Stream of Consciousness

In class, we are reading Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf. This novel is extremely interesting in that there is a constant stream of consciousness that flows through each character, especially the main character of Clarissa.

I was laying in bed this morning reading the novel, and I realized that it was the kind of novel that inspire one to think consciously about their own stream of consciousness and to have their awareness of it heightened. Basically, it makes me feel inspired to write.

For example, this morning was such a delicious morning, with the windows opened and the cool Oklahoma wind by turns gently blowing the blinds into the room and then sucking them out against the screen as if the wind were taking giant breaths of life in the world and then only to violently bang the blinds against the screen, as if the wind were trying to force them outside to join it. The air was light and not too bright - perfect for morning reading in bed. The kind of lightness where you feel that perhaps time has stopped, and will stay stopped. The sage green blanket on the bed and the soft gold sheets against my skin set the light off just right. I felt as though I was wrapped up and nestled in the wind and the air and the feeling of the morning, not just in the blankets and pillows as I curled up with my book. There was a stillness, a peace in the morning; a calmness that calms the soul and refreshes and revives the body. I wondered how many mornings like it I had missed because I was caught up in my business or the business of the day and the hustle and bustle of time and appointments and commitments that push me through the day, often as I resist, longing for the moment I was so enjoying - that quiet stillness. Time wins out though with its pushiness and pushes the morning out to be taken over by the lunchtime hour, whose start was signaled by my growling stomach as it thought about the food in the kitchen, just waiting for me to prepare it. Then the lunchtime hour hurries and rolls into the afternoon hour, which is taken up with commitments of various kinds - writing thank you notes, making necessary phone calls and other obligations. I find myself torn between longing to have a busy, "professional" life and the stillness of the day at home, being a simple housewife. It seems no matter which I have obtained for myself, I long for the other. Such juxtaposition of the soul is such a torment! And so I try for both, which is almost worse because I am in perpetual state of "looking forward" and unable to relax and enjoy the now. The now, like this morning, the soft, light white air of the calm morning: cool, quiet, undemanding, relaxing, wanting nothing but company, which I was only too happy to give it. Alas, but not all mornings can be of such!

I used to write like this quite often - I was always carrying around a small notebook to write an important thought or a poem that came to mind. That was when I was a teenager and the world was new and fresh and I was in love with it. Before I was wounded by circumstance, by time, by uncompassionate selfishness of people, of a person. That was when my writing stopped. When the pain of my life was too much to bear, to even pen, when I wanted simply to get through the day and had no hope of a better tomorrow. That is all behind me now - I have hope of a better tomorrow and yesterdays' better tomorrow was in fact, today. And life is great, life is enjoyable, life is content. Perhaps I shall pick up my pen again and begin to think like I used to . . . but with a new, fresh outlook on life.

"When Love is Old"

I really enjoyed reading "When Love is Old" by W.B. Yeats. Personally, I like to put myself sometimes (not always) in a character's place in a story (or especially a movie). I can see Mike and I being married forty years or so down the line, still in love, having reared our children and seen them out, having gone through careers and houses and cities and bases and life events and hard times and good times and births and deaths, all the while still loving each other and still there for each other. This stems from the commitment that we have made to each other: indeed we made a covenant with the Lord in front of family and friends to be committed to each other until death do us part. I know that Mike's love for me is not the passing love for my youthful looks and I think that he has certainly proved that throughout the length of our first pregnancy. My body underwent some major changes, and his love for me has not changed. And his desire for me has not dwindled in the least either - in some ways, it has increased, perhaps because I am bearing his child, a fact that he quite proud of. (Men glow too when their wives are pregnant.) I can see how the speaker in Yeats poem has that kind of love for his wife - how he has stayed with her through it all, until the very end. I find this to be very romantic.

Joe's story

In class we are reading Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. I'm not through it yet, but it has been very hard to put down. This afternoon one of the parts that I read about was the story of Joe's childhood. I won't describe it here, in case you haven't read it yet. I was completely shocked at the story and my heart really went out to his poor mother. I can't believe that Joe, to that day (in the story) defended his father saying he had a heart.

I think of similar stories in today's world, about women who try to get away and can't. And then people are afraid to house them for fear of their own lives, or making a scene, and that's how women in domestic violence end of dead.

Last week I read a story of a local woman who was beaten to disfigurement by her husband. It is a miracle that she escaped alive. From the pictures, it was hard to tell if she still had her left eye or not. I don't understand how men can resort to such violence. I mean, intellectually, I've read papers, textbooks, seen movies in class and I still don't get it. Even after being in a relationship with an extremely controlling and verbally, mentally and sexually abusive man, I don't understand how they can do that. Except that they are heartless, confused victims themselves. That is no excuse though.

And my heart goes out to Joe, for he has married someone just like his father. And he won't leave. And his wife won't change. And poor Pip has to bear the brunt of it.

On another level, I can't understand how Mrs. Joe can do that to her husband. She is supposedly a Christian in the novel. Hasn't she read 1 Peter and Titus???? How can she do that to her husband? How can he take it? How can he allow it to happen to Pip, except perhaps with the understanding that her wrath will come his way if he sticks up for Pip.

I realize all my questions are big, and probably without answers. Frustrating. Of course, I think the answers are in the Bible - but not every person is a Christian, and not even every Christian understands certain Godly principles such as love and respect, especially for one's spouse. And you can't force beliefs on anyone. They have to chose for themselves who they will serve.

The Browning's

Elizabeth Browning and Robert Browning were both poets in their own right who met, fell in love and got married. It sounds like a literary fairy tale of some kind. I haven't read all of their poetry, or the poetry that they both wrote after they were married yet.

The poetry that we read from them this week in class was a rather interesting selection I thought. Rather than the lovey-dovey poetry you might expect from their life, the selections were far from that. Robert's poem was about a duke who may have killed his previous wife, probably for extramarital relationships. Elizabeth's poem seem liked she was begging for love and affirmation of love in a marital relationship. Do these peoms reflect real -life situations, as some of their other works doing (according to various literary sources online)? It would be interesting to find out . . .