Monday, December 31, 2018
Mastery Year 2: Part 8: Post 2: Christmas and New Years
Merry Christmas and happy New Year.
Why don't we say merry New Year? Or, really, merry anything other than Christmas? I've always wondered. Anyway, I've been merrying along at June's parents' place, and while I'm glad we went, I'm even more glad to be back.
As I think I've said, we usually go to my parents' house for holidays and other visits because it's closer--this has been especially true since we've been on campus together, and it had been bothering June. In fact, I don't think we'd both visited her parents since before we were married, though they have visited us, and June spent a good long visit a home last February.
And it's not like I dislike her family. In fact, I rather like her parents. It's just that they're not my family. I don't know them very well, and when I'm at their house I have that uncomfortable feeling that comes with being the house-guest of near-strangers. As though one might do the wrong thing, be a burden somehow, and ruin it. That's not a great way to spend Christmas.
Also, June's family is Quaker, and they don't exactly celebrate Christmas. The idea is every day is supposed to be holy, so how can there be special holy days? It's not that the family ignores the day, but it's low-key, reflecting the virtue of simplicity, I gather, and not religious. Her parents put a small, hand-made tree-like object on the kitchen table Christmas Eve, and in the morning we had a large and unusually delicious breakfast and opened "stockings."
The "stockings" were actually large paper bags, each with a name on it, into which we'd all been dropping small, fun gifts (candy, jars of specialty pickles, wind-up toys, brain teasers, weird socks) over the previous days. The tradition is that each person gets something for everyone else and nobody looks in the bags until Christmas morning. I think it started out with the adults making up stockings for the kids, and then became more general when June and her brother grew up.
Anyway, Christmas night, June's aunt came over for dinner and we ate by candle-light, but it wasn't an unusual dinner otherwise.
It was nice, Christmas with my in-laws, but it was kind of minimal.
I missed real Christmas. I missed going to church and singing Christmas carols by candle light, I missed the hustle and bustle and glare of the holiday, and I missed both the giving and the receiving of real (and sometimes expensive) Christmas presents. Yes, the giving, too. I'll get presents from my parents and my brother's family, of course, and give them, too, everything's already bought and wrapped and waiting in my room, but it's not the same thing.
And as much as I missed my family of origin, I missed my friends on campus, too.
I wanted to know what Andy got for Christmas and to listen to his touching, almost childlike, theological soliloquies. I wanted to hear Ollie preach, which I still haven't done. I wanted to go tracking with Rick or run into Charlie unexpectedly, him no doubt barefoot and sarcastic in the snow. I wanted to sit in the Great Hall alone or nearly so and watch the afternoon sunlight glint off the silver embroidery on the ivory ribbons on the tree, and off the gold embroidery on the tangerine-colored ribbons, and the glass balls, orange, red, and yellow, like fruit, and the fantastic flock of blown-glass birds perched on the branches among strings of beads and popped corn and the little white LED lights, unlit, now quiescent, but reflective still. I wanted to go home.
I think June is a bit miffed at me for not liking being at her family home as much as she does. She takes it as a rejection of herself and her family, and it isn't that at all. She knows it's irrational, but she can't help it. And neither can I.
Tonight is New Years Eve, and a bit more traditional. We'll stay up and toast in the New Year with Champagne, maybe after watching a movie. Not a big deal, but similar to what my parents usually do. They'll be a party on campus tonight, and I wish I could attend, but the ache is a little easier, the day less emotional.
June found me a few minutes ago, looking morose, I suppose.
"Missing campus?" she asked me.
I made a non-committal, morose noise.
"You don't like coming out here to the real world, do you?" she asked.
I turned to look at her.
"Mine is the real world," I said. "It's this one that isn't."
"I know," she told me. "And that's a difference between us."
Monday, December 24, 2018
Mastery Year 2: Part 8: Post 1: Yule
You know, sooner or later, there had to be bad weather on Yule morning.
