One Ring To Rule Them All

From the Bloggernacle.

I Must Have Been Inspired...

...it's done.

Why I Would Make A Great RS Accompanist

I taught another disconcerting and somewhat disheartening lesson in RS this week. The jumping off place was L. Tom Perry's talk "Bring Souls unto Me." That may have been the first problem--that I think of my assigned subject matter as a jumping off place rather than a lesson to stick to. I read the text, usually think, "oh my gosh what am I going to do with this that hasn't been done a thousand times before," and then something will snag my attention and off I go on my own tangent. This will not change, as I am unable (unwilling, I suppose) to teach by having people read little excerpts from the talk aloud during class and then ask for rote answers to predictable questions. Sometimes my method works and everyone feels comfortable, enlightened, and edified--other times RS ends as it did this Sunday, with hurt feelings, harsh words, and me in confusion.

This time what caught my eye was the injunction to proclaim the gospel to the lost sheep among us. I immediately thought--there is quite a lot of relationship that has to happen before anybody is willing to hear someone proclaim the gospel to them--what about relationship-building? What in Utah County, in our ward, gets most in the way of relationship-building--is it how we tend to form our dear comfortable groups (at church) and others are left on the outside looking in?

"No!" was the fairly resounding answer (not unanimous, of course), "if people feel excluded around us it is their fault." And many personal experiences to illustrate this point ("I am the one who is always excluded, not them," "They don't really want to be a part of our group," "We Mormons are too critical of ourselves--we should give ourselves credit for being more inclusive than other groups," "I've never had a problem like this [so obviously other people don't]," "We feel this way because of how the pioneers were driven out of Nauvoo," and even "Black people have an attitude," which statement completely baffles me). Poor Julie, our new RS president, felt it necessary to stop me and state at length that inclusiveness is not really what the lesson is about, it's about proclaiming the gospel to people who need to hear it. Um, OK.

I told a story on myself--about walking into a stake RS conference soon after we moved here and saying nervously to Sergene, "There must be a hundred thousand dollars worth of hair care in this room." When I told Tena at lunch today that I said that, she said I likely offended people with the story, even though my point was that I was being judgmental and making assumptions based on appearance, because I was nervous and insecure. So maybe that was it. I didn't say what else I thought at the time, which is--there must be even more than a hundred thousand dollars worth of boob jobs, body sculpting, plastic surgery, and anorexia in this [stake RS conference] room--which I suppose would have been really offensive. If self-evident.

I don't know. I tried to link it back to the example of Jesus, who would talk to anybody, but we couldn't get past the point of feeling insulted, hurt, and defensive about not being inclusive enough. People came up to me after church and called on the phone yesterday afternoon about it, pro and con. I felt/feel like I got caught in the crossfire of an ongoing battle of which I was unaware. People usually don't react so defensively to exhortations from the pulpit to be more Christlike. You don't hear them arguing back to the teacher about daily prayers, or Word of Wisdom, or temple attendance.

I didn't tell the stories of hurtful exclusion I've heard from within our ward, within the past few months. I thought that those hurts are too near and tender, and I respect the confidentiality of those who have confided in me.

John says he thinks it has something to do with the political battles going on right now. He is in the loop of the right-wing emails that fly around the ward and the valley, exhorting people to "take back the nation" and "stop the Obama administration from destroying the Constitution." Maybe that explains the odd comments about black people. People in the class were wounded. They were full of rage.

I don't know. I don't get it. I don't know how to predict when something else I say or topic I think is timely but innocuous will set people off. Has something happened that takes such a challenge off the table, makes it invalid as a critique of ourselves and our culture? What is it?

Amy + Jamison 4Ever

Amy at the Temple

Black or White

I'm susceptible to polarized thinking. I would like things to be right or wrong, black or white, with no shades of gray. This cognitive habit is a characteristic of very young human beings. We need to know who are the good guys and the bad guys, and subtleties make us anxious. As I've grown older, I've become more comfortable with complexity. People are a mixed bag, as are institutions, events, and life in general--sometimes good and sometimes bad--and what's "good" or "bad" may change over time and according to circumstance.

