The Perfectionist

Last summer, I was privileged to take a class on how to “write” an icon. For one week, I intensely studied and copied the sacred features of Our Lady and the Child Jesus in a 14th century Russian icon. It was a very powerful experience—contemplative and almost like a retreat.

On the final day, after much hard work and long hours, I had nearly completed the icon. As I finished tracing the last few strokes in Christ’s halo, I set down my red-dripping paint brush too hurriedly, and to my shock it scattered splashes all across the image. Fortunately, such a mistake was reparable, and I instantly began to wipe it away; I painstakingly scanned the painting for any pin-point red blotches.

When I had the last red marks wiped away, I began to apply a protective coat of varnish to the

image. As I ran the brush, dripping with the thick, glossy varnish, over the edges of my painting, I realized to my horror that there was a glaring red splatter on the side of my “storm-blue” border, unfixable and obvious to the artist’s eye, and it was now sealed beneath the irremovable coat of varnish. To me it seemed like a bleeding wound in the lovely body of the icon. I didn’t understand how I could have missed it. I gasped and panicked, allowing the other ladies in the class to try and soothe my vanity by telling me it was not noticeable. Then, as I stood there, dripping varnish from my brush and lamenting loudly, one of these kind ladies spoke up.

“That’s good.”

“What?” I sputtered nervously, and stared at her, failing to comprehend what she meant.

“That red dot is good,” she said patiently, “even though no one can see it really but you. Nobody’s perfect. Only God can make something perfectly, so it’s good to have that little flaw on your icon to remind you of your human failures.”

I could do nothing but sheepishly bite my lip, nod, and proceed with my varnishing. I knew she was right. She had discovered my secret: I was a perfectionist. I had prided myself on the quality of my painting, and even secretly attributed it to my obsessive attention to detail. My reaction of melodramatic distress at the tiny flaw was simply a result of the perfectionism which could not stand to admit I had made a mistake, that my work was not perfect.

This is because perfectionism is simply another kind of pride. There is a whole world of difference between doing something to the best of your ability, honestly trying to complete a job as well as you can, and having an unnatural drive to do something perfectly.

Of course, Jesus said, "Be perfect as your Heavenly Father is perfect,” didn't he? Yes: but what that means for Christians is constantly striving for that ideal of holiness, pursuing it with determination in spite of our mistakes and flaws, getting back up again after we fall. That does not mean refusing to accept that we can make mistakes, or despairing when we do. Hard work and a determination to do something right is admirable; pursuing an ideal is the motivation for man’s greatest achievements. But perfectionism is not the pursuit of an ideal; it’s a sort of hopeless agony over miniscule errors, an improper focus—ignoring the bigger picture to point out the flaws that do not ultimately make any difference at all. The idealist will fight for a main goal and willingly endure a thousand little annoying imperfections if they do not compromise his principles or ultimately hinder his progress; for, as G.K. Chesterton once said, “Idealism is only considering everything in its practical essence.” The perfectionist, on the other hand, will not be satisfied unless every detail is flawless—something that, in truth, is unachievable on earth. So he will often be ungrateful and unsatisfied with a job well done; no matter how good it is, he will find a flaw. If a student, he is distressed with a grade of 99 instead of a 100, even if he studied his hardest; he quibbles about unimportant details when working on a project with others. An idealist learns from his mistakes. A perfectionist won’t let them go.

The irony is that a perfectionist sees his own motivation with a skewed perspective. He may tell himself he is doing something to please another, or to make someone proud of him, or to do something worthy of his talents, or even to give glory to God. But in reality, when his drive is perfectionism, he is doing it for himself, to satisfy his own desire. It’s a desire that assumes he can exceed his human limitations by his own power; he fails to humbly recognize that what good things he does or makes are not ultimately to be attributed to him, but to the One who made him.

The pride of perfectionism goes hand in hand with false modesty. Both are a sort of lying, to oneself or another, because authentic humility is simply the truth, which sees everything plainly in the clear light of virtue, in its proper position according to its relationship to God. Such is the humility that allowed St. Thomas Aquinas to call his great works of theology, which are priceless when laid beside other human works, “a pile of straw” when laid at the foot of the Cross.

My friends will often remark upon the beauty of my icon. I try my best to receive their kind comments graciously and with gratitude; but when they are gone, I take a peek at the little red dot on the side of the painting, to remind me that true humility will recognize that even in my best achievements, I am not perfect—I am a finite, faulty creature, and can only pray God to bring something good out of the talents he gave me in spite of my mistakes and sins.

All About Eve (1950)

"Fasten your seat belts. It's going to be a bumpy night!"

