Phantasies by George MacDonald, Gemini Moon

Volume XV, Issue XVIII

Phantasies
By George MacDonald, Chapter 5

And she was smooth and full, as if one gush
Of life had washed her, or as if a sleep
Lay on her eyelid, easier to sweep
Than bee from daisy."
~ Thomas Lovell Beddoes' Pygmalion.

Sche was as whyt as lylye yn May,
Or snow that sneweth yn wynterys day."
~ from "Romance of Sir Launfal".

I walked on, in the fresh morning air, as if new-born. The only thing that damped my pleasure was a cloud of something between sorrow and delight that crossed my mind with the frequently returning thought of my last night's hostess. "But then," thought I, "if she is sorry, I could not help it; and she has all the pleasures she ever had. Such a day as this is surely a joy to her, as much at least as to me. And her life will perhaps be the richer, for holding now within it the memory of what came, but could not stay. And if ever she is a woman, who knows but we may meet somewhere? there is plenty of room for meeting in the universe." Comforting myself thus, yet with a vague compunction, as if I ought not to have left her, I went on. There was little to distinguish the woods to-day from those of my own land; except that all the wild things, rabbits, birds, squirrels, mice, and the numberless other inhabitants, were very tame; that is, they did not run away from me, but gazed at me as I passed, frequently coming nearer, as if to examine me more closely. Whether this came from utter ignorance, or from familiarity with the human appearance of beings who never hurt them, I could not tell. As I stood once, looking up to the splendid flower of a parasite, which hung from the branch of a tree over my head, a large white rabbit cantered slowly up, put one of its little feet on one of mine, and looked up at me with its red eyes, just as I had been looking up at the flower above me. I stooped and stroked it; but when I attempted to lift it, it banged the ground with its hind feet and scampered off at a great rate, turning, however, to look at me several times before I lost sight of it. Now and then, too, a dim human figure would appear and disappear, at some distance, amongst the trees, moving like a sleep-walker. But no one ever came near me.

This day I found plenty of food in the forest--strange nuts and fruits I had never seen before. I hesitated to eat them; but argued that, if I could live on the air of Fairy Land, I could live on its food also. I found my reasoning correct, and the result was better than I had hoped; for it not only satisfied my hunger, but operated in such a way upon my senses that I was brought into far more complete relationship with the things around me. The human forms appeared much more dense and defined; more tangibly visible, if I may say so. I seemed to know better which direction to choose when any doubt arose. I began to feel in some degree what the birds meant in their songs, though I could not express it in words, any more than you can some landscapes. At times, to my surprise, I found myself listening attentively, and as if it were no unusual thing with me, to a conversation between two squirrels or monkeys. The subjects were not very interesting, except as associated with the individual life and necessities of the little creatures: where the best nuts were to be found in the neighbourhood, and who could crack them best, or who had most laid up for the winter, and such like; only they never said where the store was. There was no great difference in kind between their talk and our ordinary human conversation. Some of the creatures I never heard speak at all, and believe they never do so, except under the impulse of some great excitement. The mice talked; but the hedgehogs seemed very phlegmatic; and though I met a couple of moles above ground several times, they never said a word to each other in my hearing. There were no wild beasts in the forest; at least, I did not see one larger than a wild cat. There were plenty of snakes, however, and I do not think they were all harmless; but none ever bit me.

Soon after mid-day I arrived at a bare rocky hill, of no great size, but very steep; and having no trees--scarcely even a bush-- upon it, entirely exposed to the heat of the sun. Over this my way seemed to lie, and I immediately began the ascent. On reaching the top, hot and weary, I looked around me, and saw that the forest still stretched as far as the sight could reach on every side of me. I observed that the trees, in the direction in which I was about to descend, did not come so near the foot of the hill as on the other side, and was especially regretting the unexpected postponement of shelter, because this side of the hill seemed more difficult to descend than the other had been to climb, when my eye caught the appearance of a natural path, winding down through broken rocks and along the course of a tiny stream, which I hoped would lead me more easily to the foot. I tried it, and found the descent not at all laborious; nevertheless, when I reached the bottom, I was very tired and exhausted with the heat. But just where the path seemed to end, rose a great rock, quite overgrown with shrubs and creeping plants, some of them in full and splendid blossom: these almost concealed an opening in the rock, into which the path appeared to lead. I entered, thirsting for the shade which it promised. What was my delight to find a rocky cell, all the angles rounded away with rich moss, and every ledge and projection crowded with lovely ferns, the variety of whose forms, and groupings, and shades wrought in me like a poem; for such a harmony could not exist, except they all consented to some one end! A little well of the clearest water filled a mossy hollow in one corner. I drank, and felt as if I knew what the elixir of life must be; then threw myself on a mossy mound that lay like a couch along the inner end. Here I lay in a delicious reverie for some time; during which all lovely forms, and colours, and sounds seemed to use my brain as a common hall, where they could come and go, unbidden and unexcused. I had never imagined that such capacity for simple happiness lay in me, as was now awakened by this assembly of forms and spiritual sensations, which yet were far too vague to admit of being translated into any shape common to my own and another mind. I had lain for an hour, I should suppose, though it may have been far longer, when, the harmonious tumult in my mind having somewhat relaxed, I became aware that my eyes were fixed on a strange, time-worn bas-relief on the rock opposite to me. This, after some pondering, I concluded to represent Pygmalion, as he awaited the quickening of his statue. The sculptor sat more rigid than the figure to which his eyes were turned. That seemed about to step from its pedestal and embrace the man, who waited rather than expected.

A lovely story," I said to myself. "This cave, now, with the bushes cut away from the entrance to let the light in, might be such a place as he would choose, withdrawn from the notice of men, to set up his block of marble, and mould into a visible body the thought already clothed with form in the unseen hall of the sculptor's brain. And, indeed, if I mistake not," I said, starting up, as a sudden ray of light arrived at that moment through a crevice in the roof, and lighted up a small portion of the rock, bare of vegetation, "this very rock is marble, white enough and delicate enough for any statue, even if destined to become an ideal woman in the arms of the sculptor."

I took my knife and removed the moss from a part of the block on which I had been lying; when, to my surprise, I found it more like alabaster than ordinary marble, and soft to the edge of the knife. In fact, it was alabaster. By an inexplicable, though by no means unusual kind of impulse, I went on removing the moss from the surface of the stone; and soon saw that it was polished, or at least smooth, throughout. I continued my labour; and after clearing a space of about a couple of square feet, I observed what caused me to prosecute the work with more interest and care than before. For the ray of sunlight had now reached the spot I had cleared, and under its lustre the alabaster revealed its usual slight transparency when polished, except where my knife had scratched the surface; and I observed that the transparency seemed to have a definite limit, and to end upon an opaque body like the more solid, white marble. I was careful to scratch no more. And first, a vague anticipation gave way to a startling sense of possibility; then, as I proceeded, one revelation after another produced the entrancing conviction, that under the crust of alabaster lay a dimly visible form in marble, but whether of man or woman I could not yet tell. I worked on as rapidly as the necessary care would permit; and when I had uncovered the whole mass, and rising from my knees, had retreated a little way, so that the effect of the whole might fall on me, I saw before me with sufficient plainness--though at the same time with considerable indistinctness, arising from the limited amount of light the place admitted, as well as from the nature of the object itself--a block of pure alabaster enclosing the form, apparently in marble, of a reposing woman. She lay on one side, with her hand under her cheek, and her face towards me; but her hair had fallen partly over her face, so that I could not see the expression of the whole. What I did see appeared to me perfectly lovely; more near the face that had been born with me in my soul, than anything I had seen before in nature or art. The actual outlines of the rest of the form were so indistinct, that the more than semi-opacity of the alabaster seemed insufficient to account for the fact; and I conjectured that a light robe added its obscurity. Numberless histories passed through my mind of change of substance from enchantment and other causes, and of imprisonments such as this before me. I thought of the Prince of the Enchanted City, half marble and half a man; of Ariel; of Niobe; of the Sleeping Beauty in the Wood; of the bleeding trees; and many other histories. Even my adventure of the preceding evening with the lady of the beech-tree contributed to arouse the wild hope, that by some means life might be given to this form also, and that, breaking from her alabaster tomb, she might glorify my eyes with her presence. "For," I argued, "who can tell but this cave may be the home of Marble, and this, essential Marble--that spirit of marble which, present throughout, makes it capable of being moulded into any form? Then if she should awake! But how to awake her? A kiss awoke the Sleeping Beauty! a kiss cannot reach her through the incrusting alabaster." I kneeled, however, and kissed the pale coffin; but she slept on. I bethought me of Orpheus, and the following stones--that trees should follow his music seemed nothing surprising now. Might not a song awake this form, that the glory of motion might for a time displace the loveliness of rest? Sweet sounds can go where kisses may not enter. I sat and thought. Now, although always delighting in music, I had never been gifted with the power of song, until I entered the fairy forest. I had a voice, and I had a true sense of sound; but when I tried to sing, the one would not content the other, and so I remained silent. This morning, however, I had found myself, ere I was aware, rejoicing in a song; but whether it was before or after I had eaten of the fruits of the forest, I could not satisfy myself. I concluded it was after, however; and that the increased impulse to sing I now felt, was in part owing to having drunk of the little well, which shone like a brilliant eye in a corner of the cave. It saw down on the ground by the "antenatal tomb," leaned upon it with my face towards the head of the figure within, and sang--the words and tones coming together, and inseparably connected, as if word and tone formed one thing; or, as if each word could be uttered only in that tone, and was incapable of distinction from it, except in idea, by an acute analysis. I sang something like this: but the words are only a dull representation of a state whose very elevation precluded the possibility of remembrance; and in which I presume the words really employed were as far above these, as that state transcended this wherein I recall it:

Marble woman, vainly sleeping
In the very death of dreams!
Wilt thou--slumber from thee sweeping,
All but what with vision teems--
Hear my voice come through the golden
Mist of memory and hope;
And with shadowy smile embolden
Me with primal Death to cope?