I'd thought I'd experienced bad weather on Yule before. There was one year when the dawn was completely hidden by cloud, and the new day loomed rather than broke, and there were two years it rained. But on one of those nights the rain turned to snow and then stopped just before we went out, so we didn't actually get rained on, and when the sun came up, the world was white. The other time, we did get drizzled upon, but just as the sun came up--brilliantly, through a break in the cloud--the rain turned rather dramatically to snow.
In point of fact, the "bad" weather those years only served to make the dawn more dramatic and lovely.
This year, though?
This year the weather well and truly sucked.
It began with rain around midnight, first intermittent, then harder and harder, but I wasn't worried, because I unthinkingly assumed the storm would break before dawn. It didn't. Instead, it intensified, the wind rising till we could poke our heads out of the Meditation Hall door and hear broken branches falling in the Formal Garden and along the evergreen row behind the building.
Inside, the party continued. Every year, we hold an all-night party, and students who have otherwise left campus for the season, graduates, allies, and even some family (like the Sprouts) all come in and fill the Mansion with music and merriment. The Sprouts and the masters don't usually join us until the morning, they have their own party on the fourth floor, but some of the masters come down for an hour or so. This year, the party was no different. One advantage of having Kit here is that a lot of people play instruments or sing--she loves to teach music and does it well--so our parties tend to involve giant jam sessions. And the room is lovely and filled with food and drink and wonderful people and it feels like the center of the world.
But then around four in the morning, Greg came down to find Kit and whispered urgently in her ear. She whispered back, and then they both went upstairs. A few minutes later, Allen came down and rather casually spoke to several of the senior novices. Then, one by one, they all slipped upstairs. Most of us didn't notice. I did. And June noticed me noticing.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"I don't know that anything's the matter," I said. "But Allen just magicked up the students who were going to organize the walk up the mountain, and I don't know why."
"You don't?"
"Should I?"
"Do you want to walk up the mountain in this?" she asked.
Uh, no, I didn't. She had a point. My embarrassment must have showed on my face, because she laughed at me.
"Did you think a weather-witch was going to fix conditions for us?"
And the thing is, I'm sure there are weather-witches on campus, and I'm not certain their magic isn't effective. But I can imagine Charlie responding to such a proposal, and I don't think he'd like it. He'd say that the real magic occurs when we adjust ourselves to the world, not the other way around.
In the end, we didn't go up the mountain. It was too dangerous. Instead, we waited until twilight was well underway, and then walked out to the Edge of the World and stood there for a few minutes in the blowing 35-degree rain, turning our backs to the wind, our rain ponchos blowing up and flapping, letting rain in to soak our cloaks, until someone shouted "SUN'S UP! WELCOME YULE!" into the wind.
I imagine they relied on a clock to find the right moment. Dawn was not discernible at all.
We all turned and trudged back inside, and found there the entire master's group waiting for us in the Great Hall, all as sopping wet as we were. And they launched into "Here Comes the Sun," their traditional Yule morning carol, which definitely sounded ironic under the circumstances. We all laughed and clapped, and then Joy ordered us all upstairs and into warm showers, cautioning us not to come down until we were dry and comfortable.
When we came back down, there were the Sprouts and various other guests, and a hot breakfast with plenty of hot chocolate, and gift bags for everybody and presents to open, and we spent the rest of the day playing with our presents like children.
All the while, the temperature outside was dropping and, almost unnoticed, and ice storm was busy glazing the ground and the roads and the trees, and everything else. That was alright with me at the time, as I was at the center of the world, but our guests were trapped with us, and I'm sure many families traveling for Christmas had their plans interrupted.
Towards the late afternoon, the storm finally blew off and the sky cleared. Greg, invigorated by his mid-holiday nap (this year under the Yule tree, wrapped up in a blanket like a present) drew my attention to the sunset--the trees to the west of the back driveway were glowing with magic, unconsuming fire, the light of the setting sun shining in the rime ice on every twig in their high, massed crowns.
