Our Whole Heart: Language and the Book of Common Prayer

Along with the King James Bible and the collected works of Shakespeare, the Book of Common Prayer has permeated the English language and given Anglophones worldwide some of our most beautiful and evocative phrases. Even the most secular among us get married (“to have and to hold from this day forward . . . till death do us part”) and buried (“ashes to ashes, dust to dust”) to its cadences. The rest of us seek to combat our spiritual enemies, “the world, the flesh, and the devil,” when we “read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest” the holy scriptures. Joan Didion even borrowed the entire title of Cranmer’s masterwork for a 1977 novel.

However, secularization has also removed context from the language of the prayer book. When Charles and Camilla married in 2005, I perceived in a BBC radio broadcast the gleeful schadenfreude of reports that the couple had openly admitted their previous affair when they acknowledged their “manifold sins and wickedness” during the wedding ceremony. With equal glee, I rushed home to report to my husband that these newscasters had clearly failed to recognize the language that Anglicans had been using in the General Confession since 1549–when they were “manyfold synnes and wyckednes.” Continue reading

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Acedia–In One Image

My initial goal for this post was to discuss acedia in 25 words or less. That opening line (including its ungrammatical modification of a countable noun) was meant as a joke, but it turned out to be not much more laughable than my actual intention, which was to express my understanding of and grappling with the so-called “noon-day demon” over the last quarter century. Even that proved too tall an order.

I started with my first exposure to the idea that something like depression could be considered a sin—in the characters of Sansjoy and Despair in The Faerie Queene. But then I had to backtrack and acknowledge that my quasi-theological upbringing would have led me to a similar understanding. My central focus was to be a discussion of Acedia & Me: A Marriage, Monks, and a Writer’s Life by Kathleen Norris. But I soon I realized that I am not equipped for the discussion. Continue reading

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Meditations All Too Human

I teach a college-transfer class called English 112: Researching and Writing in the Disciplines, whose objective is to present a crash course in academic writing across the university curriculum. To that end, and drawing on my experience as a disability examiner for Social Security, I require that my students select one physical or mental impairment as a semester topic and write papers on this topic from the unique perspectives of three distinct scholarly disciplines. They must write a popular science article, compile a social science literature review, and finally, analyze a novel, a short story, or a film. My personal objective, in addition to the state-mandated one, is epistemological. I want my community-college students to understand that there are many ways of knowing and that their lives will be richer if they employ several of them. I want them to know that there are many paths to Truth and that they are not mutually exclusive, but complementary.

To guide my students in their enactment of this lofty experiment, I chose the topic of ovarian cancer and wrote a sample paper for each essay project. What follows is my paper for the humanities assignment, in which I discuss the depiction of ovarian cancer in the stage play “Wit” by Margaret Edson. This paper is also a direct response to a conversation with John Boggess, MD, professor of obstetrics and gynecology at UNC, who told me while my own feet were in the stirrups that he hated the play (emphasis his). Finally, watching and writing about “Wit” has enabled me to come as close as I have ever come to understanding what is inside the head of my husband, who has had one type of cancer or another since the age of 29 and who understands that despite his so-far successful stem cell transplant, he will always be a cancer survivor. Continue reading

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Not Exactly Epiphanies

At the age of 36, I decided to get a master’s degree in English. I have elsewhere–well, everywhere, including in the introductory lecture of nearly every class I teach–suggested that I was standing in a bookstore, staring at the American literature selection, when I made the sudden, if inward, proclamation: “I want to be an English teacher when I grow up.”

That’s not exactly what happened, though. I changed the name and location of the bookstore (it was really Wellington’s Books in Cary, North Carolina, not the Intimate in Chapel Hill) because they fit the story better, and I omitted the context. My Romanian friend, Marie Bugariu, was becoming a citizen of the United States. She and I had spent at least part of most conversations bemoaning the narrow and even boorish insularity of American culture. Having that instinct without experience, I was proud to be included in Marie’s eurocentric entourage. Continue reading

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Ho-Hum; Or, Whatever Happened to the Capacity for Wonder?