Thee the sculptors all pursuing,
Have embodied but their own;
Round their visions, form enduring,
Marble vestments thou hast thrown;
But thyself, in silence winding,
Thou hast kept eternally;
Thee they found not, many finding--
I have found thee: wake for me."

As I sang, I looked earnestly at the face so vaguely revealed before me. I fancied, yet believed it to be but fancy, that through the dim veil of the alabaster, I saw a motion of the head as if caused by a sinking sigh. I gazed more earnestly, and concluded that it was but fancy. Neverthless I could not help singing again--

Rest is now filled full of beauty,
And can give thee up, I ween;
Come thou forth, for other duty
Motion pineth for her queen.

Or, if needing years to wake thee
From thy slumbrous solitudes,
Come, sleep-walking, and betake thee
To the friendly, sleeping woods.

Sweeter dreams are in the forest,
Round thee storms would never rave;
And when need of rest is sorest,
Glide thou then into thy cave.

Or, if still thou choosest rather
Marble, be its spell on me;
Let thy slumber round me gather,
Let another dream with thee!"

Again I paused, and gazed through the stony shroud, as if, by very force of penetrative sight, I would clear every lineament of the lovely face. And now I thought the hand that had lain under the cheek, had slipped a little downward. But then I could not be sure that I had at first observed its position accurately. So I sang again; for the longing had grown into a passionate need of seeing her alive--

Or art thou Death, O woman? for since I
Have set me singing by thy side,
Life hath forsook the upper sky,
And all the outer world hath died.

Yea, I am dead; for thou hast drawn
My life all downward unto thee.
Dead moon of love! let twilight dawn:
Awake! and let the darkness flee.

Cold lady of the lovely stone!
Awake! or I shall perish here;
And thou be never more alone,
My form and I for ages near.

But words are vain; reject them all--
They utter but a feeble part:
Hear thou the depths from which they call,
The voiceless longing of my heart."

There arose a slightly crashing sound. Like a sudden apparition that comes and is gone, a white form, veiled in a light robe of whiteness, burst upwards from the stone, stood, glided forth, and gleamed away towards the woods. For I followed to the mouth of the cave, as soon as the amazement and concentration of delight permitted the nerves of motion again to act; and saw the white form amidst the trees, as it crossed a little glade on the edge of the forest where the sunlight fell full, seeming to gather with intenser radiance on the one object that floated rather than flitted through its lake of beams. I gazed after her in a kind of despair; found, freed, lost! It seemed useless to follow, yet follow I must. I marked the direction she took; and without once looking round to the forsaken cave, I hastened towards the forest.
(to be continued)

A Flight Control History of NASA



Taking Gemini to the Moon
[click to read]

By Amy Shira Teitel


Gemini Lunar Lander Concept. NASA Photo.

Apollo 8 is usually synonymous with Christmas — at least among spaceflight enthusiasts. In 1968, NASA made the daring decision to send Apollo 8 into lunar orbit in the name of getting American men to the moon ahead of the Soviet Union. On Christmas eve, the crew – Frank Borman, Jim Lovell, and Bill Anders – famously read from the book of Genesis. Sent with only a Command and Service module, the mission is often considered one of NASA’s greatest risks of the space race. But there were other equally audacious lunar missions in the planning stages long before NASA had a viable mission with Apollo 8. As early as 1961, the agency considered sending men to the moon, and even landing them on the surface, with a Gemini spacecraft. Gemini began its life in 1961 as Mercury Mark II. Built around a larger and more sophisticated Mercury capsule, the program was meant to keep NASA in space and work out the kinks out of a lunar flight profile before actually going to the moon. Apollo was already in the early planning stages at this point as the three-man lunar spacecraft. In October 1962, McDonnell Aircraft, the company who built the Mercury and Gemini spacecraft, published a study of possible lunar missions of a different structure. Most notably, with a Gemini spacecraft. (read more)


Amish barn raising. File Photo

The Amish and Social Security

In 1935, congress passed The Social Security Act. Included in this legislation was "Old Age, Survivors, and Disability Insurance," provided for those in industry and commerce, and extended to include farm operators in 1955. The  Amish Country News writes:

While the Amish have no objection "paying unto Caesar what is Caesar’s," they do have problems with commercial insurance. In a sense, insurance was seen as not trusting in G-d. Insurance plans were a worldly operation. Plus, the Amish view of separation of church and state normally meant not accepting money from government programs, especially something viewed as welfare. No one could deny that this program was one of paying money to the government and then receiving a benefit in return.

Perhaps most importantly, the care of the elderly is seen as the responsibility of the family and community, not the government. Whether it be additions built onto the main house where grandparents "retire," benefit sales to pay large medical bills, or the community effort of a barn-raising, the Amish truly try to "take care of their own."

The Social Security Tax  was administered by the Internal Revenue Service, beginning in earnest during the 1950's Though Old Age, Survivors, and Disability Insurance was clearly in the description, it was collected as a tax. The issue came to a head when the IRS seized the horses of one Valentine Byler for non-payment of the tax. Public sentiment was stirred as Byler depended on these horses for his livelihood as a farmer.

He received letters of support such as this one from Texas: "May I congratulate you on having the intestinal fortitude to stand up for your beliefs. While I am aware that your action stemmed from a love of your religion rather than from defiance, I hope that your example may serve to point out to some of us just how far our benevolent Government will go to reach its goal of making dependents of us all. There seems to be no place for a person who asks merely to be left alone, and to provide for himself and his family."

In 1961, Amish bishops sent the following petition to the IRS: 

We, as representatives of the Old Order Amish Mennonite Church, do herein express our deep appreciation, and with grateful hearts do we recount the favors and consideration accorded our forefathers in the past...

We believe in a supreme being and also the constitution of the USA, and we feel the Social Security Act and Old Age Survivors Insurance [OASI] is abridging and infringing to our religious freedom. We believe in giving alms in the church according to Christ’s teaching.

It has been our Christian concern from birth of our church group to supply those of our group who have a need, financial or otherwise... Our faith has always been sufficient to meet the needs as they come about, and we feel the present OASI is an infringement on our responsibilities; as a church we feel grieved that this OASI has come upon us...

We Bishops, representatives of the Old Order Churches of the USA are appealing to you to prayerfully consider and reconsider this favor. In G-d we trust."

Ironically, relief was finally forthcoming to the Amish in a provision that was tacked on to the 1965 legislation that established Medicare. Wayne Fisher writes: "Tucked into the 138 page bill was a clause exempting the Old Order Amish, and any other religious sect who conscientiously objected to insurance, from paying Social Security payments, providing that sect had been in existence since December 31, 1950. After Senate approval in July, the signing of the bill by President Lyndon B. Johnson on August 13, 1965, made it official and canceled tax accounts of some 15,000 Amish people amounting to nearly $250,000." [2.]

John Jay on Right of Conscience

Consciences of men are not the objects of human legislation…How beautiful appears our expansive constitution in disclaiming all jurisdiction over the souls of men, and securing (by a never-to-be-repealed section) the voluntary, unchecked, moral suasion of every individual.”

— John Jay, the original Chief Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court on the right of conscience in the Constitution

A Better Way, Understanding
[click to read]

David Gelernter in the WSJ (Subscription Required)

Constructive national dialogue begins with understanding and that requires going beyond the ‘popular’ caricature. (read more)

Remind the people to be subject to rulers and authorities, to be obedient, to be ready to do whatever is good, to slander no one, to be peaceable and considerate, and always to be gentle toward everyone. At one time we too were foolish, disobedient, deceived and enslaved by all kinds of passions and pleasures. We lived in malice and envy, being hated and hating one another. But when the kindness and love of God our Savior appeared, he saved us, not because of righteous things we had done, but because of his mercy. He saved us through the washing of rebirth and renewal by the Holy Spirit, whom he poured out on us generously through Jesus Christ our Savior, so that, having been justified by his grace, we might become heirs having the hope of eternal life. This is a trustworthy saying. And I want you to stress these things, so that those who have trusted in God may be careful to devote themselves to doing what is good. These things are excellent and profitable for everyone.” – Titus 3:1-8

In the Garden
Charles A. Miles, 1913, Public Domain


In the Garden. Photo by Bob Kirchman

I come to the garden alone,
While the dew is still on the roses,
And the voice I hear falling on my ear
The Son of God discloses.

Refrain:
And He walks with me, and He talks with me,
And He tells me I am His own;
And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known.

He speaks, and the sound of His voice
Is so sweet the birds hush their singing,
And the melody that He gave to me
Within my heart is ringing.

Refrain:
And He walks with me, and He talks with me,
And He tells me I am His own;
And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known.

I’d stay in the garden with Him,
Though the night around me be falling,
But He bids me go; through the voice of woe
His voice to me is calling.

Refrain:
And He walks with me, and He talks with me,
And He tells me I am His own;
And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known.


Oak branches in snow. Photo by Bob Kirchman

A Restful Walk on a Ridge
Shenandoah Mountain Trail


Shenandoah Mountain Trail begins at this overlook on U. S. 250 at the Western border of Augusta County where Confederate troops from Georgia once manned Fort Edward Johnson,... 
Photo by Bob Kirchman


...shivering in a late Spring snow in 1862.
Photo by Bob Kirchman


Snowy trail. Photo by Bob Kirchman


Mountain Laurel. Photo by Bob Kirchman


Restful Ridgetop. Photo by Bob Kirchman

Lessons from a Dollhouse
By Bob Kirchman


“Wisdom hath builded her house, she hath hewn out her seven pillars” – Proverbs 9:1

On a Saturday afternoon that was too cold and wet for outside play, my oldest granddaughter made a wonderful ‘discovery’ in the basement shelves. She found her mother’s dollhouse. Of course she wanted me to take it down for her and she enjoyed exploring it, but it wasn’t long before she wanted to keep hold of the magic. With mom’s approval we started planning some ‘improvements’ to the house. The little house would once again ‘live’ in daylight.