I find it rather odd that this is the most famous line from Joseph L. Mankiewicz’s renowned drama about an ambitious, conniving ingénue who infiltrates the circle surrounding a famous actress and proceeds to back-stab her way to the top. Certainly no other line is delivered with such striking panache as this one: the character of Margo Channing, an aging actress played by Bette Davis, flings it fiercely over her shoulder to her crowd of edgy friends at the famous cocktail-party scene—in an atmosphere so tense one of them describes it as “Macbeth-ish.” But the screenplay is rife with a hundred other equally memorable lines. For instance, take the following:

"The theater is all the religions of the world rolled into one," says Margo to her director and boyfriend Bill Sampson, "And we are its gods and goddesses."

That one line can be used as the key to understanding the claustrophobic world of the theater which is the focus of All About Eve. It's a film about the errors and egos of people in the theater, the behind-the-curtain politics of rising stardom; and ultimately, it is about the difference between image and identity.

Young Eve Harrington (played by Ann Baxter) is, to all appearances, as sweet and innocent as they come. But she has a near-neurotic desire to get to the top of the acting world, and gives the performance of her life to do it, by ingratiating herself with the famous but 40-year-old Margo Channing and her friends, and quietly making herself completely indispensable. Although Margo and most of her friends initially fall for the facade, one by one they begin to see through Eve's disguise, but not before she has sent irreparable earthquakes through their world on her way to the top.

The surrounding characters are unforgettable members of the theater world: they all wear a sort of mask, either with each other or with themselves. They each either do not really know themselves or are lacking in true knowledge and judgment of others. Their relationships have the passion of a religion--loyalties and devotions to the theater or to each other--but they often are confused about what or who they are loving, or what the best way to love is. Margo is the prime example; she is fiercely jealous of Eve, as she sees the younger, better actress quickly usurping her position both on and off stage. Her jealousy eventually cools when she begins to recognize her own real problem: she is uncertain of her identity. At one point, she asks her friend Karen Richards (Celeste Holm) in a moment of soul-searching: "Who is Margo Channing?" The result of her insecurity is border-line alcoholism, petty jealousies and bitter arguments with those she loves best.

But she's a step ahead of the other characters in that she begins to see her problem. "Funny business, a woman's career," Margo remarks to Karen, "the things you drop on your way up the ladder so you can move faster. You forget you'll need them again when you get back to being a woman. That's one career all females have in common, whether we like it or not: being a woman. Sooner or later, we've got to work at it, no matter how many other careers we've had or wanted. "

Margo is a "goddess" of the theater, but she is not essentially a "body with a voice" that projects human emotion, concentrated and amplified, on a stage. She is essentially a human person, and she wants to be loved for who she is, not for the image of who she is--not for what people see on the stage or what she sees in the mirror. When we first see Margo, she is busying herself in front of a mirror; if Eve's conniving did one good thing, it was to draw Margo's eyes away from the mirror long enough to see herself for who she really is, and to realize what she really wants from life.

Of all the masks worn in the film, the most convincing is Eve's. Eve has sacrificed her real identity for a made-up name and image which she can use to get the glory and fame she so desires. She never lets this mask drop unless forced to--never lets a soul see the insatiable thirst for adulation and stardom underneath. Baxter's performance is strangely intense and perhaps deliberately melodramatic: her sweetness is almost too sweet, her overtures too poetic and emotional. The effect is to make her lies and back-stabbing and heartless ambition all the more of a contrast with her external character. And when her mask is finally ripped off, it is the same effect as that given when the final piece is slipped into place in a jigsaw puzzle. It fits. It all suddenly makes sense.

It is somehow all the more fitting because the character who rips away her mask is not a righteous character. It's another villain: Addison DeWitt, a theater critic, who is just as heartless and cynical and vicious as Eve. DeWitt's presence throughout the film, as a witty and laconic side-figure who helped boost Eve to the top, also suddenly falls into its proper place when he is the one to administer justice. He has his own mask, but in exposing Eve's, he lets his drop a little, too. He has a strange Mephistophelian charm, a cruel self-confidence; so when he blackmails Eve into doing his will, it feels as though the devil has just coolly demanded the payment of his contract--one soul in exchange for the world. At the same time, DeWitt is quite aware of his own vices and has no desire to change them. "That I should want you at all suddenly strikes me as the height of improbability," he tells Eve, "But that in itself is probably the reason: You're an improbable person, Eve, and so am I. We have that in common. Also our contempt for humanity and inability to love and be loved, insatiable ambition, and talent. We deserve each other."