As we were driving home from seeing the movie Genius in Chapel Hill, my husband asked me why people don’t read Thomas Wolfe any more. My snappy retort masked what has been for some time an insidious fear: “Because they can no longer understand the end of Gatsby.” And then, to make sure I got it right, I looked up the passage on my phone and read aloud:

Gradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors’ eyes–a fresh, green breast of the new world. Its vanished trees . . . had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.

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My Name Is Vicki, and I Am a Taphophile

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1960: My sister, my cousins, and I scrambled into the back of my uncle’s 1948 Ford pick-up and headed with our fathers to the cemetery overlooking the dusty town of Globe, Arizona. We played among the graves while they watered the grass and pulled weeds at the small, flat grave of my grandfather, marked with a plain granite stone: “Father/Raymond Bozzola/1894-1946.” The soil there was inhospitable to flowers, but it must have welcomed dill; now, when I open a jar of dill weed, the aroma magically transports me to that dry, prickly place of stone and tumbleweed where I spent so many evenings in the long, lazy summers of my childhood.

2007: My first date with my then-student, now-husband took place at another, more verdant cemetery, Oakwood in Raleigh, North Carolina. We sat on a pink blanket and shared a picnic lunch. He ran his fingers through my hair, and then we strolled together from cross to obelisk to angel amidst a riot of lush greens and deep pinks. It was April in the South–time and clime hospitable to grass and flower and fragrant trees. Continue reading

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Forever Becoming: A Meditation

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Written at Oakwood Cemetery, Raleigh, 11 Nov. 2009
I was only 36, beginning a second graduate program—clearly, I was far from complete.  We who continually reinvent ourselves retain the illusion of eternal becoming far longer than those respectable adults with 2½ children and a mortgage and a picket fence.  Perhaps.  I’m never quite sure of anything.  Just a month or so previous to that day, I had stood enrapt in the American literature aisle at the Intimate Book Shop, inspired a big gulp of air, and decided, “I want to be an English teacher when I grow up.” Continue reading

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A Luddite Reviews the iPad Pro

I prefer my books on paper, please. I cancelled my subscription to Time when the editors decided to print photographs in color. I have never owned a dishwasher, but I do own several fountain pens. Although I send text messages to my husband in the next room, I do not allow them from my students except in cases of true emergency. Although I am a great fan of Netflix and Amazon Prime, I prefer my movies on the silver screen. And although I own a Nikon D3 professional digital camera, I still love the look and feel of film and the smell of fixer in the red glow of the darkroom. Continue reading

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Ode to OED (and Friends)

When I was a girl in the dusty mining town of Globe, Arizona, with the sulfur odor in the air when the wind blew from the west, our house had a living room, a kitchen, two bedrooms, and a bathroom with a tub but no shower. We had a basement with four rooms, two with dirt floors. We weren’t allowed to order ham sandwiches at the Rexall lunch counter because they were too expensive, and we had pinto beans with cornbread once a week for dinner. I don’t mean to suggest that we felt poor, but we were certainly aware that other families–mostly on the east side of town–had more than we did. However, we always had two things in our tiny frame house that I probably failed to appreciate at the time for the luxuries they were–a piano and a dictionary. Continue reading

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Math Anxiety

One morning during my twelve years in blue-light purgatory, I was sitting over coffee with my co-worker Dolores and Steve, her district manager in the ladies’ apparel department. I can scarcely imagine how the topic of higher mathematics arose in the Kmart cafeteria, but I clearly remember the sneer that accompanied the challenge Steve hurled at me: “Just tell me this: How often do you use all that calculus now?” And with that, he gestured broadly at our grubby retail surroundings.  Unwittingly using, long ahead of its time, the punctuation of the social media generation, I snapped back, “Every. Single. Day.” Continue reading

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