"That's gorgeous," I said, completely redundantly, but sometimes one has to.
"I've thought the weather gorgeous all day," he said, in his dry, somewhat formal voice. "The magic that gives us gorgeous weather consists in knowing the weather to be gorgeous."
He and Charlie are suite-mates, I recalled.
I'd thought I'd experienced bad weather on Yule before. There was one year when the dawn was completely hidden by cloud, and the new day loomed rather than broke, and there were two years it rained. But on one of those nights the rain turned to snow and then stopped just before we went out, so we didn't actually get rained on, and when the sun came up, the world was white. The other time, we did get drizzled upon, but just as the sun came up--brilliantly, through a break in the cloud--the rain turned rather dramatically to snow.
In point of fact, the "bad" weather those years only served to make the dawn more dramatic and lovely.
This year, though?
This year the weather well and truly sucked.
It began with rain around midnight, first intermittent, then harder and harder, but I wasn't worried, because I unthinkingly assumed the storm would break before dawn. It didn't. Instead, it intensified, the wind rising till we could poke our heads out of the Meditation Hall door and hear broken branches falling in the Formal Garden and along the evergreen row behind the building.
Inside, the party continued. Every year, we hold an all-night party, and students who have otherwise left campus for the season, graduates, allies, and even some family (like the Sprouts) all come in and fill the Mansion with music and merriment. The Sprouts and the masters don't usually join us until the morning, they have their own party on the fourth floor, but some of the masters come down for an hour or so. This year, the party was no different. One advantage of having Kit here is that a lot of people play instruments or sing--she loves to teach music and does it well--so our parties tend to involve giant jam sessions. And the room is lovely and filled with food and drink and wonderful people and it feels like the center of the world.
But then around four in the morning, Greg came down to find Kit and whispered urgently in her ear. She whispered back, and then they both went upstairs. A few minutes later, Allen came down and rather casually spoke to several of the senior novices. Then, one by one, they all slipped upstairs. Most of us didn't notice. I did. And June noticed me noticing.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"I don't know that anything's the matter," I said. "But Allen just magicked up the students who were going to organize the walk up the mountain, and I don't know why."
"You don't?"
"Should I?"
"Do you want to walk up the mountain in this?" she asked.
Uh, no, I didn't. She had a point. My embarrassment must have showed on my face, because she laughed at me.
"Did you think a weather-witch was going to fix conditions for us?"
And the thing is, I'm sure there are weather-witches on campus, and I'm not certain their magic isn't effective. But I can imagine Charlie responding to such a proposal, and I don't think he'd like it. He'd say that the real magic occurs when we adjust ourselves to the world, not the other way around.
In the end, we didn't go up the mountain. It was too dangerous. Instead, we waited until twilight was well underway, and then walked out to the Edge of the World and stood there for a few minutes in the blowing 35-degree rain, turning our backs to the wind, our rain ponchos blowing up and flapping, letting rain in to soak our cloaks, until someone shouted "SUN'S UP! WELCOME YULE!" into the wind.
I imagine they relied on a clock to find the right moment. Dawn was not discernible at all.
We all turned and trudged back inside, and found there the entire master's group waiting for us in the Great Hall, all as sopping wet as we were. And they launched into "Here Comes the Sun," their traditional Yule morning carol, which definitely sounded ironic under the circumstances. We all laughed and clapped, and then Joy ordered us all upstairs and into warm showers, cautioning us not to come down until we were dry and comfortable.
When we came back down, there were the Sprouts and various other guests, and a hot breakfast with plenty of hot chocolate, and gift bags for everybody and presents to open, and we spent the rest of the day playing with our presents like children.
All the while, the temperature outside was dropping and, almost unnoticed, and ice storm was busy glazing the ground and the roads and the trees, and everything else. That was alright with me at the time, as I was at the center of the world, but our guests were trapped with us, and I'm sure many families traveling for Christmas had their plans interrupted.