Indeed they do; suffering with the reality of their own ugly identity is the self-imposed wages of their sins. That is why both Eve and DeWitt are present again at the ominous final scene of the film, when a young and pretty high-schooler with the pseudonym Phoebe quietly ingratiates herself with a now-apathetic Eve by offering the weary actress assistance. In a perfectly brilliant moment of cinematography, the girl sneaks into Eve's bedroom, tries on her fancy coat, and stands before Eve's tri-paneled mirror holding an acting award. The camera zooms in to see it from the girl's perspective--a thousand images of herself triple-reflected in the mirror, extending into dim infinity. This one shot encapsulates the whole point of All About Eve, and its message is clear: she too is a devotee of the religion of the theater, and to become someday one of its "goddesses," she will not think twice about sacrificing her real identity to a "graven image" of herself.

John Wayne (and why we love movies)

May 26^th was the birthday of one of the greatest stars that ever graced the silver or Technicolor screen: John Wayne, the Duke, the quintessential cowboy, who was once every little boy’s idol. The Duke was one of the last of the generation of actors who had risen from obscurity to stardom at the same time that cinema was still developing its place in the heart of American entertainment, and morphing from a comparatively low-budget business into a lucrative multi-million dollar enterprise. He acted in over 100 films, mostly westerns and war films; some were mediocre, some downright bad, and some cinematic masterpieces crafted by director John Ford: Stagecoach, She Wore A Yellow Ribbon, The Quiet Man, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. To this day, more than 30 years after his death of cancer, John Wayne has an enduring fan-base of movie-lovers who crowd around the TV on his birthday to watch different networks pay their tribute to the legendary icon of American film by playing his movies.

What makes actors like John Wayne so beloved of American audiences? Why do people with vocations that are arguably far more important to the community—policemen, cooks, airplane pilots, engineers, waitresses, manual laborers—tend to admire and even idolize someone who spent his life . . . well, pretending to be other people, people like them? This phenomenon has only mushroomed with the passing of time; Johnny Depp, for instance, could easily be considered more popular and well-known than any politician, writer, or any other public figure of our day.

Sometimes the reason for all this may be attributed to complicated social factors, but it really boils down to this: good actors are beloved by ordinary folks for the simple reason that they satisfy a deep-seated longing in the human psyche to be or do certain things they never can. Aristotle once said that the reason we love the theater—to watch other peoples’ tragedies and comedies acted out before us—is because seeing such dramas “purges”—or relieves—us of the emotions of pity and fear. A recent study showed that Botox, which paralyzes the muscles of the face to prevent wrinkles, can inhibit a person’s ability to read and respond to the emotions of others, because part of the way a person’s brain discerns and empathizes with the emotions on the face of another is by mirroring those emotions on its own face. This is why the faces of an audience of a movie or stage play will often bear the same facial expression as the actor they are watching—will frown, or look sorrowful or frightened, or smile roguishly when he does.

When we watch an actor with a common man persona, like John Wayne, do something good and honorable and admirable, we feel as though we could do it, too—we feel as if we almost are doing it. At the same time, when an actor gives a good performance in a tragedy, we can see—and interiorize—what it feels like to do something horrible or have something horrible done to us. Through the actor, we vicariously can out-shoot a villain in a dusty Western town, or fall madly in love in the hills of Ireland, or have adventures on the high seas, or die fighting for our country. Somehow, if he can do it, so can we. We can live a thousand lives, make a lifetime’s worth of mistakes, be satisfied with a surfeit of happy endings—and learn a thousand lessons. And that’s why John Wayne is still popular, still loved and admired by people like you and I, who can settle down in front of our televisions to watch the Duke at his best, pretending to do the things we all wish we could do.

The Bonfire

The road to the professor’s farmhouse looked much different in the soft, bright twilight of late spring than it had in the chill darkness of mid-December. The first wild bursts of spring had past, and the landscape had calmed down into the quiet existence of a mild summer: the trees were full of thick, green foliage and there were bright spots of wildflowers along the twisting road. We were so distracted by the lovely scenery we nearly missed our turn “before the brown fence posts,” as the directions said.

We had both been in eager anticipation, all afternoon, to join the “little end-of-the-year bonfire” to which our professor had invited us. On my part, I confess I was a little too proud of being on the guest list; he had said that it was not a party for the whole campus, which made me feel privileged for being invited. “It will be,” I thought to myself, “a delightful, quiet evening with just those students he wanted to invite.” In a way, I was right; but it was not exactly as I expected.

Although we were technically ten minutes late, according to the time he had specified, we were the first pair to arrive; so with distinctive Southern courtesy he seated us on his front porch and let us chat with his mischievous little daughter. Then, he came out and spoke with us for a short time; but it was not long before the other guests began to arrive, and we soon moved to the backyard to gather wood for a bonfire, play on his rope swing, toss bean bags, or just talk with one another.

