Creators

On Wednesday evening, I was looking for music for my choir. I should do this much earlier than Wednesday evening, because they rehearse on Wednesday evenings. I could take care of this at school, or even on Sunday after the service. When I try to work on our laptop computer at home, I never get anything done. James' greatest pleasure in life is "typing" on the keyboard. He doesn't even look at the screen, but presses down as many keys as he can over and over again. This, I think, makes him feel like an adult. If we accidentally leave the laptop on and someplace where he can reach it, we'll find that the screen has been resized, the fonts changed, and several yaks purchased from China the next time we turn it on. Needless to say, if you try to get any work done on the computer during his conscious hours (Sunday through Saturday, 6:30 AM to 7:30 PM and then at 11:30 PM and 4:30 AM for 15 minutes each) he will scream and holler at you to let him "share" the keyboard until you either open a word document and let him type (this is not a good idea--he immediately pulls up the mail order yak website) or turn off the computer and put it away out of reach.

Anyway, I was trying to pick music for my choir while listening while James hollered at me, and an email came into my inbox. It was from Calvus, and it had an attachment. He had written an original piece of choral music, a four minute a capella number for church choir. I was saved! I printed it off and copied it, and had my choir sing through it that night. It was beautiful. It sat in their voices well, wasn't terribly difficult, and had a lovely text and melody. (I still have the tune stuck in my head). The setting was tasteful, and I was impressed again with his talent as a composer.

Calvus doesn't need to write music. He is currently a seminary student, so he needs to read endless books on systematic theology and church history. He writes music because creating is part of who he is. Actually, I think it's part of who everyone is, but many people have regretfully let that part of their humanity atrophy. I don't know if he could give you a reason for why he creates. I'm sure there is some pleasure in the process of working out all of the details of a musical composition, but I know from experience there's also quite a bit of tedious drudgery and frustration. I suspect it's more intuitive than that. In fact, I think my whole family are intuitive creators. They just do creation. It is in their nature to reflect beauty, to tell stories, and to give order and meaning to their worlds.

Sam, for example, writes Chemistry papers for the pleasure of the exercise. He reads constantly, and then he writes about anything and everything he's reading. Sometimes he'll ask me to look at his papers, and I'm always astounded at 1) how motley they are--he writes about every book he's read in the past month all at once and 2) how enthusiastic they are. Sam loves his discipline so much that he gets caught up in the splendor of all scientific knowing. He can't write about only ion bonds, because he's too amazed at particle physics to refrain from saying something about it. (I have no idea if those are actual scientific terms or not, but they sound like the sorts of things he'd write about.) He and Kaitlyn are constantly experimenting with new coffees, lattes, teas, and cocoas. There's no particular reason for them to do so--they aren't dissatisfied with the coffee they regularly drink--they are just natural creators, and they have to have an outlet for experimenting and enjoying the process.

Pax and Kylie recently redid their bedroom over the course of a weekend. There was no pressing need to do so. Their bedroom was already clean, warm, and well-decorated. (Especially compared to my premarital sleeping quarters, which were always just four bare walls with a bed. They basically served as a functional place to sleep and to pile up books and laundry.) Yet when they were finished with it, their sleeping space was transformed. It had become not only a beautiful room, but now a part of the amazing story that their whole house tells. Hilltop has become and incredible place under their care. It is elegant but very inviting, and reflects them in many ways. They are not professional decorators. They don't even own the house. But they have created a narrative in that house with such nuance that anyone who enters the house is caught up in the story.



Lux, as you might know if you follow The Old Crow, writes poetry. He does not harbor, as far as I know, any aspirations to be a professional poet. He doesn't publish his work widely, and doesn't get graded for it. Yet somehow he must translate his world into meter and rhyme, and not only traditional meter and rhyme, but forms of his own invention. His work isn't the sort of simpering mush you find in Hallmark cards or anthologies of blank verse about self-discovery either. It's real work, which has been carefully sculpted, edited, and studied--yet it comes out sounding as authentic and spontaneous as if it were just improvised. He never imposes his work on anyone or presumes that it must be heard. He just puts the world in verse quite as naturally as he puts his feet in shoes.