The little house, you must know, did not begin its life as a project for my daughter. Actually she was still pretty small when I made the house for our neighbor’s foster child, who stayed at our house afternoons after school. My daughter had plenty of blessings from grandparents. This little girl did not. The original house took shape out of spare parts and paints from the model shop where I built architectural models. When it was done it was painted in the rather bland ‘spec’ colors the designers of the day demanded. Still, it was a wonderful part of a little girl’s life. When she got older and went to live with family in another state, she gave my daughter the house.

At that point the interior underwent a major makeover at the hands of my daughter. It truly became her dollhouse. But the little house – like the wonderful houses in Williamsburg – or any multi-generational house for that matter, had already a wonderful history of blessing to it. Now my granddaughter took up the task. “Can we paint it red?” she asked. “My room is sage green but I REALLY like RED!” she sort of absently wondered. “Sure,” I said, and the project began. With a little help from me, my granddaughter selected the color to be painted on the siding. We got the paint from Walmart, where you can buy some really nice little bottles of acrylic paint for fifty cents for 2 ounces. Surely I would need more to cover ‘spec’ tan siding with deep red, so I looked at the larger bottles: eight ounces for $2.50.

My mother was an engineer/mathematician for the Martin Company in Baltimore in the 1940s. She would take her slide rule to the grocery store and often exclaimed that the bigger size was not cheaper. Mom invented unit pricing! I could feel her smiling from Heaven as I walked out of the store with four little bottles of red paint! My pneumonia bout put off our painting party for a bit but soon enough my granddaughter had a half day off from kindergarten. We set to work! Even with the strongly charged brush of a five year old, I was amazed at the coverage of the little paint bottles. We had two coats on the house before we finished the first two once bottle! I fixed the door of the house and it was time to play! There was one more surprise for that day involving the little house though. When two year old little sister showed up, brimming with curiosity, the oldest granddaughter happily invited her into the play! With some judicious removing of the more delicate and small items, this became a wonderful thing!

Some possessions may ‘own’ us, demanding our energy for their upkeep and continued service, but I think some wonderful things truly come to serve us – to express the nature of our souls. They become an extension of our nobler selves – our servant’s hearts, reaching through generations. We need more of those things.

Phantasies by George MacDonald, Creativity

Volume XV, Issue XVII

Phantasies
By George MacDonald, Chapter 4

When bale is att hyest, boote is nyest."
~ Ballad of Sir Aldingar.

By this time, my hostess was quite anxious that I should be gone. So, with warm thanks for their hospitality, I took my leave, and went my way through the little garden towards the forest. Some of the garden flowers had wandered into the wood, and were growing here and there along the path, but the trees soon became too thick and shadowy for them. I particularly noticed some tall lilies, which grew on both sides of the way, with large dazzlingly white flowers, set off by the universal green. It was now dark enough for me to see that every flower was shining with a light of its own. Indeed it was by this light that I saw them, an internal, peculiar light, proceeding from each, and not reflected from a common source of light as in the daytime. This light sufficed only for the plant itself, and was not strong enough to cast any but the faintest shadows around it, or to illuminate any of the neighbouring objects with other than the faintest tinge of its own individual hue. From the lilies above mentioned, from the campanulas, from the foxgloves, and every bell-shaped flower, curious little figures shot up their heads, peeped at me, and drew back. They seemed to inhabit them, as snails their shells but I was sure some of them were intruders, and belonged to the gnomes or goblin-fairies, who inhabit the ground and earthy creeping plants. From the cups of Arum lilies, creatures with great heads and grotesque faces shot up like Jack- in-the-box, and made grimaces at me; or rose slowly and slily over the edge of the cup, and spouted water at me, slipping suddenly back, like those little soldier-crabs that inhabit the shells of sea-snails. Passing a row of tall thistles, I saw them crowded with little faces, which peeped every one from behind its flower, and drew back as quickly; and I heard them saying to each other, evidently intending me to hear, but the speaker always hiding behind his tuft, when I looked in his direction, "Look at him! Look at him! He has begun a story without a beginning, and it will never have any end. He! he! he! Look at him!"

But as I went further into the wood, these sights and sounds became fewer, giving way to others of a different character. A little forest of wild hyacinths was alive with exquisite creatures, who stood nearly motionless, with drooping necks, holding each by the stem of her flower, and swaying gently with it, whenever a low breath of wind swung the crowded floral belfry. In like manner, though differing of course in form and meaning, stood a group of harebells, like little angels waiting, ready, till they were wanted to go on some yet unknown message. In darker nooks, by the mossy roots of the trees, or in little tufts of grass, each dwelling in a globe of its own green light, weaving a network of grass and its shadows, glowed the glowworms.

They were just like the glowworms of our own land, for they are fairies everywhere; worms in the day, and glowworms at night, when their own can appear, and they can be themselves to others as well as themselves. But they had their enemies here. For I saw great strong-armed beetles, hurrying about with most unwieldy haste, awkward as elephant-calves, looking apparently for glowworms; for the moment a beetle espied one, through what to it was a forest of grass, or an underwood of moss, it pounced upon it, and bore it away, in spite of its feeble resistance. Wondering what their object could be, I watched one of the beetles, and then I discovered a thing I could not account for. But it is no use trying to account for things in Fairy Land; and one who travels there soon learns to forget the very idea of doing so, and takes everything as it comes; like a child, who, being in a chronic condition of wonder, is surprised at nothing. What I saw was this. Everywhere, here and there over the ground, lay little, dark-looking lumps of something more like earth than anything else, and about the size of a chestnut. The beetles hunted in couples for these; and having found one, one of them stayed to watch it, while the other hurried to find a glowworm. By signals, I presume, between them, the latter soon found his companion again: they then took the glowworm and held its luminous tail to the dark earthly pellet; when lo, it shot up into the air like a sky-rocket, seldom, however, reaching the height of the highest tree. Just like a rocket too, it burst in the air, and fell in a shower of the most gorgeously coloured sparks of every variety of hue; golden and red, and purple and green, and blue and rosy fires crossed and inter-crossed each other, beneath the shadowy heads, and between the columnar stems of the forest trees. They never used the same glowworm twice, I observed; but let him go, apparently uninjured by the use they had made of him.

In other parts, the whole of the immediately surrounding foliage was illuminated by the interwoven dances in the air of splendidly coloured fire-flies, which sped hither and thither, turned, twisted, crossed, and recrossed, entwining every complexity of intervolved motion. Here and there, whole mighty trees glowed with an emitted phosphorescent light. You could trace the very course of the great roots in the earth by the faint light that came through; and every twig, and every vein on every leaf was a streak of pale fire.

All this time, as I went through the wood, I was haunted with the feeling that other shapes, more like my own size and mien, were moving about at a little distance on all sides of me. But as yet I could discern none of them, although the moon was high enough to send a great many of her rays down between the trees, and these rays were unusually bright, and sight-giving, notwithstanding she was only a half-moon. I constantly imagined, however, that forms were visible in all directions except that to which my gaze was turned; and that they only became invisible, or resolved themselves into other woodland shapes, the moment my looks were directed towards them. However this may have been, except for this feeling of presence, the woods seemed utterly bare of anything like human companionship, although my glance often fell on some object which I fancied to be a human form; for I soon found that I was quite deceived; as, the moment I fixed my regard on it, it showed plainly that it was a bush, or a tree, or a rock.

Soon a vague sense of discomfort possessed me. With variations of relief, this gradually increased; as if some evil thing were wandering about in my neighbourhood, sometimes nearer and sometimes further off, but still approaching. The feeling continued and deepened, until all my pleasure in the shows of various kinds that everywhere betokened the presence of the merry fairies vanished by degrees, and left me full of anxiety and fear, which I was unable to associate with any definite object whatever. At length the thought crossed my mind with horror: "Can it be possible that the Ash is looking for me? or that, in his nightly wanderings, his path is gradually verging towards mine?" I comforted myself, however, by remembering that he had started quite in another direction; one that would lead him, if he kept it, far apart from me; especially as, for the last two or three hours, I had been diligently journeying eastward. I kept on my way, therefore, striving by direct effort of the will against the encroaching fear; and to this end occupying my mind, as much as I could, with other thoughts. I was so far successful that, although I was conscious, if I yielded for a moment, I should be almost overwhelmed with horror, I was yet able to walk right on for an hour or more. What I feared I could not tell. Indeed, I was left in a state of the vaguest uncertainty as regarded the nature of my enemy, and knew not the mode or object of his attacks; for, somehow or other, none of my questions had succeeded in drawing a definite answer from the dame in the cottage. How then to defend myself I knew not; nor even by what sign I might with certainty recognise the presence of my foe; for as yet this vague though powerful fear was all the indication of danger I had. To add to my distress, the clouds in the west had risen nearly to the top of the skies, and they and the moon were travelling slowly towards each other. Indeed, some of their advanced guard had already met her, and she had begun to wade through a filmy vapour that gradually deepened.