God and Church are where I still slide into the temptation of polarized thinking. I want them to be perfectly good (and note how I conflate God and Church). Over the years I've become more forgiving of silliness, ignorance, and venal sins among church members, aware as I am of my own silliness, ignorance, and venality. I have more of a problem with things that seem mistaken or even harmful on an official, institutional, or doctrinal level. I admit the "seem"--my perception of good and evil is not infallible. I'm working on humility, despite the evidence of twelve "I's" in this post so far. Now thirteen.

My current problem with polarized thinking, however, is with the insistence by some believing persons (official or not) that "if the Book of Mormon story is true, then the Church is true: if the Book of Mormon is not true, then Joseph Smith was a charlatan and the whole thing is a fraud." And similar statements hinging one's membership on black or white tests of belief.

People who say this think they know what the outcome of such a yes-or-no choice will be. But what if it isn't? I've known enough people--people I care about, people I didn't want to leave the church--examine that question and decide "no." I don't want only two choices here. What if there are shades of gray even re: the Book of Mormon? If "shades of gray" must equal "black," then sorry, I'm out.

Tena asks me, when I get to the point where it seems like I'm at a fork in the road with no middle way, what it is I want. I don't want to leave. Right now that has to be enough.

My Relation to the Church

Today I want to think about why I am a member of the church and about my complicated relationship to the church. I realize that the complications have offended some and perhaps created obstacles for others. I am sorry for the negative effects of my struggles with my faith, especially sorry for negative effects on my family.

As a child I was happy and deeply at home as a Mormon (although I remembered being mightily bored at church, I also understood from an early age that people are just sometimes boring and it was my job to bear with it). I had a strong foundation of love in my family, and the church felt like the extension of my family outward to my community, backward into the past, and forward into the future. I am grateful to my parents for giving me that grounding, that foundation that is deep and wide and firm but also joyously alive. As Wordsworth says, "Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will." I believe my firm emotional foundation is based on the love and care given by my parents. I know how fortunate I am to have experienced it, as so many children don’t, and are left bereft and ungrounded.

I was an adolescent during the early to mid-seventies, and the second wave of American feminism was just getting going, as well as the echoes and reverberations from the unpopular war, the corruption in government exposed by Watergate, and the social changes that seemed to have swept away the past. I read omnivorously. I experienced on a visceral level (before I knew what it was) the “click” of what those mid-century feminists called “raised consciousness.” Maybe it was more a recognition of what I had always felt. All those amazing books, ideas, theories, systems, which I had devoured and engaged in with delight--giving explanations and descriptions of the human condition—included an overt or more often an unstated appendix: “except for women.” “For women, of course, the inverse is true.” “The feminine dies not fit this model.” Etc. etc.

So from the very beginning of my intellectual life I had a double consciousness. There were humans, and there were women. I was at home in the world of ideas, and I was outside the window looking in. I was in de Beauvoir’s words, simultaneously subject, master of myself—and object—outside of my own experience, excluded deliberately from full personhood. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe the feminists were/are wrong. But that was my experience. It was obvious that the traditional feminine roles were devalued in the world—women (and women’s work) were simply not as important as men.

Rightly or not, justified or not, I also experienced that double consciousness at church. At about that time, in an apparent reaction to feminism, we (in the church) began to emphasize verbally the importance of mothering, homemaking, women’s work (more often than on Mothers Day). I—and incidentally, most feminists—agree. Traditional women’s work is incredibly important, is vital, is essential, and must be valued and supported in a world where economic and social pressures can overwhelm it.

But of course men still presided, men were the public face of the church, it was men who told us to be happy in our womanly roles.

I still carry like a weight in my heart my memory of the whole ERA thing, when the church flexed its muscle—here do I say “in opposing women’s rights”?—maybe rather “in the political battle over women’s issues.” I remember my BYU Women’s Studies professor excited to attend the Nov. 1977 National Women’s Conference in Houston as an official delegate, to celebrate the advances of women—and I remember her returning home, unable even to speak to us about it because of her tears. She told about the stake Relief Societies bused in en masse to protest and shout down the proceedings—their votes and movements directed by men in suits with 2-way radios. I was 19 years old, newly married and pregnant with our first child. I wondered if the church didn’t actually want strong, intelligent women as members—it seemed that they were actively pushing them/us out.