I had, as I have said, anticipated a certain group of people coming—the sort of students I admired and knew fairly well. Yet, as car after car pulled up the gravel drive, I was surprised—at first mildly, gradually more so—at who else had been invited. There were very many of those whom I had expected would come; there were also many whom I had not anticipated seeing: misfits, outgoing personalities and shy folks—both alumni and students, those successful and those less so, those I had expected and those I had not all mingling together around our professor. Throughout the evening, as more people gradually arrived, it invariably gave me pause to see who joined the steadily-growing ring around the fire the professor was stirring into a strong and steady flame.

As the cool shades of the evening slowly descended round about us, we settled in with treats—s’mores, popcorn, pie, cookie-bars—and began to sing in rounds. “O how lovely is the evening . . . Jubilate Deo . . . Away, away . . . Dominus tecum . . . yet will I be merry . . . ” Then, we listened to his reading of “On the Mowing of a Field,” by Hilaire Belloc. It was incredibly peaceful, to sit beside a roaring bonfire, a few diamond-point stars overhead, and the night breezes gently stirring the trees around us, and simply listen to the pastoral scene painted by that writer, who always seems to speak of tradition, of eternity, of what is lasting and what is passing, and the steady, solid, common things that—thank God—fill most of the journey of our days, between milestones of tragedy and joy.

When the story was finished, there was the sweetest, most beautiful pause, a marvelous silence. Then we entered a long and passionate discussion, involving all of us, ringed round the blaze: about joy and suffering, active and contemplative prayer, plans for the future, God’s presence in scripture, and the mysterious workings of His providence. The professor asked the graduating seniors to share a brief insight and all of them—even those of whom I least expected it—had something profound and poignant to share.

In both that sweet moment of silence and in the subsequent discussion, I suddenly perceived the strange miracle of that gathering. We were of all sorts; not merely of different classes, but of different opinions, personalities, and vocations. There were people round that fire who seldom would be together in the course of ordinary life; even those whom I knew disliked each other, or who generally avoided social gatherings, were all united that evening. He had specifically asked each person; had seen something in each one of us, even when we couldn’t see it ourselves, that made our presence there wanted and somehow fitting. It reminded me of nothing so much as the similar gathering around Christ—Pharisees, tax collectors, fishermen, and prostitutes. We were gathered around something eternal: communion. It was not just our teacher himself that drew us, it was what he represented and what he sought for us—the pursuit of God; because of that, the goodness in him truly drew out the best in each one of us. He can see Christ in all of us, and enables us to see it, too.

There may be some symbolic providence in the fact that often, when I have seen the philosophy professor in his “natural setting,” at home, outside the classroom or the office, he always seems to be lighting fires. It isn’t a simple task; it is a craft, one he seems to have mastered, which takes a special knowledge and a kind of skill. What he does with a few sparks and a little kindling, he seems to do with the people he gathers around him. He is lighting sparks, blowing on the embers, encouraging the little flames to rise and burn, planting seeds of fire that may someday burst into flame. We can’t be in college forever; we have a few short years here and then we step out into the great, grand world and will face the drudgery of the workplace or the household. But hopefully, by the time we leave, we will be like a “brand snatched from the burning,” (Zech. 3:2)—on fire, and fervent enough, wise and willing enough, to light sparks of our own, and live zealously for the Lord.

The Dale Ahlquist Syndrome

Several years ago, the president of the American Chesterton Society, Dale Ahlquist, served as a member of a panel of eminent Catholic converts on one of EWTN’s Catholic Family Conferences. The panel was asked a variety of questions, and the members engaged in a long and lively debate and discussion on a wide range of topics, about conversion and obstacles to faith, all coming from different backgrounds. In the natural course of the discussion, it became obvious that no matter what the subject matter of his comment, Ahlquist almost invariably prefaced his opinion with the gently apologetic remark, “Do you mind if I quote G. K. Chesterton?” Soon it became a running gag, and the amused audience began to smile each time, realizing that Ahlquist really did have a Chesterton quote for virtually every situation or point of discussion.

As a Chestertonian myself, I can aver that this is not just something Dale Ahlquist does. In fact, it seems that once people start really reading G.K. Chesterton, and begin to fall in love with this colossus of a writer, mystic, and possible saint, they begin to quote him right and left, side and center, and cannot seem to stop. Among my own circle it has become something of a laughable cliché that in normal, everyday conversation, I usually quote my beloved GKC at least once, often more than once. From coffee to Catholicism, from puddles to perdition, from sunrise to sunset, there is always a GKC quote to fit whatever I encounter. I began to puzzle over this, and wondered if I could start quoting other people; I tried, but other authors just weren’t nearly as quotable—not to mention they were far more narrow and limited. I gave up, and diagnosed myself as just another hopeless case of the Dale Ahlquist Syndrome.