At length she was for a moment almost entirely obscured. When she shone out again, with a brilliancy increased by the contrast, I saw plainly on the path before me--from around which at this spot the trees receded, leaving a small space of green sward--the shadow of a large hand, with knotty joints and protuberances here and there. Especially I remarked, even in the midst of my fear, the bulbous points of the fingers. I looked hurriedly all around, but could see nothing from which such a shadow should fall. Now, however, that I had a direction, however undetermined, in which to project my apprehension, the very sense of danger and need of action overcame that stifling which is the worst property of fear. I reflected in a moment, that if this were indeed a shadow, it was useless to look for the object that cast it in any other direction than between the shadow and the moon. I looked, and peered, and intensified my vision, all to no purpose. I could see nothing of that kind, not even an ash-tree in the neighbourhood. Still the shadow remained; not steady, but moving to and fro, and once I saw the fingers close, and grind themselves close, like the claws of a wild animal, as if in uncontrollable longing for some anticipated prey. There seemed but one mode left of discovering the substance of this shadow. I went forward boldly, though with an inward shudder which I would not heed, to the spot where the shadow lay, threw myself on the ground, laid my head within the form of the hand, and turned my eyes towards the moon Good heavens! what did I see? I wonder that ever I arose, and that the very shadow of the hand did not hold me where I lay until fear had frozen my brain. I saw the strangest figure; vague, shadowy, almost transparent, in the central parts, and gradually deepening in substance towards the outside, until it ended in extremities capable of casting such a shadow as fell from the hand, through the awful fingers of which I now saw the moon. The hand was uplifted in the attitude of a paw about to strike its prey. But the face, which throbbed with fluctuating and pulsatory visibility--not from changes in the light it reflected, but from changes in its own conditions of reflecting power, the alterations being from within, not from without--it was horrible. I do not know how to describe it. It caused a new sensation. Just as one cannot translate a horrible odour, or a ghastly pain, or a fearful sound, into words, so I cannot describe this new form of awful hideousness. I can only try to describe something that is not it, but seems somewhat parallel to it; or at least is suggested by it. It reminded me of what I had heard of vampires; for the face resembled that of a corpse more than anything else I can think of; especially when I can conceive such a face in motion, but not suggesting any life as the source of the motion. The features were rather handsome than otherwise, except the mouth, which had scarcely a curve in it. The lips were of equal thickness; but the thickness was not at all remarkable, even although they looked slightly swollen. They seemed fixedly open, but were not wide apart. Of course I did not REMARK these lineaments at the time: I was too horrified for that. I noted them afterwards, when the form returned on my inward sight with a vividness too intense to admit of my doubting the accuracy of the reflex. But the most awful of the features were the eyes. These were alive, yet not with life.

They seemed lighted up with an infinite greed. A gnawing voracity, which devoured the devourer, seemed to be the indwelling and propelling power of the whole ghostly apparition. I lay for a few moments simply imbruted with terror; when another cloud, obscuring the moon, delivered me from the immediately paralysing effects of the presence to the vision of the object of horror, while it added the force of imagination to the power of fear within me; inasmuch as, knowing far worse cause for apprehension than before, I remained equally ignorant from what I had to defend myself, or how to take any precautions: he might be upon me in the darkness any moment. I sprang to my feet, and sped I knew not whither, only away from the spectre. I thought no longer of the path, and often narrowly escaped dashing myself against a tree, in my headlong flight of fear.

Great drops of rain began to patter on the leaves. Thunder began to mutter, then growl in the distance. I ran on. The rain fell heavier. At length the thick leaves could hold it up no longer; and, like a second firmament, they poured their torrents on the earth. I was soon drenched, but that was nothing. I came to a small swollen stream that rushed through the woods. I had a vague hope that if I crossed this stream, I should be in safety from my pursuer; but I soon found that my hope was as false as it was vague. I dashed across the stream, ascended a rising ground, and reached a more open space, where stood only great trees. Through them I directed my way, holding eastward as nearly as I could guess, but not at all certain that I was not moving in an opposite direction. My mind was just reviving a little from its extreme terror, when, suddenly, a flash of lightning, or rather a cataract of successive flashes, behind me, seemed to throw on the ground in front of me, but far more faintly than before, from the extent of the source of the light, the shadow of the same horrible hand. I sprang forward, stung to yet wilder speed; but had not run many steps before my foot slipped, and, vainly attempting to recover myself, I fell at the foot of one of the large trees. Half-stunned, I yet raised myself, and almost involuntarily looked back. All I saw was the hand within three feet of my face. But, at the same moment, I felt two large soft arms thrown round me from behind; and a voice like a woman's said: "Do not fear the goblin; he dares not hurt you now." With that, the hand was suddenly withdrawn as from a fire, and disappeared in the darkness and the rain. Overcome with the mingling of terror and joy, I lay for some time almost insensible. The first thing I remember is the sound of a voice above me, full and low, and strangely reminding me of the sound of a gentle wind amidst the leaves of a great tree. It murmured over and over again: "I may love him, I may love him; for he is a man, and I am only a beech-tree." I found I was seated on the ground, leaning against a human form, and supported still by the arms around me, which I knew to be those of a woman who must be rather above the human size, and largely proportioned. I turned my head, but without moving otherwise, for I feared lest the arms should untwine themselves; and clear, somewhat mournful eyes met mine. At least that is how they impressed me; but I could see very little of colour or outline as we sat in the dark and rainy shadow of the tree. The face seemed very lovely, and solemn from its stillness; with the aspect of one who is quite content, but waiting for something. I saw my conjecture from her arms was correct: she was above the human scale throughout, but not greatly.

Why do you call yourself a beech-tree?" I said.

Because I am one," she replied, in the same low, musical, murmuring voice.

You are a woman," I returned.

Do you think so? Am I very like a woman then?"

You are a very beautiful woman. Is it possible you should not know it?"

I am very glad you think so. I fancy I feel like a woman sometimes. I do so to-night--and always when the rain drips from my hair. For there is an old prophecy in our woods that one day we shall all be men and women like you. Do you know anything about it in your region? Shall I be very happy when I am a woman? I fear not, for it is always in nights like these that I feel like one. But I long to be a woman for all that."

I had let her talk on, for her voice was like a solution of all musical sounds. I now told her that I could hardly say whether women were happy or not. I knew one who had not been happy; and for my part, I had often longed for Fairy Land, as she now longed for the world of men. But then neither of us had lived long, and perhaps people grew happier as they grew older. Only I doubted it.

I could not help sighing. She felt the sigh, for her arms were still round me. She asked me how old I was.

Twenty-one," said I.

Why, you baby!" said she, and kissed me with the sweetest kiss of winds and odours. There was a cool faithfulness in the kiss that revived my heart wonderfully. I felt that I feared the dreadful Ash no more.

What did the horrible Ash want with me?" I said.

I am not quite sure, but I think he wants to bury you at the foot of his tree. But he shall not touch you, my child."

Are all the ash-trees as dreadful as he?"

Oh, no. They are all disagreeable selfish creatures--(what horrid men they will make, if it be true!)--but this one has a hole in his heart that nobody knows of but one or two; and he is always trying to fill it up, but he cannot. That must be what he wanted you for. I wonder if he will ever be a man. If he is, I hope they will kill him."

How kind of you to save me from him!"

I will take care that he shall not come near you again. But there are some in the wood more like me, from whom, alas! I cannot protect you. Only if you see any of them very beautiful, try to walk round them."

What then?"

I cannot tell you more. But now I must tie some of my hair about you, and then the Ash will not touch you. Here, cut some off. You men have strange cutting things about you."

She shook her long hair loose over me, never moving her arms.

I cannot cut your beautiful hair. It would be a shame."

Not cut my hair! It will have grown long enough before any is wanted again in this wild forest. Perhaps it may never be of any use again--not till I am a woman." And she sighed.

As gently as I could, I cut with a knife a long tress of flowing, dark hair, she hanging her beautiful head over me. When I had finished, she shuddered and breathed deep, as one does when an acute pain, steadfastly endured without sign of suffering, is at length relaxed. She then took the hair and tied it round me, singing a strange, sweet song, which I could not understand, but which left in me a feeling like this--

I saw thee ne'er before;
I see thee never more;
But love, and help, and pain, beautiful one,
Have made thee mine, till all my years are done."

I cannot put more of it into words. She closed her arms about me again, and went on singing. The rain in the leaves, and a light wind that had arisen, kept her song company. I was wrapt in a trance of still delight. It told me the secret of the woods, and the flowers, and the birds. At one time I felt as if I was wandering in childhood through sunny spring forests, over carpets of primroses, anemones, and little white starry things--I had almost said creatures, and finding new wonderful flowers at every turn. At another, I lay half dreaming in the hot summer noon, with a book of old tales beside me, beneath a great beech; or, in autumn, grew sad because I trod on the leaves that had sheltered me, and received their last blessing in the sweet odours of decay; or, in a winter evening, frozen still, looked up, as I went home to a warm fireside, through the netted boughs and twigs to the cold, snowy moon, with her opal zone around her. At last I had fallen asleep; for I know nothing more that passed till I found myself lying under a superb beech-tree, in the clear light of the morning, just before sunrise. Around me was a girdle of fresh beech-leaves. Alas! I brought nothing with me out of Fairy Land, but memories--memories. The great boughs of the beech hung drooping around me. At my head rose its smooth stem, with its great sweeps of curving surface that swelled like undeveloped limbs. The leaves and branches above kept on the song which had sung me asleep; only now, to my mind, it sounded like a farewell and a speedwell. I sat a long time, unwilling to go; but my unfinished story urged me on. I must act and wander. With the sun well risen, I rose, and put my arms as far as they would reach around the beech-tree, and kissed it, and said good- bye. A trembling went through the leaves; a few of the last drops of the night's rain fell from off them at my feet; and as I walked slowly away, I seemed to hear in a whisper once more the words: "I may love him, I may love him; for he is a man, and I am only a beech-tree."
(to be continued)


Photo by Bob Kirchman.


Photo by Bob Kirchman.

Looking for Artist
Who Can Walk on Water

The most creative job in the world involves fashion, decorating, recreation, education, transportation, psychology, romance, cuisine, literature, art, economics, government, pediatrics, geriatrics, entertainment, maintenance, purchasing, law, religion, energy and management. Anyone who can handle all of these has to be somebody special. She is. She’s a homemaker.” – Richard Kerr

If the work comes to the artist and says, 'Here I am, serve me,' then the job of the artist, great or small, is to serve. The amount of the artist's talent is not what it is about. Jean Rhys said to an interviewer in the Paris Review, 'Listen to me. All of writing is a huge lake. There are great rivers that feed the lake, like Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky. And there are mere trickles, like Jean Rhys. All that matters is feeding the lake. I don't matter. The lake matters. You must keep feeding the lake'.” ― Madeleine L'Engle, Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art

Somewhere in my past, I owned a book of Nineteenth Century industrial illustrations. They were beautiful. Of note were the obvious details of pure ornamentation that the designers sought to put into their work. There was a sense that there was wonder to be unfolded in the inventions so delineated. Design seems to have moved sharply away from the hand-rendered transcendence of that period to a more machine-based process. There is a beautiful quality to much of that as well, but there is less direct touch to paper and process. I miss that. Still, there is a place for Divine Design. Richard Kerr’s homemaker embodies the practice of creativity. Many building designers are quite adept at assembling elements and organizing spaces on their screens, but where once they would have had creative interaction with the renderer, the press of a few buttons and the arc of the mouse take them to the visualization of their work.