I remembered ten years later, Feb. 1987, when John and I decided to take the four kids to a Sunday evening fireside at the stake center. John had been working insane hours at three part-time teaching jobs (as well as full-time student) to finish his PhD at U Houston until I took a full-time job. I was Primary President in our ward and working a demanding schedule at a local psych hospital. The talk we heard from President Benson included this quote from Spencer W. Kimball:

Wives, come home from the typewriter, the laundry, the nursing, come home from
the factory, the cafe. No career approaches in importance that of wife, homemaker, mother--cooking meals, washing dishes, making beds for one's precious husband and children. Come home, wives, to your husbands. Make home a heaven for them. Come home, wives, to your children, born and unborn. Wrap the motherly cloak about you and, unembarrassed, help in a major role to create the bodies for the immortal souls who anxiously await.

I was stunned. We were working so hard, sharing child care, trying to reach our educational goals while creating a loving home for our kids. “Should I just quit my job?” I asked John. We talked through the consequences—back home to Utah with no Ph.D., probably working on the family ranch and commuting to a public school job. Maybe it would have been OK. Maybe we missed our chance to show true faith like the pioneers. Some women did it, I know. But it simply wasn’t right for us then. The whole experience was very upsetting for me, and my relationship to/with the church became even more doubled and conflicted.

I decided that I was tired of the battle. I decided not to care. But suppressed inner conflict still pops up, of course—sometimes even more vehemently than it would if it were out in the open and discussed in the clear light of day.

This isn’t what I intended to do with this post—relate my feminist history in a self-justifying manner. I recognize in myself intellectual pride, stubbornness, a tendency to intellectual rebellion. I don’t like authority or obedience—it seems to be characterological—I perceive no virtue in either for their own sake. It all depends on who is the authority and what I am expected to obey. (Again I feel myself slipping into self-justification).

But the church is still extremely important to me. As my two sons-in-law have pointed out, (Brett) I am a lazy feminist who often doesn’t live up to her own principles, and (Jamison) I have very liberal beliefs while living a very conservative lifestyle.

The church means to me a beloved tradition that my ancestors sacrificed for. Some sacrificed everything. It means a community of people working hard to be good and do what’s right, encouraging each other to service and love. I understand that we’re not perfect. I love the community, the trying. I have been an active and committed participant in the church throughout my life from childhood on, but my attitude toward the church varies dramatically. I love the church, I admire the church, I am amazed by the church, I appreciate the church, I am grateful for the church, at times I cling desperately to the church—but at times I am also exasperated by the church, bored by the church, resentful of the church, and angry at the church. My difficulty comes when the church is defined as authoritarian and hierarchical as it is possible to be, with God at the top of the hierarchy. Fortunately for me, there are other ways of looking at it, particularly if one reads the stories and teachings of Jesus. He was not especially impressed with the authoritarian hierarchy of his day, and taught that the kingdom of God resides first in our hearts. If I view the church not as an end in itself, but as an imperfect and temporary means to the end of becoming more like Jesus and returning to live with him, then I don’t get caught up in futile rebellion against the church as some kind of monolithic institution.

I am envious, in some ways, of the strong faith of my father and brothers. I realize that belief is not my gift. I have enough insight to recognize why this is so—I am judgmental, believe implicitly in my own ability to determine what is right and wrong, have an automatic reject button for authoritarian pronouncements of any kind from anyone, mistrust sentiment, mistrust tradition, mistrust groupthink, mistrust logic, and my dignity won’t let me take the risk of being made a fool by believing something which might be false. Often I don’t even want to believe. I find Joseph Smith to be a deeply disturbing figure. I am ambivalent about him. I am mistrustful and wary of him. I read the Book of Mormon, with its moral clarity and unambiguous sense of justice, goodness, right and wrong—and I don’t see that moral clarity in Joseph’s own life—polygamy being only one of the things that muddy the waters. I realize that I can be a Christian without having much of an opinion of Joseph Smith, but can I truly be a Mormon? How can I get past my dislike of Joseph’s faults to fully appreciate his gifts?