The problem is, of course, that Chesterton is simply so quotable. A king of quips, prince of paradox, tremendous trifler, Chesterton has, as Ahlquist once put it, “said something about everything and said it better than any one else.” He was a tremendously prolific writer who really did write on just about everything—and wrote about it the right way. It’s the fact that he’s right: he expresses huge fundamental truths and quiet common sense better than the vast majority of writers and speakers in the English language.

However, there is still another reason why Chesterton is so often quoted, and a very important one. At the end of the conference panel, the members were presented with the final question: “If you could say just one thing to persons who are seeking the truth and considering the Catholic faith, what would you say?” What a finale! There it was, the most basic, nitty-gritty, hard-core question the panel had yet encountered. The other panelists all gave their responses, most of them profound and compelling, in an off-the-cuff fashion. When it came to Ahlquist’s turn, however, he began sheepishly, “Mind if I quote…” and paused, as the audience and the other panelists chuckled, thinking they knew precisely what he was going to say. “—The Gospel of John?” he finished, smiling himself. The room suddenly grew silent with respect. “If you do not eat the flesh of the Son of Man,” he continued, “And drink his blood, you shall not have life within you.”

Chesterton is so quotable not just because he’s witty and clever; he’s quotable because he speaks the truth, and if we let him, he can lead us to the One who is the Way, the Truth, and the Life

Of Shoes and Ships and Sealing-Wax

The human person--that fascinating, many-sided being--has a tendency to gather about himself a thousand little interests and habits, some of which, intensified by time and devotion, develop into the peculiar phenomenon called hobbies. In some people, what begins as an attracting avocation becomes a life passion, though often remaining at an amateur level. As G.K. Chesterton says, "A thing worth doing is worth doing badly."

Yet, the remarkable thing about such hobbies is that they generally deal with something ordinary or common. From collecting stamps, rocks, dolls, buttons or butterflies, to hiking, card games, or scale-model building, all hobbies seem to share the same characteristic of focusing on something otherwise rather prosaic and raising it to a new level by intense interest. Perhaps, indeed, it is the mark of hobbies to be able to see something beautiful and worthwhile in commonplace things.

For instance, one hobby--and I use the term in its most general sense--of mine has always been photography. Indeed, perhaps no pastime better exemplifies this notable trait of hobbies in general than photography does; for in photography, everything--especially common, mundane things--takes on a specific beauty when seen through the right lens, with the right lighting; in other words, with the right perspective. A ditch in the sunlight or a leaf in the mud is beautiful in the eyes of a skillful photographer.

In fact, it seems that this universal feature of hobbies may not just be a facet of these activities; perhaps it is their whole point. A man with a hobby gets away from the mundane routine of his life by focusing on seeing what is beautiful about one particular mundane thing--clocks or cooking or coins. Such an exercise can give not only respite from chores and responsibilities, but also a healthy perspective that ought to be reinforced in one's whole philosophy. For hobbies--those pleasant, peaceful, pointless pastimes--can enable us, like photography, to see that everything has beauty when seen with the right perspective, as in photography. Thus we can, in the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson, "See the miraculous in the common."

A Dickensian Evening

"At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted, and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovel-full of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth, in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a one...

. . . All this time the chestnuts and the jug went round and around; and bye and bye they had a song. . . from Tiny Tim; who had a plaintive little voice, and sang it very well indeed.

There was nothing of high mark in this. They were not a handsome family; they were not well dressed... But they were happy, grateful, pleased with one another, and contented with the time; and when they faded, and looked happier yet in the bright sprinklings of the Spirit's torch at parting, Scrooge had his eye upon them, and especially on Tiny Tim, until the last."

I have had an evening at once as human and eternal as any such sweet incident out of Dickens. As I relate it here, it shall appear singular and disconnected, without context because of the absence of my writings here during these hectic months. Yet, I hope the atmosphere I shall endeavor to re-create in all its richness will help, in some small way, to fill up that void and relate accurately the character of the missing passages of time.

The last ordinary day of the semester had come; behind us was five months' scholarly labor and discovery, and ahead lay the grueling week of finals. The space between was a sort of respite, a calm before the storm, and several of the teachers took advantage of this time to do something special for the students. Our philosophy professor--a remarkable, keen-witted man to whom we owe much for opening the wonderful world of Socrates and Plato to us--invited all of his students to his home for a "little Advent gathering." I anticipated a pleasant evening, but I was thoroughly surprised.

