It's a medium (a eulogy)
The first time I ever learned that the word "medium" could mean more than halfway between hot and cold was when I read A Wrinkle in Time, by Madeline L'Engle. The characters travel to another planet to seek guidance from a medium - a psychic - and I was terribly confused for the first half of the chapter. A medium? I thought. Medium to what?
I picked up that book from somewhere - an elementary school book fair, maybe - and probably because there was a centaur on the cover. (This was back in the mid-90s, when the edition's cover was hot pink with purple letters. I liked the centaur.) It was a dark and stormy night, the story begins. I snorted to myself: Hey look! Here's a book that won the Newbery and it begins with one of the most over-used sentences in children's pulp fiction! I kept reading, just because of that.
The book blew me away. I had, quite honestly, never read anything like A Wrinkle in Time before in my life. In fact, up until then, it had been mostly The Babysitter's Club and the Thoroughbred series. Not exactly the stuff on which to build literary foundations.
I remember reading the bit about the ant on the string over and over again, until my mind finally bent itself around and grasped it. And I remember, quite clearly, shouting for joy.
I devoured the rest of her "Time Quartet": A Wind in the Door, A Swiftly Tilting Planet and Many Waters. The paperback box-set I received for Christmas that year is still housed safely inside it's cardboard, but the covers inside are dog-eared, scratched and bent.
I cannot tell you - cannot record here - how many times I have thought about elements from those stories. How many hours I have spent wondering about things like tesseracts and mitochondria, cherubim and Noah's ark. I used to base the quality of dictionaries on whether or not they included the word "kythe". When archaeologists and anthropologists discuss the possibility of pre-Viking explorers settling in North America, I smile and remember Madoc the Welshman. If I ever befriend an Irish wolfhound, I think I'll name him Fortinbras.
Those stories were not the extent of my relationship with Madeline, however. I remember very distinctly reading A Ring of Endless Light one Thanksgiving Day. I believe I was in sixth grade when I read this, and if that's the case then I know I found Madeline at a time when I needed her words the most.
Later, towards the end of my middle school career, a very close friend of mine (Matt B.) gave me a copy of Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art. This was harder to get through. I could never read very much at a time, because it always left me with so much to think about. My head was full after each chapter. Nevertheless, I have thought of the words within that book nearly as often as I've thought about her fiction.
Reading Madeline L'Engle, from her poetry to her prose to her essays, is an exercise not only in imagination, but also in spirituality. It was that spirituality that made reading A Wrinkle in Time, and the subsequent stories, so delightfully shocking to me. Here, I could think about God outside of God, which is to say, outside of the God I'd learned about in church. I learned that there could be a God outside of church - that God could be much, much bigger than any human-made institution. And not scary at all. Reading Madeline lead me into some of my very first philosophical/theological explorations, and I owe a great deal of what I now believe to her.
I'd always meant to write her. My mother found her address at the library, and every once and a while would raise her eyebrows and ask me if I'd composed a letter to Ms. L'Engle yet. I always said no, that I would, I would - but never did.
Well. She can read it now.
Dear Madeline,
For everything I have said here, and for everything that still lives inside my soul (you know what it is), I thank you. I have thought about you many, many times over the years, and indeed at one point felt close enough to call you my friend. Not that you aren't, now. We've just been out of touch. But each time I thought about you, I sent you love. 'I wonder how she's doing,' I'd think to myself. 'Ah, she's fine.' I'd smile.
Mostly, Madeline, I want to tell you that I love you. Even though you probably already know that by now. It helps to put the words into something tangible. I love you for your words, and your stories, and the way that you, through your stories, were there for me exactly when I needed someone there. "Thank you" really doesn't convey the feeling in my chest right now. But you get it.
I will make music for you, Madeline.
in love,
Carrie
***
To a Long-Loved Love: 3
I know why the star gives light
Shining quietly in the night;
Arithmetic helps me unravel
The hours and years this light must travel
To penetrate our atmosphere.
I count the craters on the Moon
With telescopes to make them clear.
With delicate instruments I measure
The secrets of barometric pressure.