I want to be a fully participating Christian/Mormon. What does it mean? What is required of me? Does it mean we’re all alike? Does it mean we all have the same opinions? Does it mean we all must believe the same things? Does it mean if we disagree we should keep quiet about our disagreement, particularly if we’re in the minority? Does it mean that we can differ on things that don’t matter, but on things that matter, we should have the same opinions and behaviors? Who decides what matters? Should it ever be enforced? And how would that work? Can we be different as long as we’re nice to each other? How different is it OK to be?

I am trying to integrate the practice of gratitude into my life, and perhaps it applies here.

Gratitude for the church comes fairly easily to me when I am conscious of it and think about it. I am grateful to the church for providing structure and guidance in my life and that of my children when the world seems chaotic and confusing. I am grateful for a place to learn and think about Jesus on a regular basis. How would I know him if I had not had that frequent opportunity? I am grateful for the call to transcend the materialism and consumerism of my daily life.

Humility, on the other hand, is not so easy for me. Again, I look to the stories and example of Jesus, who was not interested in status, in power over others, in winning arguments, in being right—but in loving, teaching, and serving. I have to remember his statement that the last will be first, the first last, and that the Master is the servant of all.

It is painful to realize that I have hurt others with my opinions and struggles. I am very sorry. I guess I don’t know how to do it except by dialogue, which I appreciate. Other comments and thoughts about religion from past years are on the UK blog here and here and here and here (but I realize they also may be painful to read). My extremely conflicted feelings about the church and gays I have expressed earlier on this blog. I am again working with a young gay Mormon man for whom I keep my cell phone by the bed in case of a middle-of-the-night call.

The Iowa Decision

From Feminist Mormon Housewives, a post about the Church's involvement in the same sex marriage controversy that reflects an earlier post on my blog:

Being gay in the Church is like being a woman in the Church. Let me recognize, however, that gays have had it far, far worse than women. The psychological and spiritual damage inflicted upon gay members by the Church’s highest (and lowest) leadership is unforgiveable.

But these attitudes are thankfully, though grudgingly, changing. Instead of being told they are broken and corrupt for their evil thoughts and behavior, gays are told that ”the Church” accepts you and loves you. But. Don’t even THINK about establishing a committed, loving relationship with a partner. Don’t even THINK about having a partner! The Church may love you, but unless you can sit quietly in your pew and pretend to be just like the rest of us normal people, well, there’s no real place for you here.

Likewise, women are told that ”the Church” loves and accepts women. But don’t even THINK about stepping outside of your prescribed role of being a nurturing mother (or mother-like figure) who upholds, but does not hold, the priesthood. If you do, then you’ll be smothered in sweet platitudes about equal partnership and how much we treasure our women, and don’t you want to experience the joy of eternal families (that may or may not include you sharing your husband with other wives)?

The post also includes a very interesting thread with many perspectives represented.

Why I'm Sad

The Proposition 8 fallout continues. I don't even know what to say about it, it makes me so sad and heartsick. Conflicts between loyalty and integrity--conscience and obedience--do not ever seem to me to be particularly helpful or faith-building. Rather, they grind away at hope and stretch thin the bonds of affection and attachment. For me, conscience and integrity trump loyalty and obedience on this issue, but I still don't know what I should do. Surely it is better to remain engaged in and with my church community rather than letting myself be driven away or silenced. But the habit of silence is hard to break. Part of that is the fear of doing harm by speaking, especially when I have been warned (in the kindest possible way) already. I feel strongly about this issue, (mostly) based on experiences with clients, to whom I owe loyalty, respect, attention, and such protection as I can give. How to effectively do what conscience demands, however, is still the question.