This week I started to re-read Madeline L’Engle’s Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art. [1.] Not far into this fine little book one encounters the topic of obedience. L’engle puts it this way: A work of art, be it a painting, a book, or any other work, comes to the artist and says: “Here I am, Enflesh me. Give Birth to me.” The artist is faced with a choice. She may respond as Mary: “My soul doth magnify the Lord,” or she may refuse. The decision is not necessarily a conscious one. And so, as I continue to provide old-fashioned visualization for a few clients, I see the work there dwindling. Yet I am not yet ready to give up serving. There is still work to be done. For the past months, I have taught drawing and painting to a young high school student who is home schooled. There is Divine purpose there. Now the invitation has been extended to teach a unit in the home school coop. It seems the Divine mission is thus: to inspire a new generation to infuse their life in this world with the stuff that Kerr talks about. Divine mission, a Sacred trust, an invitation to join the Master in His finest work. I find myself enthused.

In a very real sense not one of us is qualified, but it seems that God continually chooses the most unqualified to do his work, to bear his glory. If we are qualified, we tend to think that we have done the job ourselves. If we are forced to accept our evident lack of qualification, then there's no danger that we will confuse God's work with our own, or God's glory with our own.” -- Madeleine L'Engle, Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art


Looking for artist... Photo by Kristina Elaine Greer.


...who can walk on water! Photo by Kristina Elaine Greer.



All children are artists, and it is an indictment of our culture that so many of them lose their creativity, their unfettered imaginations, as they grow older. But they start off without self-consciousness as they paint their purple flowers, their anatomically impossible people, their thunderous, sulphurous skies. They don’t worry that they may not be as good as Di Chirico or Bracque; they know intuitively that it is folly to make comparisons, and they go ahead and say what they want to say. What looks like a hat to a grownup may, to the child artist, be an elephant inside a boa constrictor.

So what happens? Why do we lose our wonderful, rackety creativity? What corrupts us?

Corrupt: another unpopular word; another important one. It’s importance first struck me when I was reading Thomas Traherne, one of my favorite seventeenth century poets and mystics. “Certainly Adam and Eve in Paradise had not more sweete and curious apprehensions of the world than when I was a child,” he wrote. Everything was new and delightful for him. The rosy glow of sunrise had in it the flaming glory of creation. The stars at night were a living, heavenly dance. He listened to the grass growing, smelled the west wind, tasted the rain, touched the grains of sand on the shore. All hi senses, his mind, his heart, were alive and in touch with being. “So that,” Trahane adds sadly, “without much ado I as corrupted, and made to learn the dirty devices of this world, which now I unlearn, and become as a little child again, that I may enter into the Kingdom of God.”

A lot of my adult life has been spent in trying to overcome this corruption, in unlearning the dirty devices of this world, which would dull our imaginations, cut away our creativity. So it is only with the conscious-unselfconsciousness of a child that I can think about theories of asthetics, of art, particularly as these touch upon my questions about life and love and God.” -- Madeleine L'Engle, Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art

Il est très simple: on ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux."
-- Antoin de St Exupery

Higher Calling
Thought from George MacDonald


Pink Ladyslipper at White Rock Falls. Photo by Bob Kirchman

If, instead of a gem or even a flower, we could cast the gift of a lovely thought into the heart of a friend, that would be giving as the angels give."
- George Macdonald

A Gift of Beauty
Warnie's Box



This absence of beauty, now that I come to think of it, is characteristic of our childhood. No picture on the walls of my father's house ever attracted — and indeed none deserved — our attention. We never saw a beautiful building nor imagined that a building could be beautiful. My earliest aesthetic experiences, if indeed they were aesthetic, were not of that kind; they were already incurably romantic, not formal. Once in those very early days my brother brought into the nursery the lid of a biscuit tin which he had covered with moss and garnished with twigs and flowers so as to make it a toy garden or a toy forest.

That was the first beauty I ever knew.

What the real garden had failed to do, the toy garden did. It made me aware of nature — not, indeed, as a storehouse of forms and colours but as something cool, dewy, fresh, exuberant. I do not think the impression was very important at the moment, but it soon became important in memory. As long as I live my imagination of Paradise will retain something of my brother's toy garden."
-- C. S. Lewis, Surprised by Joy [ 2.]

Fixing the Escalator
[click to read]

by Nicholas N. Eberstadt


Metro Escalator, Washington, DC. Photo by Bob Kirchman

The abstraction of “inequality” doesn’t matter a lot to ordinary Americans. The reality of economic insecurity does. [3.] The Great American Escalator is broken—and it badly needs to be fixed. With the election of 2016, Americans within the bubble finally learned that the 21st century has gotten off to a very bad start in America. Welcome to the reality. We have a lot of work to do together to turn this around. (read more)

Looking for Creative Solutionists
By Bob Kirchman

Awareness of a problem is only the beginning. What if Divine Inspiration is available to lead us to new and innovative answers to human problems? It has happened in centuries past and I firmly believe it is within our grasp now.

Poll any group of young people today and you will find a degree of pessimism about the future. As the economy faltered, ‘experts’ essentially told them: “Welcome to the new normal.” But history tells us that economies are not a zero-sum game… one where someone must lose for another to win. New invention has lifted entire societies in the past and I believe it can do so again. Consider the case of Nineteenth Century England. We all know that William Wilberforce [4.] performed a great and noble work when he won the abolition of slavery, but did you know that that devastated the economy of Bristol, England’s chief slave port. Fortunes were lost. Men committed suicide. Children were cast out onto the street. Bristol’s children faced a dismal ‘new normal’ indeed.

But a young minister from Prussia came to Bristol as a missionary. George Müller [5.] saw Bristol’s street urchins as jewels to be polished. He built five large houses at Ashley Downs to care for orphans, trusting the Divine for provision. He cared for 10,024 orphan children in the course of his life, instructing the boys in trades and the ladies for work as teachers, nurses and housekeepers. He was excoriated by the ‘experts’ for training these young people ‘above their station.’ He ignored the experts. He established 117 schools which offered Christian education to over 120,000 children. But what future would there be for them?

Pastor Tim Keller calls economic development a Deaconate Ministry. To be sure the church does this work when it sends treadle sewing machines to Zambia, so that widowed ladies may become tailors. But it is also needed in the developed world. Sometimes the instrument of Divine blessing may not even know that they are. Consider the case of Isambard Kingdom Brunel, Britain’s Nineteenth Century Bridge Builder. [6.] He came to Bristol to build a suspension bridge and ended up building the Great Western Railroad, which revitalized Bristol’s economy! Brunel also designed great ships to connect Britain with the Americas, making cotton cheap and plentiful. The offshoot of this and modern textile manufacturing was that poor as well as rich could afford quality garments.

It was suggested in the Nineteenth Century that the United States Patent Office could be shut down because “everything that is going to be invented has already been invented!” Well, the truth was that much of the visionary technology depicted in Jules Verne’s Voyages Extraordinaire would not be perfected until the Twentieth Century. Only time will tell what wonders the Divine might inspire in the decades to come, but if history is any indicator, there is much to be hopeful for!


Metro Escalator, Washington, DC. Photo by Bob Kirchman

Apollo Navigation Computer



The Ministry of Teaching Art
By Bob Kirchman


Bear by Rachel Perkins, 8th Grade.

Bezalel and Oholiab, along with everyone whom God has given the skill and know-how for making everything involved in the worship of the Sanctuary as commanded by God, are to start to work.” – Exodus 36:1

This marks the second season I have taught art with Amanda Riley at the ACE Coop in Augusta County. When I got pneumonia as a result of a reaction to a mural clear-coat I was applying, I was forced to prioritize life anew. Even in recovery my energy has been somewhat limited so I find that in addition to the obvious drive to spend time with my granddaughters, the things on top of my priorities are getting back to full speed teaching our high school and middle school studio courses. You see, I find a lot of purpose in teaching art these days. The reasons surprise me as well. These days I am not so impressed with what I can teach in the way of technique and background – though that is important. Knowledge is not the end, but rather a means toward the true end. That is allowing each student to discover that part of IMAGO DEI that drives THEM to create.

I find myself being taught by my students more than they are being taught by me. I spend less time lecturing and more time observing – ‘catching’ our students in the act of expressing that part of the Divine nature. And the class has never been so much fun! What’s more, I take great joy in the fact that my apprentices Kristina and Savhanna both are actively teaching young people now! This is a far greater joy than comes from simply being copied. The world is richer because another generation has entered the game!

The True Reason to Teach Art

This is not so much a criticism, but an observation. I do not think many of us who teach art understand the true importance of it. I think art instruction can miss the mark aiming high or low. The first type of program I will discuss certainly aims high. That is one whose goal is to produce professionals. This particular program, of necessity, is concerned with technique mastery and measurable goals. That is not a bad thing in itself, especially for those who are so motivated. In such a program it may be sometimes observed that art loses its ‘joy’ as a student becomes more proficient in technique. Furthermore, if the program stresses non-representational art, the professional opportunities may not be as widespread as the course description suggests. You might have best in show in your student exhibition only to find that you cannot sell your work in the greater community. For me, architectural rendering was a way to do art and get paid for it. Some do not consider it ‘real’ art. That is beside the point.

