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On Sacramental Worlds

So before I was a Christian, the angst-unit that I was perpetually dealing with went like this: "Here I am, full of potential and surrounded by innumerable possibilities for self-expression and having adventures and experiencing pleasure of all kinds, but...what's the point?"

Even if I had a life that was maximally fulfilled with amazing friendships and a husband and children and...Pottery Barn furniture, and writing, and striding through airports in Europe on my way to, um, maybe an International Women of Mystery conference, and even if said life went on (hypothetically) forever, and even if my neurotransmitters were all hopping to attention and saluting such that I was never ever depressed and in fact in constant low-grade ecstasy...

...what was the point? There was this disconnect between all of the above-- the "is," the stuff of experience and matter, both good and bad, and the Other Realm.

The Other Realm was the place that existed in stories, especially quest stories, where good was really good and not just the maximum pleasure for the maximum number of people, and bad was really bad and to be defeated. That Other Realm was where "ought" lived, and actually the BEST kind of other-realm stories were the kinds where "is" and "ought" intersected in some way, so that a physical thing-- a ring, say, or a baby, or a place that you got to through a door in a hedge-- was actually charged with real meaning, real good or real bad.

I wanted a reality that demanded something of me beyond fulfilling my potential.

In other words, I wanted a sacramental world.

And whatever else I have now, I have that.

Ali, trying to convince Nate that the beverage on offer is acceptable:

"Black tea! It's like coffee...but tea!"

"He's been inducted as, from what I can tell, a knight of cheese. They have knights of everything in France... Fish are funny. I mean, snails are sad, and so are frogs, but fish are just funny. You use them to hit people with...there aren't a lot of foods that aren't novelty foods that are just funny. Fish are funny. And then there are sardines and anchovies and kippers. Kippers are funny."


--emma goes on what is an almost beat-poet-esque stream of consciousness rant while reading a Peter Mayle book.

Real life?

How confusing it is not to be in San Jose dancing with Persian aunties. What is all this cold whiteness on the ground? Where are the huge mounds of saffron rice? Why is Maria not laughing at my cell phone? Why is Todd not explaining local flora, and why is James not asking if they are edible? I am a little sad.

Outstanding week. God bless Ali and Rachel Hadiashar!

Here is Oscar Wilde, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Lord Peter Wimsey.

Ali, luckily, whipped out her camera and got a picture-- not of Lord Peter actually carrying the Oscar Wilde doll downstairs in his jaws, but of the immediate aftermath. Lord Peter dropped Oscar Wilde in the middle of the kitchen floor and then went to sit on the rug in front of the kitchen sink. It was a very peculiar situation all round. The picture will be posted when Ali emails it to me. There's now a cat toothmark on Oscar Wilde's left eye.

Poor John Harmon.

He needs to formulate a Cunning Plan.