We followed the directions he gave us along the dark, twisty country roads, through the naked woods of late autumn, up the mile-long gravel drive until we beheld the Christmas candles shining out from the windows of an old-farmhouse-style home. The door opened at our knock and flooded us with a soft golden glow. Inside, the home was lovely, perfectly decorated with an antique simplicity that gave it the charm of . . . a Dickens novel: something old-world and old-fashioned, quaint but homey.

Upon entering, we met his winsome, impish blonde daughters and his quiet, hospitable wife. The professor himself welcomed us and introduced us to all his family--his many daughters, his brave-looking little son, and his wife--her name, he said, was Sophia.

It was, perhaps, at that moment that the evening began to take on a special charm; for the very second he said her name, a strange thrill went through me. I was struck immediately by the immense--nay, almost Divine, in the Providential sense--humor and sweet irony in the name of his wife. Behold a man who, "hitching his plow," as he would say, to the great wisdom of Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, and Aquinas, had spent his life devoted to philosophy--to the loving pursuit of wisdom.

And he had married a woman named Sophia. And Sophia means wisdom.

How fitting! I thought, How incredibly right!

We all gathered in their cozy little parlor, and while other guests arrived, our host knelt down at the hearth of the great, carved oaken 1880's fireplace, and proceeded to build a fire. As he stirred the little sparks to flames and carefully placed the logs according to some art unknown to me, he was aided by his two youngest daughters, busily crumpling newspapers--which they occasionally stopped to read--to use for kindling.

The flow of conversation was, at first, merely a stiff trickle, as we gradually grew accustomed to the quaint beauty of our surroundings; but the cordiality of our hosts--particularly, that keen, insightful manner of his--soon made us feel at home. When everyone had arrived, and gathered around that glowing hearth, I rather wondered how the evening would proceed. What would we . . . do? Simply sit in his parlor? At any other sort of gathering, I'm sure a movie or a football game or at least music would have been playing in the background, for our culture has grown accustomed to perpetual entertainment filling in the blanks of our lives. But nothing like that was to be found in this house; nor would it have been fitting there.

So, I was slightly taken by surprise when the professor, seated on a little stool beside the fire and surrounded by his children, suggested quite simply that we "sing a few rounds." As novel and unusual--or rather, unexpected--as that suggestion was to me, it felt perfectly in accord with that little world; it was, in fact, quite natural. Something inside me echoed: "Oh, but of course, What else on earth would we do at such a time and place?"

And so we sang in rounds, what songs we knew; and what rounds we didn't know, we quickly learned. My, how wonderful it sounded! the whole room rang with the silly little songs we sang, harmonized and echoed through the house.

When the songs were done, we each had a mug of Christmas punch--wassail, they called it--and milled about a little while, just chatting, until our host shepherded us back into the parlor, and asked us to share our memories and thoughts of the semester. Cookies were then passed around, and we all hushed each other as he announced he would read aloud to us that poignant and powerful essay by Hilaire Belloc, "A Remaining Christmas."

As he finished with the sweet and moving final lines of that piece, there was all round an awed silence, as in the presence of something marvelous and ethereal--indeed, such a silence as one finds before the Holy Creche. As he closed the book, I noticed that the thoughtful look upon the professor's face was reflected in each of his pupil's faces, perfectly as in a mirror.

Then, suddenly, one mischievous student broke the silence and asked: "What's on your mind, doctor?"

He smiled and replied, "Actually, I was wondering what is on your minds." The richest, most beautiful discussion followed:

about Christmas and Belloc,

change and time,

tradition and eternity,

England, and Catholicism, and History, and The Faith,

music, and movies,

art and contemplation,

and the effect of images on the soul,

culture, and heritage and philosophy,

and life and death.

And when it was all done, and the clock struck ten, and the children had nodded to sleep beside their father, our host quietly signaled the end of the evening by rising from his seat beside the dying embers. We rose, too, and thanked him, bade farewell to the family and home, and departed. "God bless!" I cried out over my shoulder as I left; and I meant it from the bottom of my heart.

Human gatherings such as that, around a family, around a hearth, truly transcend time and place. Dickens knew this; he captured them in the Spirit of Christmas Present, epitomizing not only what was at his time, but what always ought to be. They are the same in every age, or should be; for the traditions we experience tie us to the past and preserve our memories for the future, letting us touch the eternal.