The other tendency is to aim low. Art is seen as part of a ‘well rounded’ curriculum, but is not pursued for its own sake at all. At university, our art faculty was constantly dogged with the expectation that they ‘contribute to a well-rounded education,’ but were always subservient to ‘academics.’ Some of us DID need to pursue professional opportunities, and so Ray Prohaska, my mentor, exhorted me to ‘get out there, work and learn stuff!’ That was probably the best advice anyone ever gave me. He had been a successful New York illustrator before his ‘retirement’ where he taught in a succession of Southern colleges. Indeed he knew that you had to take your portfolio and go knocking. Ray knew the mixture included inspiration AND perspiration, His strength as a teacher came precisely because he had been in the New York art scene, not academia, for the bulk of his career.

Ray saw something in me – not unlike the something I would see in my own mentees. That is now most instructive as I have struggled to become a teacher in my own right. Our job is not to make students in our own image. They are already made in the image of One better according to Genesis 1. Our job is to help each one of them discover the genius within them. We do that best when we watch and encourage. Yes, technique is important, but it is a tool to be given to the aspiring artist. They are like young plants that need to be nurtured – and care must be taken not to trample them. Since I have been encouraged in this direction, teaching is a lot more fun! The discoveries have been amazing! I am thankful for the opportunity to teach this way.

Most people, I have found, can do a pretty good drawing of items that they are passionate about. This is due to their self-motivated observation in these areas. That should be a springboard for introducing technique. We just looked at the life of Leonardo da Vinci and it is clear that his art fueled his inventiveness in a range of fields. The skills of observation evident in his notebooks shows us that art can be so much more than a nice ‘rounding out’ of our education – it can help us develop fundamental skills in observation and interpretation in just about any walk of life. Thus art instruction should embrace the unique individual and seek to train the hand and eye – as preparation for Divine inspiration and service. That is consistent with the belief that our service on this earth in any field can be elevated to worship.

Profession, Hobby, or Foundation for Critical Thinking

One of our graduates last year planned an important mural project during the Summer. She was somewhat apologetic about her plans to study nursing in the fall – like “if you are strong in the arts, you should pursue them as a profession.” I am actually thrilled that she sees opportunity in what should be called the HEALING ARTS. You see, if Da Vinci’s drawing skills helped him gain new insights into anatomy, why shouldn’t the modern day personification of the Renaissance person find similar insight in her own studies. So often I have seen doctors struggle to “see it” when it comes to a diagnosis. The trained eye and hand of observation could just be the edge necessary in a critical point of diagnosis! And guess what? Later in life there may be opportunity to see where the path of art leads. England’s great wartime leader Sir Winston Churchill became a very productive painter later in his life.

When Alan Bean went to the moon, he was also an artist. The mission of an astronaut is all consuming but Bean would add a critical element to our observation of the moon through his art after the Apollo Program ended. Georg Wilhelm Steller, the German botanist, zoologist, physician and explorer, who worked in Russia and is considered a pioneer of Alaskan natural history, sailed with Vitus Bering on his voyages of discovery. His drawings added much to the understanding of natural history in the newly explored region.

My point is that art can (and should) become very much a part of a person’s methodology in observation. Our training should lead us to become better observers and better imaginers to the end that we might all be better at analyzing and solving the challenges we face in our lives. Although it may indeed find fulfillment in profession or avocation, art should be seen rightfully as another tool of critical thinking.

And Moses said unto the children of Israel, See, the Lord hath called by name Bezaleel the son of Uri, the son of Hur, of the tribe of Judah; And he hath filled him with the spirit of God, in wisdom, in understanding, and in knowledge, and in all manner of workmanship; And to devise curious works, to work in gold, and in silver, and in brass, And in the cutting of stones, to set them, and in carving of wood, to make any manner of cunning work. And he hath put in his heart that he may teach, both he, and Aholiab, the son of Ahisamach, of the tribe of Dan.” – Exodus 35:30-35


Steller’s Arch on Bering Island. Photo by Арка Стеллера.

Phantasies, Seeing in Color, Dee O'Hara, Pis Aller!

Volume XV, Issue XVI

Phantasies
By George MacDonald, Chapter 3

Man doth usurp all space, Stares thee, in rock, bush, river, in the face. Never thine eyes behold a tree; 'Tis no sea thou seest in the sea, 'Tis but a disguised humanity. To avoid thy fellow, vain thy plan; All that interests a man, is man." ~ Henry Sutton.

The trees, which were far apart where I entered, giving free passage to the level rays of the sun, closed rapidly as I advanced, so that ere long their crowded stems barred the sunlight out, forming as it were a thick grating between me and the East. I seemed to be advancing towards a second midnight. In the midst of the intervening twilight, however, before I entered what appeared to be the darkest portion of the forest, I saw a country maiden coming towards me from its very depths. She did not seem to observe me, for she was apparently intent upon a bunch of wild flowers which she carried in her hand. I could hardly see her face; for, though she came direct towards me, she never looked up. But when we met, instead of passing, she turned and walked alongside of me for a few yards, still keeping her face downwards, and busied with her flowers. She spoke rapidly, however, all the time, in a low tone, as if talking to herself, but evidently addressing the purport of her words to me.

She seemed afraid of being observed by some lurking foe. "Trust the Oak," said she; "trust the Oak, and the Elm, and the great Beech. Take care of the Birch, for though she is honest, she is too young not to be changeable. But shun the Ash and the Alder; for the Ash is an ogre,--you will know him by his thick fingers; and the Alder will smother you with her web of hair, if you let her near you at night." All this was uttered without pause or alteration of tone. Then she turned suddenly and left me, walking still with the same unchanging gait. I could not conjecture what she meant, but satisfied myself with thinking that it would be time enough to find out her meaning when there was need to make use of her warning, and that the occasion would reveal the admonition. I concluded from the flowers that she carried, that the forest could not be everywhere so dense as it appeared from where I was now walking; and I was right in this conclusion. For soon I came to a more open part, and by-and-by crossed a wide grassy glade, on which were several circles of brighter green. But even here I was struck with the utter stillness. No bird sang. No insect hummed. Not a living creature crossed my way. Yet somehow the whole environment seemed only asleep, and to wear even in sleep an air of expectation. The trees seemed all to have an expression of conscious mystery, as if they said to themselves, "we could, an' if we would." They had all a meaning look about them. Then I remembered that night is the fairies' day, and the moon their sun; and I thought--Everything sleeps and dreams now: when the night comes, it will be different. At the same time I, being a man and a child of the day, felt some anxiety as to how I should fare among the elves and other children of the night who wake when mortals dream, and find their common life in those wondrous hours that flow noiselessly over the moveless death-like forms of men and women and children, lying strewn and parted beneath the weight of the heavy waves of night, which flow on and beat them down, and hold them drowned and senseless, until the ebb tide comes, and the waves sink away, back into the ocean of the dark. But I took courage and went on. Soon, however, I became again anxious, though from another cause. I had eaten nothing that day, and for an hour past had been feeling the want of food. So I grew afraid lest I should find nothing to meet my human necessities in this strange place; but once more I comforted myself with hope and went on.

Before noon, I fancied I saw a thin blue smoke rising amongst the stems of larger trees in front of me; and soon I came to an open spot of ground in which stood a little cottage, so built that the stems of four great trees formed its corners, while their branches met and intertwined over its roof, heaping a great cloud of leaves over it, up towards the heavens. I wondered at finding a human dwelling in this neighbourhood; and yet it did not look altogether human, though sufficiently so to encourage me to expect to find some sort of food. Seeing no door, I went round to the other side, and there I found one, wide open. A woman sat beside it, preparing some vegetables for dinner. This was homely and comforting. As I came near, she looked up, and seeing me, showed no surprise, but bent her head again over her work, and said in a low tone:

Did you see my daughter?"

I believe I did," said I. "Can you give me something to eat, for I am very hungry?" "With pleasure," she replied, in the same tone; "but do not say anything more, till you come into the house, for the Ash is watching us."

Having said this, she rose and led the way into the cottage; which, I now saw, was built of the stems of small trees set closely together, and was furnished with rough chairs and tables, from which even the bark had not been removed. As soon as she had shut the door and set a chair--

You have fairy blood in you," said she, looking hard at me.

How do you know that?"

You could not have got so far into this wood if it were not so; and I am trying to find out some trace of it in your countenance. I think I see it."

What do you see?"

Oh, never mind: I may be mistaken in that."

But how then do you come to live here?"

Because I too have fairy blood in me."

Here I, in my turn, looked hard at her, and thought I could perceive, notwithstanding the coarseness of her features, and especially the heaviness of her eyebrows, a something unusual--I could hardly call it grace, and yet it was an expression that strangely contrasted with the form of her features. I noticed too that her hands were delicately formed, though brown with work and exposure.

I should be ill," she continued, "if I did not live on the borders of the fairies' country, and now and then eat of their food. And I see by your eyes that you are not quite free of the same need; though, from your education and the activity of your mind, you have felt it less than I. You may be further removed too from the fairy race."

I remembered what the lady had said about my grandmothers.

Here she placed some bread and some milk before me, with a kindly apology for the homeliness of the fare, with which, however, I was in no humour to quarrel. I now thought it time to try to get some explanation of the strange words both of her daughter and herself.

What did you mean by speaking so about the Ash?"

She rose and looked out of the little window. My eyes followed her; but as the window was too small to allow anything to be seen from where I was sitting, I rose and looked over her shoulder. I had just time to see, across the open space, on the edge of the denser forest, a single large ash-tree, whose foliage showed bluish, amidst the truer green of the other trees around it; when she pushed me back with an expression of impatience and terror, and then almost shut out the light from the window by setting up a large old book in it.

In general," said she, recovering her composure, "there is no danger in the daytime, for then he is sound asleep; but there is something unusual going on in the woods; there must be some solemnity among the fairies to-night, for all the trees are restless, and although they cannot come awake, they see and hear in their sleep."