Martha might be the most remarkable of all them. For starters, she always has several long term projects going at once as a true visual artist. She paints, sketches, and sews quality work all year long to decorate her room and to give as gifts. Christmas this year was particularly remarkable. All of us received handcrafted items from her that must have been days each in the making. There were a series of beautifully written Robert Frost poems, framed in a painting of her own imagination. (Mine was about fireflies.) She had crafted a number of household items as well, and I won't pretend to know enough about sewing/knitting/crocheting/whatever else she does to prepare those to give any sort of comment except to say that I'm sure they took a very long time. But not only does Martha plan and work on big projects, her entire day-to-day existence seems to be in a sort of amplified technicolor that none of the rest of us can see. She scribbles and draws constantly on any piece of paper she can put her hands on. She notices and pairs unusual colors in her clothing, her books, and everything she touches. I would love to see the world through her eyes for only an hour. I think I would see more details of shade and hue than I ever knew existed. Martha doesn't even think about creating as a hobby...to be Martha is to recreate the world constantly and to make every minute of the day brand new in her notebooks and on table napkins.

At the risk of being over-prideful, I think this is a part of being human that too many people have forgotten. This is what reflecting the Creator God back into the world looks like.

And I think that maybe we are not called "smiths" in vain.

Juries and Psalms

I sat in on RWC trumpet juries today, and found myself in a familiar room on the unfamiliar side of the table. I wore a tie, carried no instrument, and gave written comments. I've never felt overly drawn to college teaching; it isn't quite so different from grade-school teaching for me, inasmuch as it involves some good students, some bad students, a lot of paperwork, and not very much playing. But this was actually quite enjoyable, at least selfishly and entirely from my own perspective. (I don't remember juries being enjoyable as a student) The stakes were high, which is always the exciting thing about performing as a trumpeter. There is no hiding on my instrument; every day at work is like a day at work atop a skyscraper. There's a wonderful rush from doing such a dangerous job, and inexpressible satisfaction from doing it well. Of course, no one really lives or dies because a trumpet player misses a note. (Some teachers would do well to remember this.) But a ten note passage with nine beautiful tones and one splat is a very different thing than a memo with nine words spelled correctly and one different typo; the whole effect of the thing falls apart with even a hair of a mistake.

I visited Samuel Magus, Kaitlyn, and Baby H in Batavia today, a cozy family which now owns the sleekest automobile in their entire extended family. I'm reading Matt 23, Ios 13, Il IV, and Livy. I finished Reflections on the Psalms last night, and am mulling one of my favorite passages today: (in answer to the question of how praise should be regarded in the psalms, or at least the demand for it: "I had never noticed that all enjoyment spontaneously overflows into praise unless (sometimes even if) shyness or the fear of boring others is deliberately brought in to check it. The world rings with praise--lovers praising their mistresses, readers their favorite poet, walkers praising the countryside, players praising their favorite game--praise of weather, wines, dishes, actors, motors, horses, colleges, countries, historical personages, children, flowers, mountains, rare stamps, rare beetles, even sometimes politicians or scholars. I had not noticed how the humblest, and at the same time the most balanced and capacious minds, praised most, while the cranks, misfits, and malcontents praised least. The good critics found something to praise in many imperfect works; the bad ones continually narrowed the list of books we might be allowed to read. The healthy and unaffected man, even if luxuriously brought up and widely experienced in good cookery, could praise a very modest meal: the dyspeptic and the snob found fault with all. Except where intolerably adverse circumstances interfere, praise almost seems to be inner health made audible."

I think Lewis is right. And I suspect that the RWC trumpet students are thankful I read this passage the night before their juries.

From M. Laine

From the marriage of Darryl and Tom many children were born. Some of the children were very beautiful; others were terrifying monsters. They were called Smiths. They were six in number and of great size and strength; like men, only much grander. There was R. Dudlius, who ruled the library, Samuel Magus, master of carpentry, Pax, otherwise known as the guitarsmith; Calvus, the breadmaker, Lux, author and poet, and M. Laine, youngest and most powerful of them all.