Towards the late afternoon, the storm finally blew off and the sky cleared. Greg, invigorated by his mid-holiday nap (this year under the Yule tree, wrapped up in a blanket like a present) drew my attention to the sunset--the trees to the west of the back driveway were glowing with magic, unconsuming fire, the light of the setting sun shining in the rime ice on every twig in their high, massed crowns.
"That's gorgeous," I said, completely redundantly, but sometimes one has to.
"I've thought the weather gorgeous all day," he said, in his dry, somewhat formal voice. "The magic that gives us gorgeous weather consists in knowing the weather to be gorgeous."
He and Charlie are suite-mates, I recalled.
Monday, December 17, 2018
Mastery Year 2: Interlude 7
Hi, all,
Daniel-of-2018, here!
Next time I address
you directly, I’ll be Daniel-of-2019. Curious how this convention
of naming myself after the year—which is basically accidental, it
just popped into my head a while back and I kept using it—makes it
sound as though it is a different me every year. And I suppose I am
different, though not very different. All the different mes have a
family resemblance. Is this then, goodbye? Am I about to be replaced?
Anyway.
In recent years,
I’ve flipped the schedule a bit, doing the eighth interlude after
the holiday, but this year I’m doing it the other way and we’ll
see how it goes. June and I spent Yule on campus, of course, then
Christmas and New Years with her parents. Then we came home (campus)
so she could go back to work, and I sat around feeling stupid.
After all, she
had a job, and therefore a
definite purpose, a reason for being where she was, whereas I
occupied some nebulous middle ground between furlowed employee and
student without classes. Exactly why was I on campus, paying room and
board, instead of with my family?
It’s
not that I literally had nothing to do, since I was still supposed to
be working with Steve Bees and hammering out the details of my next
years’ course of study, but none of it felt pressingly important
and I missed my parents. So I went to stay with them for almost two
weeks, most of which I spent missing my wife and worrying about how
Steve Bees was doing.
So
there will be about three or four weekly entries I’ll have to get
creative about, just to give you fair warning.
It’s
weird to think this is the last time I’m going to be heading into a
new year of writing this blog. No, this story doesn’t go on
forever. A year from now, I’ll be writing about getting ready to
get my ring. After that? There are a few more things I’ll want to
talk about, just to wrap up loose ends and bring my story up to the
point where you came in on it. I don’t know yet whether that will
take months or weeks or what, but I doubt it will take the whole
year. And then the various identities I’ve taken on for the project
the me of this year and the me of that year and everything else, will
be at an end.
And
I’ll just be me.
Monday, December 10, 2018
Mastery Year 2: Part 7: Post 6: Making More Magic
I'd glad I have a good memory!
Last night, June asked me whether I wanted to help decorate the Great Hall for Yule. I thought she meant whether I wanted to joint the groundskeeping crew and the other volunteers who put up the tree and the other decorations all in one night as a surprise for the yearlings. I did it a few times as a novice, and really liked it, but last year I had a different assignment. I was supposed to distract my wife--she was a yearling at the time, and Charlie thought she couldn't be relied on to be oblivious (high praise, from him) so he asked me to step in.
Yes, I distracted her exactly the way you're imagining I did, and in the morning I told her that the newly-decorated Great Hall was a product of the magic we made.
And yes, this year when I said yes, I wanted to decorate the Great Hall, she said "good--I'll clear my schedule and take a shower." And I am a very lucky man that I didn't have to ask what she was talking about.
Except I really had wanted to join the groundskeeping crew for the night. It's not that I don't enjoy, um, decorating by magic, it's that, not to brag, but I get to do that fairly often. There's only one chance a year to be an elf making the holiday happen, and I miss being one of the groundskeepers here. But I didn't feel comfortable saying no to June. I didn't want to offend her.