But what danger is to be dreaded from him?"

Instead of answering the question, she went again to the window and looked out, saying she feared the fairies would be interrupted by foul weather, for a storm was brewing in the west.

And the sooner it grows dark, the sooner the Ash will be awake," added she.

I asked her how she knew that there was any unusual excitement in the woods. She replied--

Besides the look of the trees, the dog there is unhappy; and the eyes and ears of the white rabbit are redder than usual, and he frisks about as if he expected some fun. If the cat were at home, she would have her back up; for the young fairies pull the sparks out of her tail with bramble thorns, and she knows when they are coming. So do I, in another way."

At this instant, a grey cat rushed in like a demon, and disappeared in a hole in the wall.

There, I told you!" said the woman.

But what of the ash-tree?" said I, returning once more to the subject. Here, however, the young woman, whom I had met in the morning, entered. A smile passed between the mother and daughter; and then the latter began to help her mother in little household duties.

I should like to stay here till the evening," I said; "and then go on my journey, if you will allow me."

You are welcome to do as you please; only it might be better to stay all night, than risk the dangers of the wood then. Where are you going?"

Nay, that I do not know," I replied, "but I wish to see all that is to be seen, and therefore I should like to start just at sundown." "You are a bold youth, if you have any idea of what you are daring; but a rash one, if you know nothing about it; and, excuse me, you do not seem very well informed about the country and its manners. However, no one comes here but for some reason, either known to himself or to those who have charge of him; so you shall do just as you wish."

Accordingly I sat down, and feeling rather tired, and disinclined for further talk, I asked leave to look at the old book which still screened the window. The woman brought it to me directly, but not before taking another look towards the forest, and then drawing a white blind over the window. I sat down opposite to it by the table, on which I laid the great old volume, and read. It contained many wondrous tales of Fairy Land, and olden times, and the Knights of King Arthur's table. I read on and on, till the shades of the afternoon began to deepen; for in the midst of the forest it gloomed earlier than in the open country. At length I came to this passage--

Here it chanced, that upon their quest, Sir Galahad and Sir Percivale rencountered in the depths of a great forest. Now, Sir Galahad was dight all in harness of silver, clear and shining; the which is a delight to look upon, but full hasty to tarnish, and withouten the labour of a ready squire, uneath to be kept fair and clean. And yet withouten squire or page, Sir Galahad's armour shone like the moon. And he rode a great white mare, whose bases and other housings were black, but all besprent with fair lilys of silver sheen. Whereas Sir Percivale bestrode a red horse, with a tawny mane and tail; whose trappings were all to- smirched with mud and mire; and his armour was wondrous rosty to behold, ne could he by any art furbish it again; so that as the sun in his going down shone twixt the bare trunks of the trees, full upon the knights twain, the one did seem all shining with light, and the other all to glow with ruddy fire. Now it came about in this wise. For Sir Percivale, after his escape from the demon lady, whenas the cross on the handle of his sword smote him to the heart, and he rove himself through the thigh, and escaped away, he came to a great wood; and, in nowise cured of his fault, yet bemoaning the same, the damosel of the alder tree encountered him, right fair to see; and with her fair words and false countenance she comforted him and beguiled him, until he followed her where she led him to a---"

Here a low hurried cry from my hostess caused me to look up from the book, and I read no more.

Look there!" she said; "look at his fingers!"

Just as I had been reading in the book, the setting sun was shining through a cleft in the clouds piled up in the west; and a shadow as of a large distorted hand, with thick knobs and humps on the fingers, so that it was much wider across the fingers than across the undivided part of the hand, passed slowly over the little blind, and then as slowly returned in the opposite direction.

He is almost awake, mother; and greedier than usual to-night."

Hush, child; you need not make him more angry with us than he is; for you do not know how soon something may happen to oblige us to be in the forest after nightfall."

But you are in the forest," said I; "how is it that you are safe here?"

He dares not come nearer than he is now," she replied; "for any of those four oaks, at the corners of our cottage, would tear him to pieces; they are our friends. But he stands there and makes awful faces at us sometimes, and stretches out his long arms and fingers, and tries to kill us with fright; for, indeed, that is his favourite way of doing. Pray, keep out of his way to-night."

Shall I be able to see these things?" said I.

That I cannot tell yet, not knowing how much of the fairy nature there is in you. But we shall soon see whether you can discern the fairies in my little garden, and that will be some guide to us."

Are the trees fairies too, as well as the flowers?" I asked.

They are of the same race," she replied; "though those you call fairies in your country are chiefly the young children of the flower fairies. They are very fond of having fun with the thick people, as they call you; for, like most children, they like fun better than anything else."

Why do you have flowers so near you then? Do they not annoy you?"

Oh, no, they are very amusing, with their mimicries of grown people, and mock solemnities. Sometimes they will act a whole play through before my eyes, with perfect composure and assurance, for they are not afraid of me. Only, as soon as they have done, they burst into peals of tiny laughter, as if it was such a joke to have been serious over anything. These I speak of, however, are the fairies of the garden. They are more staid and educated than those of the fields and woods. Of course they have near relations amongst the wild flowers, but they patronise them, and treat them as country cousins, who know nothing of life, and very little of manners. Now and then, however, they are compelled to envy the grace and simplicity of the natural flowers."

Do they live in the flowers?" I said.

I cannot tell," she replied. "There is something in it I do not understand. Sometimes they disappear altogether, even from me, though I know they are near. They seem to die always with the flowers they resemble, and by whose names they are called; but whether they return to life with the fresh flowers, or, whether it be new flowers, new fairies, I cannot tell. They have as many sorts of dispositions as men and women, while their moods are yet more variable; twenty different expressions will cross their little faces in half a minute. I often amuse myself with watching them, but I have never been able to make personal acquaintance with any of them. If I speak to one, he or she looks up in my face, as if I were not worth heeding, gives a little laugh, and runs away." Here the woman started, as if suddenly recollecting herself, and said in a low voice to her daughter, "Make haste--go and watch him, and see in what direction he goes."

I may as well mention here, that the conclusion I arrived at from the observations I was afterwards able to make, was, that the flowers die because the fairies go away; not that the fairies disappear because the flowers die. The flowers seem a sort of houses for them, or outer bodies, which they can put on or off when they please. Just as you could form some idea of the nature of a man from the kind of house he built, if he followed his own taste, so you could, without seeing the fairies, tell what any one of them is like, by looking at the flower till you feel that you understand it. For just what the flower says to you, would the face and form of the fairy say; only so much more plainly as a face and human figure can express more than a flower. For the house or the clothes, though like the inhabitant or the wearer, cannot be wrought into an equal power of utterance. Yet you would see a strange resemblance, almost oneness, between the flower and the fairy, which you could not describe, but which described itself to you. Whether all the flowers have fairies, I cannot determine, any more than I can be sure whether all men and women have souls.

The woman and I continued the conversation for a few minutes longer. I was much interested by the information she gave me, and astonished at the language in which she was able to convey it. It seemed that intercourse with the fairies was no bad education in itself. But now the daughter returned with the news, that the Ash had just gone away in a south-westerly direction; and, as my course seemed to lie eastward, she hoped I should be in no danger of meeting him if I departed at once. I looked out of the little window, and there stood the ash-tree, to my eyes the same as before; but I believed that they knew better than I did, and prepared to go. I pulled out my purse, but to my dismay there was nothing in it. The woman with a smile begged me not to trouble myself, for money was not of the slightest use there; and as I might meet with people in my journeys whom I could not recognise to be fairies, it was well I had no money to offer, for nothing offended them so much.

They would think," she added, "that you were making game of them; and that is their peculiar privilege with regard to us." So we went together into the little garden which sloped down towards a lower part of the wood.

Here, to my great pleasure, all was life and bustle. There was still light enough from the day to see a little; and the pale half-moon, halfway to the zenith, was reviving every moment. The whole garden was like a carnival, with tiny, gaily decorated forms, in groups, assemblies, processions, pairs or trios, moving stately on, running about wildly, or sauntering hither or thither. From the cups or bells of tall flowers, as from balconies, some looked down on the masses below, now bursting with laughter, now grave as owls; but even in their deepest solemnity, seeming only to be waiting for the arrival of the next laugh. Some were launched on a little marshy stream at the bottom, in boats chosen from the heaps of last year's leaves that lay about, curled and withered. These soon sank with them; whereupon they swam ashore and got others. Those who took fresh rose-leaves for their boats floated the longest; but for these they had to fight; for the fairy of the rose-tree complained bitterly that they were stealing her clothes, and defended her property bravely.

You can't wear half you've got," said some.

Never you mind; I don't choose you to have them: they are my property."

All for the good of the community!" said one, and ran off with a great hollow leaf. But the rose-fairy sprang after him (what a beauty she was! only too like a drawing-room young lady), knocked him heels-over-head as he ran, and recovered her great red leaf. But in the meantime twenty had hurried off in different directions with others just as good; and the little creature sat down and cried, and then, in a pet, sent a perfect pink snowstorm of petals from her tree, leaping from branch to branch, and stamping and shaking and pulling. At last, after another good cry, she chose the biggest she could find, and ran away laughing, to launch her boat amongst the rest.

But my attention was first and chiefly attracted by a group of fairies near the cottage, who were talking together around what seemed a last dying primrose. They talked singing, and their talk made a song, something like this:

Sister Snowdrop died
Before we were born."
"She came like a bride
In a snowy morn."
"What's a bride?"
"What is snow?
"Never tried."
"Do not know."

Who told you about her?"
"Little Primrose there
Cannot do without her."
"Oh, so sweetly fair!"
"Never fear,
She will come,
Primrose dear."
"Is she dumb?"

She'll come by-and-by."
"You will never see her."
"She went home to dies,
"Till the new year."
"Snowdrop!" "'Tis no good
To invite her."
"Primrose is very rude,
"I will bite her."

