Lamb, Loom & Seed ~ Touchstones for Life

 

Treasured as a traveling companion and source of inspiration since coming to me as a gift in 1979, Alexander Carmichael’s wonderful collection, Celtic Invocations, celebrates a faith and world-view I find deeply appealing. An English translation of Carmichael’s famed Carmina Gadelica ( or Gaelic Songs), it was compiled as he traveled Western Scotland from 1855-1899 and  is rooted in the culture of the highlands and islands, stretching from Arran to Caithness and Perth to St. Kilda. The prayers, invocations and blessings it contains represent a combination of Celtic vibrancy and Christian richness.  When St. Patrick arrived in Ireland and Irish St. Columba (521-597)  carried the faith on to Scotland, the culture, theology and spirituality which resulted was unique.  It remains so today.

Our modern tendency to separate sacred and secular would have seemed laughable to those early converts.  In the words of Avery Brooke, “the Celtic Christians seldom left the spiritual behind in the living of their lives, nor the world behind in their prayers.”  Brooke also notes the unusual tolerance of Christian missionaries toward Celtic religion and traditions.  Because so much of Celtic life was “sained”, blessed and taken up whole into Christianity, Celtic tradition which might otherwise have been lost is accessible today in the wonderful prayers, blessings and invocations which were woven into daily life.  To quote Brooke again, “Christ was the Chieftain of Chiefs, but the old tales, songs, runes and customs, along with the crops, the fish, daily work and nightly sleep were sained - marked with the sign of the cross – as were the fæiries, the banshees and the people.”

When I think of  Celtic Christianity, the word which seems most appropriate is “consecration”.  We tend to think of consecration as a “setting aside” or “setting apart” for a holy purpose.  In our world, the consecrated is separate, quite removed from the realities and routines of daily life.  For the people of the Isles, consecration served to elevate and hallow all the circumstances of the day even as it emphasized their dependence on life’s giver and sustainer.  

Certainly there were morning prayers and evening prayers, invocations of the Saints and hymns to Jesus.  But there was far more than obviously “religious” prayer woven into the fabric of Celtic spirituality.  There were rituals which marked the passing of the days and the cycles of the year. There were blessings for households, for the “smooring” (smothering) of fire at night and for the kindling that “lifted” the fire in the morning. There were songs for the heifers and milk cows, prayers for protection of cattle and songs of praise for the ocean and moon.  There were blessings for fishing, hunting and reaping,  prayers for traveling and prayers for sleep.  Celtic prayer was less something one “did” than an attitude toward life: grateful, receptive and filled with recognition that divine grace and providence is the mysterious ember glowing in the heart of humanity.  Like the home ember nurtured each morning and protected each night with ritual and prayer, the spark of the divine was meant to be tended by humanity.

Free the Oxford English 47,156

 

I’m not a rabid football fan – I always feel badly for the team that loses – but this year I had an invitation to a Super Bowl party, a Terrible Towel to wave and a new recipe to try. It seemed the perfect time to make my way to a friend’s home, settle back and watch the fun. They had a new, super-sized tv guaranteed to make watching the game enjoyable no matter which team you were cheering for, and I appreciated Al Michaels and John Madden in the broadcast booth, even though no one seemed to listen to their coverage unless there was a disputed call or an especially noteworthy play.

No one listened, that is, until sometime in the second half, when a strange thing happened. A player took off for a medium-sized run of perhaps 15 or 20 yards, and Michaels said, “Well, he ran that one with alacrity”. Suddenly, the entire room fell silent as everyone turned toward the television and three people demanded in unison, “ALACRITY?”

It was an appropriate word, properly used and perfectly in context, but it was pretty darned strange to see that wonderful four-syllable team doing its own version of broken field running through a maze of simple, declarative sentences and spare, one or two syllable phrases. That single word stopped an entire party in its tracks, leaving it scattered and stunned at Michaels’ audacity.

The response reminded me of people’s curiosity when I used the word skry in my latest poem, The Grammarian in Winter. I had several publicly posted comments about it, and even more emails, all from folks who essentially said, “SKRY?”   When I was writing the poem and the word came to me, even I wasn’t completely certain of its meaning. I looked it up, found alternative spellings, confirmed the definition and plunked it into my poem, where it serves it purpose beautifully. It’s an unusual word, perhaps even archaic, and it’s no longer heard in casual conversation unless you’re running with a crowd that casts entrails out behind the garage or takes three day weekends to attend Wicca conventions. But it’s a good word, and I was happy to give it a home.

The Haves, and the Have-Nots

 

Most people who live near the Gulf of Mexico, or in Florida, or along the coast of the Southeastern US understand they’re at risk for hurricanes.   When one finally appears that’s big enough or damaging enough, it imprints itself on the collective memory for generations.  I’ve listened to people talk about Carla, Camille, Alicia and Hugo as though they rolled through yesterday, and I’ve heard young people who weren’t alive for some of those storms tell stories as though they were the ones boarding up the house.  Years from now, Ivan, Katrina, Rita, and Ike will continue to be remembered and rehearsed as living events by people who experienced them, or heard the tales so many times they slowly became their own.

One mark of these powerful storms is how quickly they turn the “haves” of the world into “have-nots”.  It doesn’t matter whether your home is a two-room beach shack or an expensive bayfront beauty.  It doesn’t matter whether the vehicle parked out front is a gorgeous Mercedes, a trusty old truck or a rusted-out Chevy.  The storm doesn’t care.  The storm is a magician, with cheap tricks up his sleeve: ”Now you have it – and now you don’t.”  The storm can dump a car into a marina or bury it in the sand as easily as it can wash away an entire community.  The storm can make your second story disappear and leave your neighbor’s pearl necklace hanging on a tree.  The storm doesn’t care.

