"these dark nights hold me..
and I lie without a lover"
~Rilke

The rain last night was steady, it kept up for hours a soft drumming on the roof. The sort of rain that is comforting to watch and smell and feel. I sat up listening late into the night, curled next to the woodstove, reading, drinking tea and letting the rainfall make a soft, cottony pillow round my mind.

Outside, the darkness was absolute, there were no stars, no moon, none of the comforting lights I've grown accustomed to. I will never fully accept these starless nights, part of me is always looking for light. The darkness is too full, too alive, too easy to lose myself in. Outside in the rain, I half-hopefully looked for Orion, there was only the blackness, like velvet, with no holes.

"There is nothing too small, I can still find its charm
and paint it in gold and quite big,
I hold it up high without even knowing
whose soul will be fed by it..."
~Rilke

Yesterday belonged to Paraskeva, the dark-eyed saint of women and the earth. In her icon she is often dressed in red with a scroll in one hand and a cross in the other. It seems fitting on her feastday, October 28th, to see her this way, guiding us, instructing in holiness, clean and sanctified; but on Paraskeva Griaznikha, Paraskeva the Dirty, I prefer my small icon of her holding a jar. On this day she is the household Paraskeva, working at a large spinning wheel, spinning out blessings, small helps to make daily tasks into blessings.

Paraskeva is still half-pagan in her role - a saint from a time when distinctions were less harsh, when Catholics knew as well as anyone that the world was alive with the magic of God. She silently helps in our unfinished tasks, punishes the indifferent, and guides us to our proper futures. She is the saint of anticipation, of autumn and of Lent; a saint at home in muddy days, fallen leaves, and the haunting rustles of dying trees agains the bright sky.

"I pray
to Mary Magdalene, who kept seven
demons,
one for each day of the week.
How practical; how womanly."
~Kathleen Norris

I love the icon of Mary Magdalene - hair past her feet and ragged as the Baptist's. She wears it wrapped around her, her only clothing - did she ever wash it after wiping Christ's feet? I think not. It is easy to see that she is one who might have kept seven demons - a woman who does nothing by halves.

I like to think of Mary Magdalene annointing the feet of Christ and wiping them down with her magnificent hair. She knows that there is nothing so restful as having one's feet cared for, and attention must be paid to the beauty of the Body of Christ.

I remember her and her abundant hair when I wash down at the stream, or when I haul water up along the path so I can sit on my doorstep and wash my own feet. Washing here can be a bit of a production. We are still in search of a cast-iron tub, and hope to have one before the cold weather sets in. When we do, heating the water will be easy enough, though hauling it will still be an exercise. Thankfully, early September is still warm enough to bathe at the stream; the lonely trees and tall grasses that surround our bathing spot are enough to remind us of the sanctity of washing - it's nearness to baptism. Mary Magdalene cleansed the feet of Christ, He in turn, cleansed her of each of her week-day demons. I imagine them leaving one-by-one, making each day so free as to to require a bit of the Holy Ghost to come, take up residence, and put her days to order.

"A recipe has so many different hands and minds in its history - I cannot recall who taught me what, and what parts I invented. That's the bounderyless pleasure of cooking; no one authorship. What counts is the final taste."
~Ketu H. Katrak

My old boss used to say that cooking was an art, but baking was a science, and she had never understood science. I thought, but never said, that she was being silly, and drawing distinctions where none existed. Both baking and cooking are arts, and like all arts, they take a good deal of natural aptitude, a good deal of dedication, and an eye for beauty. There are many who cook (and bake) well, but without the passion and artisty that would make their final product a work of art. That is the difference between a "competent cook" and a chef.