Off the Hook

I unwrapped the Trib this morning and saw this headline--Church: Utah Mormons will no longer aid Prop 8. I had wondered how having Utahns donate money and call voters in California could possibly be anything but a PR disaster, but I also understand how some might see it as the price we pay for righteousness. I hate feeling like my conscience and ethical standards put me on the wrong side of the battle. I don't mind fighting for the right--truly--but I have to believe in what I'm fighting for. I have felt sick that the transcendent issue which causes us to break with The World and go our own way ends up being over something so hurtful and wrong. I'm not the only Mormon to feel this way. I think the damage is done, and it feels to me like it's been over a mess of pottage.

No More Dodging the Bullet

When I first heard of Proposition 8, the ballot initiative to rescind the legality of same-sex marriage in the state of California, I felt fortunate that I don't live there. I thought I wouldn't have to face, in any kind of personal way, the Church's reaction and involvement. When I heard of people in LDS wards in Washington and Oregon asked to volunteer time and donate money to the cause, I began to worry.

Last week we got the call in our ward in the Mormon heartland, Utah County. By now I'm not surprised. Instead I'm sad and sick about it. I passed on the sign-up sheet to make phone calls to California (along with information for where to get the talking points and answers to questions and objections people might have). Some of my friends and neighbors talked excitedly about the last days, sifting the chaff from the wheat, and fighting the battles of righteousness. I was heartened, however, to sense a bit of unease, even embarrassment, in others.

My sweet neighbor from across the street--at the time my visiting teacher--said not long ago, "it doesn't seem fair, and it seems like prejudice and discrimination, but the Prophet says it, so it must be right."

Ultimately, that's what it comes down to, for most of my Church brothers and sisters. I could talk about the benefits of chastity, marriage, and monogamy (which I believe in) for gay people as well as straight; I could talk about tolerance and charity and Christ-like love; I could even tell of the phone calls at two a.m., the midnight rush to my office or the homes of my patients, holding the hand of a sobbing young man or young woman, or worse, the hand of a white-faced mother or father in the emergency room while their child is behind the curtain gagging down the charcoal after an overdose.

But what it comes down to is "the Prophet says."

Many years ago during the ERA controversy, I realized that the leaders of the Church were willing to sacrifice individuals for what they perceive as the good of the whole. At that time I also realized there was nothing about me that Church leaders would find particularly valuable--if push came to shove, I could be sacrificed too. And I backed down. It was a womens' issue, I was a woman, if I had to I could live with it. Inequity based on sex had been around for a long time, maybe it would all take longer than I thought, but surely, the changes would come in my lifetime--

It was probably my first suicidal young gay Mormon patient who pushed me past this position of cowardice and accommodation. He said, "Why shouldn't I die? Why, really? I can live closeted and dying inside, or come out and lose everything and everyone I love. I might as well be dead. I have no hope of love and no hope of heaven."

At that moment I realized whose side I was on. Suicide makes me frantic, desperate. Maybe it's a weakness in a therapist. I scan the obituaries daily, morbidly, for faces of former patients, just as I scan the photos accompaning police reports. I look for a long time at the faces of young men and women for whom no cause of death is given, the ones described as "exhausted by the struggle here" or "gone to a better life." Early in my graduate training, two of my former patients killed themselves after their release from the State Hospital. I dream about it sometimes. I keep my cell phone charged and next to me day and night.

The Prophet says. But the call to obedience works only up to a point, and for me the point has been reached. I will not participate in a project that even indirectly, kills my patients. This is a life-and-death matter. I haven't yet decided what I must do, as well as not do, but I have a feeling that my low-profile, camouflage days are over. I feel scared and angry that it has come to this. What was merely irritating and exasperating about the Church's stance on women now violates my conscience and goes against my faith as a follower of Jesus as it applies to my gay and lesbian clients. I don't know what will happen when I go to Church day after tomorrow, or when I teach my Relief Society lesson in a couple of weeks. Silent acquiescence is no longer acceptable.

News of the Week 9/14/08

I love the fall. The excitement is remembered from childhood--getting new clothes and shoes, going back to school, the October deer hunt at Orderville and Bob Creek, then Halloween and the rest of the holidays. I don't go back to school anymore, or hunt deer, but the excitement is hardwired in.