Oh, you naughty Pocket!
"Look, she drops her head."
"She deserved it, Rocket,
"And she was nearly dead."
"To your hammock--off with you!"
"And swing alone."
"No one will laugh with you."
"No, not one."

Now let us moan."
"And cover her o'er."
"Primrose is gone."
"All but the flower."
"Here is a leaf."
"Lay her upon it."
"Follow in grief."
"Pocket has done it."

Deeper, poor creature!
Winter may come."
"He cannot reach her--
That is a hum."
"She is buried, the beauty!"
"Now she is done."
"That was the duty."
"Now for the fun."

And with a wild laugh they sprang away, most of them towards the cottage. During the latter part of the song-talk, they had formed themselves into a funeral procession, two of them bearing poor Primrose, whose death Pocket had hastened by biting her stalk, upon one of her own great leaves. They bore her solemnly along some distance, and then buried her under a tree. Although I say her I saw nothing but the withered primrose-flower on its long stalk. Pocket, who had been expelled from the company by common consent, went sulkily away towards her hammock, for she was the fairy of the calceolaria, and looked rather wicked. When she reached its stem, she stopped and looked round. I could not help speaking to her, for I stood near her. I said, "Pocket, how could you be so naughty?"

I am never naughty," she said, half-crossly, half-defiantly; "only if you come near my hammock, I will bite you, and then you will go away."

Why did you bite poor Primrose?"

Because she said we should never see Snowdrop; as if we were not good enough to look at her, and she was, the proud thing!--served her right!"

Oh, Pocket, Pocket," said I; but by this time the party which had gone towards the house, rushed out again, shouting and screaming with laughter. Half of them were on the cat's back, and half held on by her fur and tail, or ran beside her; till, more coming to their help, the furious cat was held fast; and they proceeded to pick the sparks out of her with thorns and pins, which they handled like harpoons. Indeed, there were more instruments at work about her than there could have been sparks in her. One little fellow who held on hard by the tip of the tail, with his feet planted on the ground at an angle of forty- five degrees, helping to keep her fast, administered a continuous flow of admonitions to Pussy.

Now, Pussy, be patient. You know quite well it is all for your good. You cannot be comfortable with all those sparks in you; and, indeed, I am charitably disposed to believe" (here he became very pompous) "that they are the cause of all your bad temper; so we must have them all out, every one; else we shall be reduced to the painful necessity of cutting your claws, and pulling out your eye-teeth. Quiet! Pussy, quiet!"

But with a perfect hurricane of feline curses, the poor animal broke loose, and dashed across the garden and through the hedge, faster than even the fairies could follow. "Never mind, never mind, we shall find her again; and by that time she will have laid in a fresh stock of sparks. Hooray!" And off they set, after some new mischief.

But I will not linger to enlarge on the amusing display of these frolicsome creatures. Their manners and habits are now so well known to the world, having been so often described by eyewitnesses, that it would be only indulging self-conceit, to add my account in full to the rest. I cannot help wishing, however, that my readers could see them for themselves. Especially do I desire that they should see the fairy of the daisy; a little, chubby, round-eyed child, with such innocent trust in his look! Even the most mischievous of the fairies would not tease him, although he did not belong to their set at all, but was quite a little country bumpkin. He wandered about alone, and looked at everything, with his hands in his little pockets, and a white night-cap on, the darling! He was not so beautiful as many other wild flowers I saw afterwards, but so dear and loving in his looks and little confident ways.
(to be continued)


Pink Ladyslipper, White Rock Falls Trail on the Blue Ridge Parkway in Virginia. Photo by Bob Kirchman.

Seeing Things in 'Living Color'

Friedrich spoke thickly. "Don't you think, Mr. Kingscourt, that people would be much better if they were better off?"

No! If I believed that, I should not be going off to my lonely island; I should have stayed in the midst of humanity. I should have told them how to better themselves. They needn't wait to begin. Not a thousand years, not a hundred, not even fifty. Today! With the ideas, knowledge, and facilities that humanity possesses on this 31st day of December, 1902, it could save itself. No philosopher's stone, no dirigible airship is needed. Everything needful for the making of a better world exists already. And do you know, man, who could show the way? You! You Jews! Just because you're so badly off. You've nothing to lose. You could make the experimental land for humanity. Over yonder, where we were, you could create a new commonwealth. On that ancient soil, Old-New-Land!"

Friedrich heard Kingscourt's words only in a dream. He had fallen asleep. And, dreaming, he sailed through the Red Sea to meet the future."
-- Theodor Herzl, Altneuland  [1.]

In the Nineteenth Century, Theodor Herzl penned his futurist novel, Altneuland. In it, he envisions a renewed Zion, a land of rich agriculture and an industrious people. If Herzl were to step into modern-day Israel, he would probably feel very much at home. It probably would not surprise you that Theodor Herzl devoted most of his life to the creation of a Jewish homeland. The journey of Kingscourt and Friedrich that unfolds in this work of fiction is instructive because it puts form and color to the work Herzl sought to achieve. Likewise, Jules Verne in his Voyages Extraordinaires creates vivid pictures of journeys to the moon and fantastic invention that would actually occur in the century to follow!

Art often seems to come in advance of innovation. To lay forth a vision is an act of hope. In my own work PONTIFUS, [2.] which presents a vision for the future yet to come. It was written because I saw a dearth of encouraging vision being given to the generations to follow. In the post-Sputnik world of my youth we had Tom Swift as well as Jules Verne. American President, John F. Kennedy just said one day that we needed to put a man on the moon. Did we know how to even do it? I seriously doubt it, but the picture had already been painted. Brilliant men and women would fill in the details as the work progressed toward that day in July 1969 when Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin walked on the moon..

Some of my fellow believers will, no doubt, say that my assertion is arrogant. They will invoke a reading of Scripture that they feel commands a more passive response to the world. I do not fault them for wanting to 'wait on the Lord,' but as I read stories like that of Nehemiah who prayed and worked ardently to rebuild the walls of Jerusalem, I see in them the most vivid portrayal of IMAGO DEI, the Scriptural truth that man is made in the Divine image.

The Nurse to the Astronauts
[click to read]


The astronauts dreaded the flight surgeons (who could ground them) but readily put their trust in Dee O'Hara, who served as nurse to the original seven and those who followed them. NASA Photo.

If your job involves being strapped into a tiny metal capsule on the top of an experimental rocket to be blasted into outer space, there were few things that hold much fear. Except, perhaps, needles. “None of them liked needles,” says the 81-year-old Dee O’Hara, nurse to America’s first astronauts. “We used to draw blood on them before they flew and they wouldn’t let anyone else take their blood but me.” (read more)

The Lunar Module
Building a Brand New Spacecraft



The Lunar Module, or LEM was a spacecraft designed solely for landing on the moon and taking off again. It was designed to work flying onto the moon and landing in 1/6 the earth’s gravity. The descent stage would provide a platform for the ascent engine to lift the crew off for space. Amazingly, the spacecraft had no seats. This was because the astronauts could fly and land standing up in the lesser gravity, using their legs as shock absorbers on landing. Standing allowed the astronauts to be close to the window openings, allowing the windows to be smaller. Glass was heavy and this saved a considerable amount of weight. The Lunar Module [click to read] was an entirely new type of spacecraft – meant for use only in the vacuum of space!

Tom Kelly and his team of designers at Grumman Aircraft in Bethpage, New York had done a considerable amount of preliminary design for a lunar lander and that is one major reason this smaller company on Long Island ended up building the most amazing spacecraft of its day – designed for one specific type of mission. Six LEMs would actually land on the moon. All of them performed superbly. Perhaps the most remembered LEM was that of Apollo 13, which acually became a lifeboat for the astronauts when an explosion destroyed the systems of the Command and Service Modules. The LEM provided life support until the crippled CSM was close to reentry.



What’s The Point of Making Art
[click to read]
When The World Is So Screwed Up?

By Alyson Stanfield

If you’ve ever questioned the reason for making art, you’re not alone. After a particularly rough period—be it something in the news or circumstances in your career—you might catch yourself asking, “What’s the point?” You might even begin to see your work as frivolous. With so much negativity in print and online, it’s easy to overlook the bigger picture. Well-meaning thoughts might enter your head. Shouldn’t I be out there saving people? Shouldn’t I be waging peace? Shouldn’t I be protecting the environment? These are noble pursuits but are they why you, in all of your magnificence, were put on earth? After being asked these questions by a number of students and clients, I thought of at least eight reasons why you should be making art. (read more)

Surprised by Joy
[click to read]

By C. S. Lewis

This book is written partly in answer to requests that I would tell how I passed from Atheism to Christianity and partly to correct one or two false notions that seem to have got about. How far the story matters to anyone but myself depends on the degree to which others have experienced what I call "joy". If it is at all common, a more detailed treatment of it than has (I believe) been attempted before may be of some use. I have been emboldened to write of it because I notice that a man seldom mentions what he had supposed to be his most idiosyncratic sensations without receiving from at least one (often more) of those present the reply, "What! Have you felt that too? I always thought I was the only one." (read more)



A Challenge, a Pis Aller!

What drove me to write was the extreme manual clumsiness from which I have always suffered. I attribute it to a physical defect which my brother and I both inherit from our father; we have only one joint in the thumb. The upper joint (that furthest from the nail) is visible, but it is a mere sham; we cannot bend it. But whatever the cause, nature laid on me from birth an utter incapacity to make anything.

With pencil and pen I was handy enough, and I can still tie as good a bow as ever lay on a man's collar; but with a tool or a bat or a gun, a sleeve-link or a corkscrew, I have always been unteachable. It was this that forced me to write. I longed to make things, ships, houses, engines. Many sheets of cardboard and pairs of scissors I spoiled, only to turn from my hopeless failures in tears. As a last resource, as a pis aller, I was driven to write stories instead; little dreaming to what a world of happiness I was being admitted. You can do more with a castle in a story than with the best cardboard castle that ever stood on a nursery table." -- C. S. Lewis, Surprised by Joy