Therefore I find it inexpressibly queer
That with my own soul I am out of tune,
That I have not stumbled upon the art
Of forecasting the weather of the heart.
I picked up that book from somewhere - an elementary school book fair, maybe - and probably because there was a centaur on the cover. (This was back in the mid-90s, when the edition's cover was hot pink with purple letters. I liked the centaur.) It was a dark and stormy night, the story begins. I snorted to myself: Hey look! Here's a book that won the Newbery and it begins with one of the most over-used sentences in children's pulp fiction! I kept reading, just because of that.
The book blew me away. I had, quite honestly, never read anything like A Wrinkle in Time before in my life. In fact, up until then, it had been mostly The Babysitter's Club and the Thoroughbred series. Not exactly the stuff on which to build literary foundations.
I remember reading the bit about the ant on the string over and over again, until my mind finally bent itself around and grasped it. And I remember, quite clearly, shouting for joy.
I devoured the rest of her "Time Quartet": A Wind in the Door, A Swiftly Tilting Planet and Many Waters. The paperback box-set I received for Christmas that year is still housed safely inside it's cardboard, but the covers inside are dog-eared, scratched and bent.
I cannot tell you - cannot record here - how many times I have thought about elements from those stories. How many hours I have spent wondering about things like tesseracts and mitochondria, cherubim and Noah's ark. I used to base the quality of dictionaries on whether or not they included the word "kythe". When archaeologists and anthropologists discuss the possibility of pre-Viking explorers settling in North America, I smile and remember Madoc the Welshman. If I ever befriend an Irish wolfhound, I think I'll name him Fortinbras.
Those stories were not the extent of my relationship with Madeline, however. I remember very distinctly reading A Ring of Endless Light one Thanksgiving Day. I believe I was in sixth grade when I read this, and if that's the case then I know I found Madeline at a time when I needed her words the most.
Later, towards the end of my middle school career, a very close friend of mine (Matt B.) gave me a copy of Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art. This was harder to get through. I could never read very much at a time, because it always left me with so much to think about. My head was full after each chapter. Nevertheless, I have thought of the words within that book nearly as often as I've thought about her fiction.
Reading Madeline L'Engle, from her poetry to her prose to her essays, is an exercise not only in imagination, but also in spirituality. It was that spirituality that made reading A Wrinkle in Time, and the subsequent stories, so delightfully shocking to me. Here, I could think about God outside of God, which is to say, outside of the God I'd learned about in church. I learned that there could be a God outside of church - that God could be much, much bigger than any human-made institution. And not scary at all. Reading Madeline lead me into some of my very first philosophical/theological explorations, and I owe a great deal of what I now believe to her.
I'd always meant to write her. My mother found her address at the library, and every once and a while would raise her eyebrows and ask me if I'd composed a letter to Ms. L'Engle yet. I always said no, that I would, I would - but never did.
Well. She can read it now.
Dear Madeline,
For everything I have said here, and for everything that still lives inside my soul (you know what it is), I thank you. I have thought about you many, many times over the years, and indeed at one point felt close enough to call you my friend. Not that you aren't, now. We've just been out of touch. But each time I thought about you, I sent you love. 'I wonder how she's doing,' I'd think to myself. 'Ah, she's fine.' I'd smile.
Mostly, Madeline, I want to tell you that I love you. Even though you probably already know that by now. It helps to put the words into something tangible. I love you for your words, and your stories, and the way that you, through your stories, were there for me exactly when I needed someone there. "Thank you" really doesn't convey the feeling in my chest right now. But you get it.
I will make music for you, Madeline.
in love,
Carrie
***
To a Long-Loved Love: 3
I know why the star gives light
Shining quietly in the night;
Arithmetic helps me unravel
The hours and years this light must travel
To penetrate our atmosphere.
I count the craters on the Moon
With telescopes to make them clear.
With delicate instruments I measure
The secrets of barometric pressure.
Therefore I find it inexpressibly queer
That with my own soul I am out of tune,
That I have not stumbled upon the art
Of forecasting the weather of the heart.