What I appreciate more now about September is that things settle down after a chaotic summer. With John and Chris taking summers off, I don't have a regular routine until they're both back in school. I love mornings sitting in a clean, quiet kitchen with the cats, the sun edging in the south windows beneath the eaves, eating a ripe pear or a peach from our trees (my schedule allows about one day per week of doing that).

THS was out Friday, and Chris' band, Red and the Rovers (check out his Facebook and MySpace pages) played a house/pool party. He tells me that I have to sign onto Facebook and MySpace to see and hear his publicity, so I guess I will. He says a lot of kids at school recognize him from online, and some tell him he has a good voice because they've heard his samples or demos or whatever they're called.

The RS counselor over Sunday lessons came by today to give me feedback from sisters in the ward, saying that my lessons may be too challenging and leave some upset and worried about my testimony. I can see that, and I'll change what I can without saying things I don't believe or boring myself to death. It may be, however, that I'm more suited to playing the piano than giving lessons. And I haven't even mentioned the Heavenly Mother! I used to joke that if I was ever desperate to be released from a calling, I would just start an opening prayer like this, "Dear Father and Mother in Heaven." (In the end I just ask to be released, however, and then it's quite a long time before I get another calling.) This morning I felt like protesting that I would like more lessons like the ones I give, but as Julie said, this isn't actually only about me. It just seems a shame to have lessons (as is often the case) where it is more interesting to write out the weekly grocery shopping list than listen to what's going on in Sunday School.

We had our writing group up the canyon at Charlotte's cabin tonight, and read Charlotte's memories of life with Gene and their kids. Her submissions this month revolved around house keys and cars, and were very funny. We got on a roll of telling car stories, and laughed for about three straight hours. This was after an initial 30 minute moan session about the state of American politics, so we needed the laugh endorphins. John and I took some of the bottled white grape juice from last week to cut with tonic water, and it was a very good and elegant drink to go with whole wheat pasta and homemade tomato sauce.

My SFF writing group is evolving. Isaac got married this week and is taking some time off, and Brandon is swamped with his Robert Jordan finale and says he won't be back until after the New Year. Dan is going to take a break from writing after we're through with his serial killer story. So they've invited another group member and moved to Janci's house. I just realized I haven't sent my submission yet for group on Tuesday. I guess it's too late. My goal is to work up to three half-days per week to work on stories, but so far I haven't even made it to one.

Maybe with the settled, structured, September schedule...

Ward Campout

We left late yesterday for a ward campout in the mountains between Nephi and Fountain Green--we heard most of the musical program and fixed ourselves tacos on our little put-together picnic table in the dark (but with a bright moon overhead). Chris and I were coldand he was not happy about getting up this morning, but it was fun once we did. We talked with friends--Riley was there, the biologist who did John's Utah Study Abroad program with him this May. Nicolle was Riley's student years ago.We had eggs and sausage and pancakes for breakfast, and John and Chris rode their bikes back to the farm while I went ahead for a visit with my folks.

August 10 Sunday at Hyde Park

Gary drove us to the Wimbledon stop on the District Line, and we made it to church only one minute late. We saw a few of the people we’ve known at the Hyde Park ward over the years, but it is a very transient ward, and much has changed. It is still friendly and welcoming to the traveler, however. After church, John and I had lunch in the Science Museum café across the road, then walked up to the park and sat by the Round Pond watching the birds and the people. The North Fleet Brass Band was setting up in the bandstand, and when the band began to play, all the geese waddled out of the pond and honked back at them. It was most interesting.

We walked through the park to Queensway past the Princess Diana playground--another huge flash of nostalgia--switched to Jubilee at Bond Street, and took the train from Waterloo to Norbiton again. We ate at a nice Chinese place again in Wimbledon Village with Gary and Helen and their son Ryan, who is here from Australia studying 3D graphic design. We talked about video gaming, city planning, escapist movies, Oliver Sacks and neuroscience, etc. etc. etc. until midnight.

