Myths rise from earth like the morning mist - wow! That hit me like a sledgehammer. I admit I’m slow on the uptake. But it just gut-punched me that the Left has replaced our religious and National stories with mounds of used toilet paper. We’re so busy worrying about men in women’s sports, DEI, and the sabotaging of our schools that we don’t always notice the damage done on the higher mythic level. Sacrifice, heroism, love, integrity - all the beautiful history (factual and mythic) that I grew up with has just simply evaporated. I remember being told by a teacher in elementary school that the story about George Washington cutting down the cherry tree and admitting he did it never happened. And I remember thinking, “how do you know?” In other words, even as a kid I knew there was something exceptional about George Washington such that the story *could* have been true. This was part of the air we breathed. A friend of mine recently asked her high senior daughter if she had been taught anything about George Washington. Her response was, “Yes, he owned slaves.” Giant kudos to you and that Spencer fellow who shares your last name for all the fabulous work you are doing to raise my IQ and to bring to awareness the beauty and depth of the mythic and metaphysical that has been plastered over and perverted over the last 60 years.
Steve, yes! We may cause some of the more literal-minded people to carefully edge away from us, but occasionally we light a spark in a heretofore undetected member of our tribe, and it stirs the joyous recognition of another child of wonder, marveling at His Creation, and laughing with delight. We mustn't allow ourselves, and more importantly, our children, to be stripped of our inner riches.
"Steve, yes! We may cause some of the more literal-minded people to carefully edge away from us,"
Well We don't want Those kind of people around us. One has to maintain Ones standards after all.
/snark! :-)
Someone has to be The Skinny Old Wise Ass. I've tried to stop, but it just doesn't work.
Actually I feel sad for people who are That literal-minded. What a dull boring world they live in. Right now here in MPLS we are experiencing (what I call) The Green Explosion. 3 days ago bare tree limbs, today BOOM Leaves. I am always Amazed at this.
I mean God really is insanely creative. He thought up Trees, and Blue, Duck Billed Platypuse, The planet Uranus tilted on its side! Its why we create things.
The author best at imbuing the real world with myth is John Cheever (no disrespect intended, Mr. Klavan). The very end of his short story "Goodbye My Brother," which I am convinced that he wrote first and filled in the rest of the story behind it:
--
Oh, what can you do with a man like that? What can you do? How can you dissuade his eye in a crowd from seeking out the cheek with acne, the infirm hand; how can you teach him to respond to the inestimable greatness of the race, the harsh surface beauty of life; how can you put his finger for him on the obdurate truths before which fear and horror are powerless? The sea that morning was iridescent and dark. My wife and my sister were swimming—Diana and Helen—and I saw their uncovered heads, black and gold in the dark water. I saw them come out and I saw that they were naked, unshy, beautiful, and full of grace, and I watched the naked women walk out of the sea.
I originally wrote this at 0900. I tried to drag the cursor across the page for an edit, and the page performed a Page Up, or Previous, or whatever, and I lost everything I had typed. Such are the travails of typing into an iPhone. 🤷🏼♂️
Anyway, I believe in ghosts. Because of that, I’m also very skeptical of reports of ghosts. I guess it’s the same reason the Catholic Church is skeptical of reports of demonic possession. If you’re going to believe in the supernatural, then you had better make sure what you believe is true, or you look like a fool.
The reason I believe is because of a series of encounters my family had in Queens. I never saw the spirit, or I was too young you remember it. The apparition last appeared shortly before my fourth birthday.
We lived in the old rectory of the St. Monica’s Parish in Jamaica, Queens. It’s long gone, demolish to make way for York College. It was a small house, which had been built on the ashes of an even older house. The old house had been destroyed by a fire, which tragically claimed the life of a young girl on the night of her 16th birthday.
Not long after my family moved into the old rectory, a misty image began to appear at night in my eldest sister’s room. Yet, it wasn’t the image of the tragic girl, but of her mother, whom the parish pastor told my parents had never forgiven herself for failing to rescue her daughter from the fire.