Food is an especially interesting form of art, because it is so living and so obviously essential for life. Recipes live and change with every person who puts a hand to them. I'm grateful to know that my pierogis taste like busha's, though I know I don't make them exactly as she did. I love forming them into little half moons and crimping the edges down, I love the feeling of connection with the generations before me and the opportunity to bring them to life in my meals. The beauty of that continuity; the beauty of the deeper link, between our little meals at home and the great Meal offered at Liturgy, as well as the beauty of the wholesome and lovingly craft of making good food, can raise up what we do around the kitchen to artistry.

My tattoo. At last we can load photos again!

"Like all dreamers, I confused disenchantment with Truth."
~John-Paul Sartre

Moving has thrown me out of my easy circle of friends, those who know me deeply and share, in some way, my passions. It has forced me to see beyond myself in many ways. Here, our aquaintances are mostly of a different sort and the adjustment has been somewhat trying for me. I realize I've been traveling in a world of my own creation, always amongst those who pursue answers to the same questions. Even those whose answers differ, believe in the importance of those questions. I have never needed to defend my devotion to Beauty before, and I am doing so on two sides now. It's difficult, and lonely, to swim against a sea of ideas that are so opposite my own.

For moj brat the dismissal of Beauty, I think, is a part of an assumed disenchantment. It is a rejection of objectivity more than of Beauty, and a desire to seperate himself from those things: Beauty, Truth, and Goodness in their objective expressions which may draw him out of easy speculation and into the demands of understanding. Beause of this, I don't think I can answer him in such a way as to make him truly consider my position - "where the mind is perhaps rather unwilling to be convinced, it will always find something to support its doubts." (Jane Austen). I'm not a philosopher, I don't argue well, I'm too easily distracted by other thoughts. I would rather pass joy around to all, like cups of vodka; how can one not see Beauty if one has joy?

"Beauty is to enthuse us for work, and work is to raise us up."
~Cyprian Norwid

I've been putting off writing my promised articles on Beauty and Art because I've been having trouble putting my thoughts together, and I'd much rather put out a delayed response to moj brat than a bad response. I'm realizing as I try to write that I really have no common ground with the point of view which places Beauty outside the realm of Truth, and because he often speaks from this point of view, I find myself at a loss. It's interesting, and sobering to recognize that the same childhood that nourished in me a passionate attachment to Beauty and to Art, has not done the same for him. At the same time, it is comforting to see in him, at least a notion of the importance of Art, and that notion is what allows us to have conversation. Too many people will easily discount Art as "stupid," "over-rated," or even "boring," and with those people there can be no conversation, because there is no shared language and no shared understanding. When this happens within the Church, or within the family, it can be devestating.

Fortunately, moj brat and I are not so utterly severed in our language. As I understand him, he does recognize in Beauty a means of introduction to truth, though, as I understand him, it is truth rather than Truth, as he disapproves of objectivity in general. Because of this similarity of opinion, and because there is a family connection as well, which unites us not only in shared memories, but also in shared blood, our conversation, I hope, will be worthwhile.

What is Beauty?
We began our discussion because this blog is devoted to Beauty, my brother wanted my definition of Beauty, and wanted to know why it was worth so much attention. I answered him as well as a late night, surprise, and a few drinks can answer; here I hope to answer more fully. Beauty is "the visible form of the Good, just as the Good is the metaphysical condition of Beauty" (John Paul II, Letter to Artists). This makes Beauty much more meaningful than mere attractiveness, and much more objective, as Goodness is not a subjective state. Obviously, there are different levels of Beauty, just as there are different levels of Goodness, but they all aspire to the ultimate: Pure Beauty, or Pure Goodness. The Greek word kalokagathia (beauty-goodness) expresses this understanding of Beauty as the natural home of Goodness.

These articles are going to take me longer than I'd expected. I am trying to understand, trying to relate to a way of thinking that is unnatural to me. I'm not speaking simply of the "post-modern" mindset decried by the majority in the Church, but to a more unpleasant and wide-ranging loss of mystery, which destroys the aethetic sense both within the Church and outside of it. I'm wondering where this mindset comes from, and why is thrives in some, and cannot abide in others.

Many Blessings.