The Center of the Center of the English Speaking World

So Manhattan might be the center of the universe, but London is the center of the English speaking world, and to me, Trafalgar Square is the heart of London. Here Nelson gazes down Whitehall toward Parliament (reprovingly, one suspects), and a lion at the base of the monument looks ready to take a bite out of Big Ben. John and I took in a free lunchtime concert at St. Martin-in-the-Fields before visiting the National Portrait Gallery and eating (of course, for old times' sake) at Wagamama's. They've been refurbishing the church for several years now, and the concert was accompanied by the sound of a jackhammer, or some other noisy power tool. I love the new window--a sense of being held, caught, or trapped, but also having broken free--the web is empty now, but leaves a void or passage whereby we too may escape.

August 3 The English Seaside

Since Weymouth is only ten miles from Dorchester, the train wouldn’t leave until church had already started, and a taxi would cost no more than train fare, we took a taxi to church this morning, dropping off our bags at the B&B on the way. Chris will remember both the pretty little church building on the Chickerell Road, and the Greenwood Guest House on Holland Street in Westham. John guided our driver here by instinct. The branch has shrunk since we were here last year, losing five families who moved away. We walked the two miles home after church.

We’ve liked Weymouth since our first trip in 1997, when we took the family and some extra students and rented a cottage in Osmington, a few miles east around the bay. Quintessentially English, I don’t remember hearing any foreign voices in Weymouth but our own. Jane Austen would not approve of the town, one fears, but she would understand it as she understood Brighton and Lyme Regis. On previous visits, usually during a British bank holiday, the esplanade and somewhat pebbly beach were populated by large, blonde, loud, red-cheeked people determined to enjoy their trip to the seashore no matter how cloudy and windy the day. This time, however, I’ve heard German, Dutch, and accents from further east; in our little B&B half of the guests are from America.

History

We walked by a monument “In memory of those who suffered in Dorset in the religious troubles of the 16th and 17th Centuries,” many of whom were hanged, drawn, and quartered on this site. I should imagine, but don‘t know for sure, that many were Catholic. Of course they could have been Protestant too, depending on whether it was Henry, Mary, Elizabeth, or the Stuarts on the throne. It was interesting that the monument didn’t say which side anybody was on. It did say this:

It also quoted Robert Southwell, priest, “put to the torture thirteen times and executed in Tyburn 21 February 1595”:
“Not where I breathe, but where I love, I live;
Not where I love, but where I am, I die;
The life I wish, must future glory give.
The deaths I feele in present daungers lye.”

Durnovaria was surrounded by a wall, some of which exists 2000 years later. Here is a piece on the west side near the Borough Gardens:It is just the core of the wall, as "the smoother facing was used by locals for building in the middle ages." What would it mean to live in a place this old, so soaked in human history? Near the South Train Station are the Maumbury Rings, fortifications first built during the Stone Age, then made into a Roman amphitheatre, then used as a fairgrounds and an animal pen, and now a sort of public picnic area. Our students played Frisbee on/in them three years ago.

July 27 Church

We were up early for the staggeringly--I don’t even know what to call it--various, nutritious, sustaining, and delicious, as cooked by our hosts--English breakfast, and then caught a ride with our housemate Linda (also here for the Hardy Conference) to St. George’s Church, Fordington, for Sunday morning service. It was interesting to attend a Church of England service in honor of the grumpy old agnostic. He apparently quit church in architectural offense over an addition to the bell tower, which he called the “pepper pot.” He probably would have objected to the lightning rod as well. This is a modern church, according to the pamphlet on its history, with the tower dating back only to the 1400’s, and most of the church 19th and 20th century, although built on Roman and Norman foundations. The windows were by William Morris and Edward Bourne-Jones.

In addition to the regular hymns and responses, this service included readings of Hardy prose and poetry about churches and church singing. The sermon was by an ecclesiastical woman from Canturbury who is a Hardy enthusiast here for the conference, who spoke with humor and sweetness. The priest also seemed funny and casual and sweet, while celebrating the high church rituals with reverence. Music was provided by the Beaminster Gallery Quire and players (viol, pipe, clarinet), in period costume. My favorite piece was a sped-up and lengthier version of the Old One Hundred, which I love anyway from childhood reading of “The Secret Garden” (the One Hundred refers to its number in the hymnbook, I realized today). The congregation, average age probably 67, stood and sang loudly and with vigor.