The spirit never spoke, if she even had the ability. She simply stood at the foot of Patricia’s bed, watching her all night, as if guarding her. And she never appeared at my other sister’s room, only at Pat’s.
With the knowledge of the tragic fire and the mother’s misplaced guilt, my mother tried to communicate with the ghost on the night of Pat’s 16th birthday. She, my Mom, told the spirit that Patty was safe, that she was taken care of and protected, and that she, the spirit, no longer had to worry or watch over her.
The ghost never returned.
I remember Pat’s birthday party that night, and the lights my father had strung out in the back yard, but I don’t remember ever seeing the ghost. I was probably just sent off to bed before she ever appeared each night. But I have no reason to doubt what my entire family has told me all these years, including Ann, the middle child—and boy, is she, to this day, loaded with Middle Child Syndrome—And so this is why I believe.
Andrew and Glenn Beck spoke recently, and they both said the modern city and all the noise and lights of the modern world have blinded us from the things our forefathers saw regularly. I know for a fact that God speaks more in whispers, than in shouts. I believe we need to get out in nature and listen to the soft words of God, the voice of the angels, and maybe those of our ancestors.
No need to explain to me. My daughter reads faster than anyone I’ve ever seen. That’s perfect for a teacher, which she is. Me? I read silently at the same speed as I do aloud. That’ll give you an idea why I never read War and Peace.
So, I understand having to catch up on reading. 🤷🏼♂️
I often tell myself that my theological world view does not allow for the restlessness of disembodied spirits wandering over the terrestrial plane. But then I dream of old friends in a more celestial surrounding, they speak to me things they could not possibly know now that they're gone. I awake missing them, and wondering what they're saying to me. Haunting is, perhaps, the most real thing there is.
Myths rise from earth like the morning mist - wow! That hit me like a sledgehammer. I admit I’m slow on the uptake. But it just gut-punched me that the Left has replaced our religious and National stories with mounds of used toilet paper. We’re so busy worrying about men in women’s sports, DEI, and the sabotaging of our schools that we don’t always notice the damage done on the higher mythic level. Sacrifice, heroism, love, integrity - all the beautiful history (factual and mythic) that I grew up with has just simply evaporated. I remember being told by a teacher in elementary school that the story about George Washington cutting down the cherry tree and admitting he did it never happened. And I remember thinking, “how do you know?” In other words, even as a kid I knew there was something exceptional about George Washington such that the story *could* have been true. This was part of the air we breathed. A friend of mine recently asked her high senior daughter if she had been taught anything about George Washington. Her response was, “Yes, he owned slaves.” Giant kudos to you and that Spencer fellow who shares your last name for all the fabulous work you are doing to raise my IQ and to bring to awareness the beauty and depth of the mythic and metaphysical that has been plastered over and perverted over the last 60 years.
Stay In Touch With Your Inner 6 year old. It makes the world a much more interesting magical place.
Steve, yes! We may cause some of the more literal-minded people to carefully edge away from us, but occasionally we light a spark in a heretofore undetected member of our tribe, and it stirs the joyous recognition of another child of wonder, marveling at His Creation, and laughing with delight. We mustn't allow ourselves, and more importantly, our children, to be stripped of our inner riches.
"Steve, yes! We may cause some of the more literal-minded people to carefully edge away from us,"
Well We don't want Those kind of people around us. One has to maintain Ones standards after all.
/snark! :-)
Someone has to be The Skinny Old Wise Ass. I've tried to stop, but it just doesn't work.
Actually I feel sad for people who are That literal-minded. What a dull boring world they live in. Right now here in MPLS we are experiencing (what I call) The Green Explosion. 3 days ago bare tree limbs, today BOOM Leaves. I am always Amazed at this.
I mean God really is insanely creative. He thought up Trees, and Blue, Duck Billed Platypuse, The planet Uranus tilted on its side! Its why we create things.