This Will Pass Away

Late last night I was suddenly awakened by the howling of a tremendous thunderstorm. Violent cracks and peals of thunder, sharp flashes of lightning, and the heavy, steady beating of rain pounded and raged outside my window. Wide-eyed and wakeful, I watched the storm for some time, stumbling out of bed to peer out at the fierce wind and rain whipping about the trees and drowning the lawn. One after another, streaks of lightning filled the sky, accompanied by cannonades of thunder so loud I knew the lightning must have struck quite close to me.

A little shaken and more than a little weary after watching this spectacular display of nature's wild temper, I crawled back into bed and turned my face away from the window in hopes of getting a few hours sleep in spite of the war that was apparently raging outside.

This morning, I awoke to an immense stillness. Every tree, every leaf, every blade of grass was as perfectly still outside as if it had been part of a painting. The sky was a fresh, clear blue, punctuated by one or two wispy white clouds. The sun had just risen and was sending shoots of light all across the garden, setting the foliage a-fire as every drop of water hanging on the flowers caught the light and sparkled and glistened. But everything was absolutely silent and still. Even the birds were not awake and singing yet.

Such an incredible contrast, between the stormy wilderness of last night and the peaceful garden this morning, brought to my mind a poem I had read--oh, many years ago--by John G. Saxe. In this poem, a youth, full of hopes and dreams, approaches a wise old man and asks him what he should take as his motto in life.

"Give me a motto!" said a youth

To one whom years had rendered wise;

"Some pleasant thought or weighty truth,

That briefest syllables comprise....

And, reverend father," said the boy,

Since life they say, is ever made

A mingled web of grief and joy;

Since cares may come and pleasures fade--

Pray, let the motto have a range

Of meaning matching every change."

The old man ponders a moment, commenting that the lad has given him no easy task. Finally, he replies:

"What think you, lad, of this device

(Older than I--though I am gray),

'Tis simple-- 'This will pass away.' "

The old man explains that everything on this earth comes to an end. Good times may come, but they also will assuredly go. More importantly, however, even the bad times will pass away, too; when the boy meets with his darkest hour, it is not the end of all his hopes and dreams, warns the old man. "To grim Despair be not a prey," he cries.

"When skies are clear, expect the cloud;

In darkness, wait the coming light;

Whatever be thy fate today,

Remember, 'This will pass away.' "

This plain phrase struck me the first time I read it; and it has grown on me since. As simple and even quaint as the old man's motto is, it is proved true in veritably every stage of life--at least, I've found it so. Our youth, our friends, even our families change and pass away with time; everything earthly that is good is, alas, not eternal. And yet, the minute we must face the bleakest of outlooks, when we seem in the dark, when we can't see our way, then, as Zechariah said,

"In the tender compassion of our God,

the dawn from on high shall break upon us,

to shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death,

and guide our feet into the way of peace."

Walking with Children

Several days ago I found myself braving the withering summer heat and humidity to take my 6-year-old niece and 4-year-old nephew for a walk. I'm not sure why I thought going for a walk in that sort of weather was a good idea; perhaps I felt I needed a little excitement in my day. The fact is, I've discovered that taking walks with little ones always ends up as something of an adventure. Children, you see, aren't as afflicted by the bored sort of familiarity with which all adults regard their normal, every day surroundings. Going on a walk is a sort of philosophical recreation, a stepping outside to get a look at the world; that, of course, also makes going on a walk the perfect time for children to demonstrate their own fresh way of looking at everything. I love to switch roles with them; to let them play the teacher to me, so they can tell me all about life and why things are the way they are.

Case in point: as we passed one of my neighbor's lawns, I pointed out to them an obvious object of interest: an electric-blue garden ball, perched on a stand next to a tree.

"What's that?" I asked them.

"It's a ball," they sagaciously replied.

"But what is it doing there?"

They pondered a minute. Said the six-year-old, "Maybe somebody lost it."

"But what is it? What's it for?"

"Maybe..." the four-year old said, thinking hard, "Maybe it's a bird--no, a bird bath! It's for the birds, it's a bird bath!"

While secretly I agreed that garden balls are "for the birds,", I merely said: "Hey, you're right, it is sitting in a bird bath. But what is the ball there for?"

"I think the ball is sticky, and it got stuck to the bird bath. That's why it's there."

"No, no, no!" Said the six-year-old, who happens to be a master at puzzles and "find the one that doesn't belong" games, "It doesn't belong there! It doesn't go next to a tree!"

This sparked an argument about whether the ball was stuck there or whether it was supposed to be there for the birds as a sort of nest or shelter. There are, however, a million more interesting things than garden balls on any walk, so the conversation soon moved on to clouds that looked like dinosaurs, bugs on the road, birds that flew by, etc.