Longer Sentences, Bigger Words – A Writing Choice

 

Decades ago, one of my most cherished exercises as a grammar school tot was the vocabulary quiz.  Kindergarteners were exempt, but when we reached first grade we were expected to learn twenty new words each week – their spelling, correct pronunciation and proper use in a sentence.

As far as I was concerned, forty weekly words would have been acceptable.  Every word was a little key that unlocked another part of the world, a window that opened onto new and intriguing vistas. Words with multiple syllables were my favorites. Tumbling off the tongue like grade-schoolers at play, it seemed as though they could go on forever.  Walking to school in the morning, I’d rehearse them in my mind.  Perspicacity.  Archetype.  Lacuna.  Paraphernalia.  Abnegate. Chrysanthemums.

The learning process never varied.  My flashcards were white cardboard rectangles with words printed in red on one side and definitions printed in black on the other.  Each evening after supper, we’d linger at the table and flip through the cards.  Mom would give me a definition, and I’d tell her the word.  Then, we’d reverse the process.   Dad would give me a word; I’d attempt to spell it and give the definition.

Sometimes we made vocabulary drill even more of a game by using each word in the funniest sentence possible.  Now and then, if we were feeling creative, we’d punish each other with terrible plays on words.  Sometimes, I’d help myself remember a spelling by using a sentence as a clue.  It took weeks to learn how to spell chrysanthemum.  Finally, I thought of my friend Chris and used her name to help me spell the name of the flower: “Chrys an the Mums went to town for lunch…”

Because our new words had to be used, teachers nudged us toward writing, and we learned to diagram sentences. We started on the most basic level, identifying and properly placing subject, predicate, articles and prepositions.  Gradually, independent and dependent clauses appeared, and little stems, platforms and long lines reached out to the edge of meaning.

“The dog chased the cat” was where we started, but it wasn’t long before we were dissecting “The brown, mischievous dog chased the cat around the house until he caught her behind the blackberry bushes”. 

Eventually, “The brown mischievous dog, in a frenzy of doggie attitude, decided to chase the cat but gave up the effort after his frustrated and irritated owner came after him with a broom and threats of banishment.”

And we diagrammed it all. By the time we were done, the blackboard was covered with lines, slashes, dashes and arrows and a breathless class collapsed into giggles as the unfortunate grammarian finished and stepped back, awaiting the teacher’s verdict.

Behind the exercises, there was a pair of assumptions about language: that a bigger vocabulary is better, and that sentences which have a clear, firm structure can be loaded down with exquisite, shimmering words until they bow like picnic tables covered with hams, salads and cakes.

Those days of learning to love piled-high buffets of words and sentences came to mind recently when a friend mentioned he’d been attending class to learn how to write shorter sentences.  I suspect he was partly joking, or giving us only part of the story, but his remark led me to think about assorted bits of advice I’ve received since starting to write:

Short sentences are good, and shorter sentences are better.  
Don’t overwhelm your reader with complexity.
Don’t use words that require a dictionary. 
Remember that readers have short attention spans.
Write so a sixth grader can understand what you have to say.
Limit yourself to one or two syllable words whenever possible.
Don’t bloat your writing with adjectives and adverbs.
Never go over 300 words.

When these little bits are gathered up into one place and committed to the page, they appear to suggest one further bit of advice: remember you are writing for dunces.

If the same logic were applied to other fields, the absurdity would be obvious. Tell a painter to limit herself to primary colors and brush strokes no longer than one inch in length, and it’s a turpentine bath for you.  Tell a Master Gardener none of his plants can exceed six inches in height, or that he only can use perennials and you’ll be tossed onto the compost heap.  Suggest to a chef she restrict herself to recipes using five ingredients or fewer, or that no dish should take longer than ten minutes to prepare, and you’ll be eating frozen dinners – alone.

You still might have a picture to hang on the wall, a bit of color for your patio and dinner on the table, but the look and taste of life would be diminished immeasurably.

This isn’t meant to be an argument for incomprehensible paragraphs, the misuse of words or pretentious grammatical constructions.  I happen to be one of those throwbacks who believe spelling counts, complete sentences are good, and clarity makes writing more enjoyable for the reader.

On the other hand, while little words and short sentences have their legitimate role to play in everything from daily journalism to great literature, there is no reason that less-common words and more complex sentences can’t be chosen and structured in such a way that they communicate meaning clearly and memorably.

A writer isn’t called to choose little words over big words, or short sentences over long.  The writer is called to search for the right word, the right sentence and the right language to discover and communicate meaning – whatever form those words and sentences take.

There is a time – a perfectly acceptable time – for simple, understated prose:

He always had liked the weather.  He became a weatherman to earn a living, but discovered it had become his whole life.  He wanted to quit his job, but it didn’t seem the responsible thing to do.

But there also is a time for this:

While weather always had been a flirtation, a coy glance toward the effortless clouds and the steaming land left shining after rain, he never had intended prediction to become a habit, a means toward any end other than maintaining life and funding its strange necessities. 

He dreamed of leaving, turning from the constraints of time and deadline to the deliciousness of impulse, the effortless breathing through the day once known in youth but now denied to the years-weary toiler he had become.

For a writer, choosing the right approach is the trick.

 

 

Copyright © 2008 Linda L. Leinen.   All rights reserved.

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