I made a video of the postlude music, which was a dance tune from the mid 19th century, hoping to upload it to the blog, but it looks like my little mini-computer can’t read my videos. Oh well, maybe when we get back.
I remember one of our Mormon acquaintances saying she envies the English their churches, and I know what she means. On a cold winter night, this church would have been foot-aching frigid, but on a hot summer morning, it was a cool oasis, a vaulted, echoing sanctuary from the world outside. I dumped all my change in the little bag they brought around during the collection, and now I don‘t have any money for the bus.

News of the Week 7/20/08

The summer is flying by. Amy and Jamison moved into his mom Debbie's new house in Lindon this week, and we were sad to see them go. They will be able to stretch out a little there, I think, and more easily visit with Jamison's brothers from back east who are here on holiday. It was great to get to know Jamison better, and he certainly saw us at our normal condition, whatever that is (bathrobes, messy house, kitty crises, and all). Amy's working hard on the Chicago move. We're both so busy that we don't see or talk to each other much--I'm really going to miss her when she leaves next month.

Chris bought a used PlayStation and Guitar Hero III, and he so far hasn't done anything else this week. He says he's getting tired of it and might trade it back at GameStop at the mall for the money minus 20 percent. His way-cool pedal came, but he's still waiting impatiently for the guitar and amp to show up. He has to make up a foods class online before school starts (August 18), but he just growls at me when I mention it. Actually I think it would be fun. He is a good cook and interested in eating well. Maybe after he trades in Guitar Hero... I made him a copy of the car key, which he carries around on his belt loop, and uses to start the car if I leave him alone in it for a second. He is excited for drivers ed. I tried to warn him

but he doesn't listen.

John spent the end of the week at the Green Jacket ranch, cowsitting for Liz and Alan. He said it's still beautiful and green, because of the slow start to the season. He came back sunburned and tired, and said it was harder than he thought but he enjoyed it. I shouldn't complain about our little garden--what a huge job the Mitchell's have!

Chris and I missed the Vernon reunion last night, mostly because I am trying to finish the six psych evals I must send off before we leave for London on Friday. At least I've already done all the testing. I only have two more feedback sessions and then the writeups--oh, and a collatoral phone interview tomorrow with a family member for one of them. Five of the evals are for Voc Rehab and one is for the care center in Lindon. I am a slow report writer. Any kind of writing is a nervous business for me. I bite my cuticles and jiggle my feet and get up and pace and am very easily distracted away from actual work.

Dave and Devon sent photos around of their new loft in Philadelphia, where they will move on Sept 1. Maybe since Dave doesn't have a family blog, I will have to post the pictures here:

Dave is starting up a law practice and (as he said in his last message) blogging as the immigration specialist at this site beginning next month. Pretty exciting.

Rob and Nicolle are still deciding what exactly to do, I think. Last time I spoke on the phone with Rob, Nicolle was working at Tocanos in SLC, but I'm not sure how permanent that will be. Rob helped me build a new web site, Karla Bennion PhD, which is still sort of in the beta-phase until I get some photos and more text.

Next thing on my tech list is to invite J.Lynn over for lunch and have him help me order a new desktop, as my poor little 6-year-old Dell Inspiron laptop is totally outdated. The monitor went out, and I have it hooked up to a $10 used monitor from DI. My 2" by 4 and 1/2" external hard drive has more storage space than my main computer. (But the ASUS is sure fun. I took it to my office the other day and got onto somebody's unsecured wireless--should I feel guilty about that? is it dangerous? I take my 2 gb data stick with me and have every text file I've ever written in my life with 99% of the room to spare.)

Well, speaking of text files, I'd better get to the psych reports. My RS lesson went well today--this time I only had four questions and by pushing it a little got to three of them before the meeting was over. We do have a talkative congregation, which is good of course. Makes my job easier.