things that puts the brakes on the education engine here. For instance, Epiphany had hardly existed an hour before new institutions were springing up on the campus: Epiphany Press, the Blessed Order of Elizabeths, Incipe – a foundation dedicated to the beginning of good works, Euphonium – Epiphany‟s chorale, and Manifest – its news and literary journal.
Elizabeth, as soon as possible after the Epiphany, began the formation of her faculty. One by one she selected the young ladies, poets, eccentrics, clowns and G. K. Chesterton enthusiasts who had the wherewithal and what-not to get on board. She looked for women with full, yet unbusy lives – women for whom one more full time job would be a mere bagatelle. By the end of the first year, they were four – the Founding Faculty – and were ready to begin.
Meanwhile, Manifest had quadrupled its circulation (from four to sixteen subscribers) and was in a fair way to become a leader in the Catholic Renaissance of the 21st century. Epiphany Press had plans on the drawing board for six book-length manuscripts, two study guides, a collection of essays and poems, and several pithy pamphlets. Euphonium had held its first public recital and several members of the chorale expressed interest in becoming students. Incipe had begun at least eight truly good works, and the entire faculty, by year‟s end, aspired to become Elizabeths in the Blessed Order. In fact, life at Epiphany barely left time for faculty formation. This is what made it so delicious to steal away together, just the four, and prepare themselves to be feasted upon by future students.
Their preparation was very like the preparation of a banquet – great slabs and haunches of common meats roasted manfully on spits, delicacies with complex recipes and flavors fussed over with detailing love, hearty portions of honest buttered vegetables and bread, lovely and whimsical table decorations and garnishes fashioned with creative flair…but I digress. Alas, such is the way of things at Epiphany. One thing leads deeper, backward, higher, onward to another until one‟s path through the curriculum describes a veritable maze. This first year, as we have seen, was a rich one, and bodes well for the future of the University.
It should not be supposed that, because Epiphany is a young school, it is bereft of traditions. Indeed, its traditions took off like its institutions, blossoming wherever Elizabeth dropped a little maxim, or a hint to the faculty of great things to come. Beloved of all epiphanies (for each student will be known as an „epiphany‟) are the words Semper Incipe. It is the animating permission, the empowering edict of every heart, to be told “always begin” and thus, to be freed from always rushing to complete delightful things. End a thing if you must, or if it insists, or if it is odious to you, but do, do begin with abandon. (You may well ask how the heart of the students can possibly be known before any matriculation has begun. I can do no better than answer, in the words of the foundress, “Oh, my dear, how could you ever imagine we would accept any student whose heart we had not known and prepared our own to receive?”)
Other early Epiphany traditions are rooted in its mottoes:
We take ourselves seriously, that others may, and unseriously that we may fly.
(A great sense of whimsy, wry humor and self-spoofing buffoonery traditionally pervades life at Epiphany.)
Free education for free persons
(Yes, an Epiphany education may be costly in some ways, but shall always be free to students. This accounts for much of the long wait for proper students. Rare is the bird that judges grass better than gold thread for building a nest.)
Epiphany … a liberative arts university
(Never, in the history of Epiphany, would Elizabeth have it called either conservative or liberal. With true human freedom in mind, she made swift work of omitting the worst of those terms from the Epiphany tradition, and keeping the best.)
Banquets figure prominently in the body of Epiphany tradition. The annual, catered Fancy Dress Ball – to raise money for Incipe‟s good works; the as-required and thus rare Solemnity of Investiture in the Blessed Order of Elizabeths; the summer Family Choir Encampment offered by Euphonium, which includes a week of fireside feasting; and the Quarterly Faculty Symposia for public discussion of the faculty‟s studies, which must have food aplenty to go with the home-brewed beer – traditions all, from Epiphany‟s first weeks. The Founders Tea, begun on Epiphany‟s first anniversary, is sure to be as stimulating and delightful as the four ladies and their invited guests – potential faculty and students with the requisite conversational skill that makes Epiphany events so pleasant – made it this year. If one word could give the essence of Epiphany tradition, it is “commonplace”. Flush with layer on layer of warm allusions and associations, “commonplace”, though inadequate, will do nicely.
Read more at OurElizabeth.org
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