Gifts of knowledge
My brain is not quite on yet, as I am somewhat sleep deprived this week, but enjoying a rare day off with J for celebrating Imbolc.
In an attempt to requicken my scholarly mind and read more than that amazing amount of bad vampire books and porn that I consumed last year, I've joined up with thewronghands and ultraliner for reading more Russian literature. Heh, this also encourages me to whip out those lesson cds and also relearn Russian--a goal for this year. With luck, I can at least learn to be able to talk on more than a 2 year old level. The first book we'll be reading is Mikhail Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita, and Ultraliner had provided great links to bone up on the history and themes within the piece.
Maybe it was the historical research, or maybe it was just one of those things, but that evening, I found myself googling for Beth. I know, it's maudlin, and the woman who was my professor and one of my mentors in undergrad is six years in the ground but I felt just compelled to see if there were words in the dark, anywhere, a picture, a mark to say the memory of you lingers, if only in another's words, nevermind my heart. Yes, I google for my ghosts.
But sometimes, when you go seeking, you find.
What I found left me weeping: her life's work, the book that she had been working on for years, that was so close to being finished, was edited and published this past July. The Search for Salvation: Lay Faith in Scotland 1480-1560 was on Amazon and from Birlinn in the UK. (A picture of Beth is available at the Birlinn site.) Of course I bought a copy.
On the eve of Imbolc, near midnight, I go seeking and find the words of the lady who taught me how to use primary and secondary sources, how to search out the stories of history amongst the "common" people and see it reflected in modern times, and, most importantly, how to ask the right questions of it all. Not to mention, how to enjoy pizza with pepperoni and banana peppers, and pints of proper beer, while indulging my occasional preference for "something pink". The best place to edit one's thesis, after all, was in the bar. That was the place for good discussion and debating. (And talking about my very cute French professor.)
The first paper I ever wrote for her? A exploration of the fact and myth behind St. Brighid of Ireland.
I miss her still, and soon she'll whisper in my ear and I'll have another story, another lecture. How many are so lucky? I'll get to read and celebrate the presenting of her work, just as she did with mine. And then I'll go to a bar, order some pizza, and toast the brilliant woman properly, as she deserved.
What is remembered, lives.
In an attempt to requicken my scholarly mind and read more than that amazing amount of bad vampire books and porn that I consumed last year, I've joined up with thewronghands and ultraliner for reading more Russian literature. Heh, this also encourages me to whip out those lesson cds and also relearn Russian--a goal for this year. With luck, I can at least learn to be able to talk on more than a 2 year old level. The first book we'll be reading is Mikhail Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita, and Ultraliner had provided great links to bone up on the history and themes within the piece.
Maybe it was the historical research, or maybe it was just one of those things, but that evening, I found myself googling for Beth. I know, it's maudlin, and the woman who was my professor and one of my mentors in undergrad is six years in the ground but I felt just compelled to see if there were words in the dark, anywhere, a picture, a mark to say the memory of you lingers, if only in another's words, nevermind my heart. Yes, I google for my ghosts.
But sometimes, when you go seeking, you find.
What I found left me weeping: her life's work, the book that she had been working on for years, that was so close to being finished, was edited and published this past July. The Search for Salvation: Lay Faith in Scotland 1480-1560 was on Amazon and from Birlinn in the UK. (A picture of Beth is available at the Birlinn site.) Of course I bought a copy.
On the eve of Imbolc, near midnight, I go seeking and find the words of the lady who taught me how to use primary and secondary sources, how to search out the stories of history amongst the "common" people and see it reflected in modern times, and, most importantly, how to ask the right questions of it all. Not to mention, how to enjoy pizza with pepperoni and banana peppers, and pints of proper beer, while indulging my occasional preference for "something pink". The best place to edit one's thesis, after all, was in the bar. That was the place for good discussion and debating. (And talking about my very cute French professor.)
The first paper I ever wrote for her? A exploration of the fact and myth behind St. Brighid of Ireland.
I miss her still, and soon she'll whisper in my ear and I'll have another story, another lecture. How many are so lucky? I'll get to read and celebrate the presenting of her work, just as she did with mine. And then I'll go to a bar, order some pizza, and toast the brilliant woman properly, as she deserved.
What is remembered, lives.