The author best at imbuing the real world with myth is John Cheever (no disrespect intended, Mr. Klavan). The very end of his short story "Goodbye My Brother," which I am convinced that he wrote first and filled in the rest of the story behind it:
--
Oh, what can you do with a man like that? What can you do? How can you dissuade his eye in a crowd from seeking out the cheek with acne, the infirm hand; how can you teach him to respond to the inestimable greatness of the race, the harsh surface beauty of life; how can you put his finger for him on the obdurate truths before which fear and horror are powerless? The sea that morning was iridescent and dark. My wife and my sister were swimming—Diana and Helen—and I saw their uncovered heads, black and gold in the dark water. I saw them come out and I saw that they were naked, unshy, beautiful, and full of grace, and I watched the naked women walk out of the sea.
Drew, I forgot you hoboed across America! I'd love to read those stories.
I originally wrote this at 0900. I tried to drag the cursor across the page for an edit, and the page performed a Page Up, or Previous, or whatever, and I lost everything I had typed. Such are the travails of typing into an iPhone. 🤷🏼♂️
Anyway, I believe in ghosts. Because of that, I’m also very skeptical of reports of ghosts. I guess it’s the same reason the Catholic Church is skeptical of reports of demonic possession. If you’re going to believe in the supernatural, then you had better make sure what you believe is true, or you look like a fool.
The reason I believe is because of a series of encounters my family had in Queens. I never saw the spirit, or I was too young you remember it. The apparition last appeared shortly before my fourth birthday.
We lived in the old rectory of the St. Monica’s Parish in Jamaica, Queens. It’s long gone, demolish to make way for York College. It was a small house, which had been built on the ashes of an even older house. The old house had been destroyed by a fire, which tragically claimed the life of a young girl on the night of her 16th birthday.
Not long after my family moved into the old rectory, a misty image began to appear at night in my eldest sister’s room. Yet, it wasn’t the image of the tragic girl, but of her mother, whom the parish pastor told my parents had never forgiven herself for failing to rescue her daughter from the fire.
The spirit never spoke, if she even had the ability. She simply stood at the foot of Patricia’s bed, watching her all night, as if guarding her. And she never appeared at my other sister’s room, only at Pat’s.
With the knowledge of the tragic fire and the mother’s misplaced guilt, my mother tried to communicate with the ghost on the night of Pat’s 16th birthday. She, my Mom, told the spirit that Patty was safe, that she was taken care of and protected, and that she, the spirit, no longer had to worry or watch over her.
The ghost never returned.
I remember Pat’s birthday party that night, and the lights my father had strung out in the back yard, but I don’t remember ever seeing the ghost. I was probably just sent off to bed before she ever appeared each night. But I have no reason to doubt what my entire family has told me all these years, including Ann, the middle child—and boy, is she, to this day, loaded with Middle Child Syndrome—And so this is why I believe.
Andrew and Glenn Beck spoke recently, and they both said the modern city and all the noise and lights of the modern world have blinded us from the things our forefathers saw regularly. I know for a fact that God speaks more in whispers, than in shouts. I believe we need to get out in nature and listen to the soft words of God, the voice of the angels, and maybe those of our ancestors.
I’m a middle child, but also the only practicing Catholic. So, make of that what you will.
I don’t mean to say ALL middle children have it, but I’m serious. My sister is LOADED with MCS. 🤦🏼♂️
I’m behind in my readings 🫤
No need to explain to me. My daughter reads faster than anyone I’ve ever seen. That’s perfect for a teacher, which she is. Me? I read silently at the same speed as I do aloud. That’ll give you an idea why I never read War and Peace.
So, I understand having to catch up on reading. 🤷🏼♂️
That’s so funny. I have never been a fast reader but my youngest is also a teacher and she definitely reads faster than me.
I often tell myself that my theological world view does not allow for the restlessness of disembodied spirits wandering over the terrestrial plane. But then I dream of old friends in a more celestial surrounding, they speak to me things they could not possibly know now that they're gone. I awake missing them, and wondering what they're saying to me. Haunting is, perhaps, the most real thing there is.
Adam when he dreamed of her he woke to find her there.
I just love this.
Thank you Klavan
I love this!