When I go for a walk with children I can't help but feel as if, in their minds, we are on some epic journey: we deliberately leave our home only to come back to it again, braving mad perils and climbing mountains along the way. They spot a car four blocks down the road and announce firmly that we have to stay out of the way, as if it were a giant or a monster; they dash to the safety of the grass crying "Look out!" They point out squished frogs as evidence of the menace cars pose to all things on the road. They spot mysterious markings on the pavement, arrows meant to indicate water meters, and eagerly race forward to find the next ones as if they were a series of all-important clues in a treasure hunt. The blue plastic squares put on the roads by the firemen are also objects of interest and speculation. They point out tiny details and things too big for adults to see. When we near the end of our journey, they try to espy our house from afar like weary adventurers returning home. And--perhaps this is where they are most wise--when they do catch sight of home, they race toward it, without fearing that it is too hot or too far for running.

I've given this weekly column a rather pretentious-sounding title from King Lear, but really, that two-word title fits no one better than the little ones I know. With innocence and wonder, they view the world through the untarnished window of childhood; they see everything the way God made it. They puzzle out the secrets of the universe; they dare to ponder the very plans of Providence. They are more objective than any scientist; more reasonable than any rationalist. They are quicker to see absurdity than adults who have grown to accept absurdity as normal in society--like glass garden balls. And they are wiser for the wonder that pervades their view of life. They ask why, and how, and if things are always that way. They take upon themselves the mystery of things, as if they were God's spies.

Escapism

During the summer, I tend to indulge to the fullest my whimsical literary appetite by reading as much of whatever I like whenever I like. Freed from the structured discipline of assigned reading for school, I relish picking up my favorite old tales and perusing them once again, or finding some delightful novel I've not yet read. For instance, this particular summer I've had the thrill of revisiting the cheerfully absurd A Midsummer Night's Dream, and the Sherlock Holmes canon. Other favorites for relaxing reading are the All Creatures Great and Small series, or the short stories of P.G. Wodehouse. Honestly, I'm a pushover for a solid adventure or a good mystery.

However, I can't say this indulgent method of reading--if one could call it a method---is a practice I especially recommend, because it can often lead to a frightful by-product of reading only for pleasure: escapism.

Now, before I get blasted (though who would do the blasting, I haven't the faintest idea) for discouraging reading, I'd best clarify what I mean by escapism. Almost everyone has something of the escapist in him; if we didn't, both popular and classic novels would be non-existent and everyone would have merely shrugged and turned away when talkies were invented. Everyone loves a good story, whether it be a laughable one or a genuine tragedy; there is a momentous power in fiction, the power to move us or call us to contemplate some ponderous truth about God or men or society or the whole vast cosmos. And of course, fiction also bears the power of drawing us away from our own day-to-day world into an imaginary one that is exciting, fantastic, soul-stirring---and that is where escapism comes into play. By escapism I don't merely mean withdrawing into an imaginary world as an "escape" from responsibilities or personal problems; after all, it is good to take breaks from our difficulties, to get a little physical or mental relaxation, so that we can return to our duties with a fresher mind and spirit. Where escapism becomes most dangerous is when the imagination becomes alluring for its own sake; when it becomes not merely a break from reality, but a serious distraction from it; when an imaginary world becomes entirely more desirable to us than the real one.

I realized this quite suddenly today when I caught myself seriously wondering whether it would be better for me to step outside to enjoy the garden, or curl up with my battered old Complete Sherlock Holmes, Vol. II., and follow my dear Dr. Watson and his eccentric friend through one of their now-familiar mysterious adventures. I saw the flowers peeping at me from the other side of the window, shining in the sunlight, and I realized that there shouldn't have been any contest. How could I dare to pick my favorite imaginary world, narrow and two-dimensional because it exists only in my mind, over the glorious reality all around me? Even if I were in the most desperate straits--which, thank God, I am not--I ought to be able to recognize that this life, this REAL, living, breathing world, is too monumental a gift to actually compare with an imaginary one. I love my imaginary worlds; but they are only, at best, a quaint imitation of God's creation. It reminded me of a Chesterton quote: "Truth must necessarily be stranger than fiction; for fiction is the creation of the human mind and therefore congenial to it." It must also be true, then, that as genuinely good as our fictitious worlds may be, every aspect of the real world is better if only for the simple fact that it is real.

There is a great, grand world outside; and with all its dark sides and rough edges, it is inherently good. God gave it to us as a gift to be cherished, not ignored. So, Sherlock Holmes went back on the bookshelf, and he will stay there the rest of the summer. I've read those tales before, but today comes only once, and I intend to thoroughly enjoy it.