I should say that yes, we've talked through what was bothering her over Thanksgiving. She is, as I suspected she might, getting resentful of how fully we've moved into "my" world, leaving hers behind. Which is not what we did, and she knows it's not what we did, which is why she didn't want to talk with me about it, but she felt that way anyway, and I think I can understand why.
So I suggested we spend Christmas with her family, since she gets a long enough break from work so she can travel, and while I'm pretty sure the issue is going to blow up again later, for now she's happy with me and, yes, wanted to magically decorate the Great Hall with me.
So, no, I did not want to beg off.
I was a little worried about developing some resentment of my own, though, and I didn't see how I could possibly be a very good lover if I was thinking something else I'd rather be doing. But one of the great things about this place is how accepting they are about sex. I mean, you can actually talk about it and the conversation doesn't feel crude or puerile. So, when I was brushing my teeth before bed, I bumped into Raven (she lives in a different dorm, but she's been seeing someone in my dorm and was visiting) and she asked me whether I was going to join the group downstairs, I told her my problem. She took it seriously.
"Well, we'll be working all night, why don't you just join us afterwards?"
"I don't know," I told her, "that feels...selfish, or something."
"That's because you're being selfish. You're thinking first we'll do your thing, then we'll do what I really want to do. Don't think that way. Think about how both can be for both of you."
"She was saying she felt a bit like an outsider, here, like being at school is my thing."
"Did she? Well, make her an elf. Tell her being a Yule-elf is like being a were-wolf and bite her or something."
No, I didn't tell June elfhood is contagious, but we did work something out, and the Great Hall was well-decorated by morning.
Last night, June asked me whether I wanted to help decorate the Great Hall for Yule. I thought she meant whether I wanted to joint the groundskeeping crew and the other volunteers who put up the tree and the other decorations all in one night as a surprise for the yearlings. I did it a few times as a novice, and really liked it, but last year I had a different assignment. I was supposed to distract my wife--she was a yearling at the time, and Charlie thought she couldn't be relied on to be oblivious (high praise, from him) so he asked me to step in.
Yes, I distracted her exactly the way you're imagining I did, and in the morning I told her that the newly-decorated Great Hall was a product of the magic we made.
And yes, this year when I said yes, I wanted to decorate the Great Hall, she said "good--I'll clear my schedule and take a shower." And I am a very lucky man that I didn't have to ask what she was talking about.
Except I really had wanted to join the groundskeeping crew for the night. It's not that I don't enjoy, um, decorating by magic, it's that, not to brag, but I get to do that fairly often. There's only one chance a year to be an elf making the holiday happen, and I miss being one of the groundskeepers here. But I didn't feel comfortable saying no to June. I didn't want to offend her.
I should say that yes, we've talked through what was bothering her over Thanksgiving. She is, as I suspected she might, getting resentful of how fully we've moved into "my" world, leaving hers behind. Which is not what we did, and she knows it's not what we did, which is why she didn't want to talk with me about it, but she felt that way anyway, and I think I can understand why.
So I suggested we spend Christmas with her family, since she gets a long enough break from work so she can travel, and while I'm pretty sure the issue is going to blow up again later, for now she's happy with me and, yes, wanted to magically decorate the Great Hall with me.
So, no, I did not want to beg off.
I was a little worried about developing some resentment of my own, though, and I didn't see how I could possibly be a very good lover if I was thinking something else I'd rather be doing. But one of the great things about this place is how accepting they are about sex. I mean, you can actually talk about it and the conversation doesn't feel crude or puerile. So, when I was brushing my teeth before bed, I bumped into Raven (she lives in a different dorm, but she's been seeing someone in my dorm and was visiting) and she asked me whether I was going to join the group downstairs, I told her my problem. She took it seriously.
"Well, we'll be working all night, why don't you just join us afterwards?"
"I don't know," I told her, "that feels...selfish, or something."
"That's because you're being selfish. You're thinking first we'll do your thing, then we'll do what I really want to do. Don't think that way. Think about how both can be for both of you."
"She was saying she felt a bit like an outsider, here, like being at school is my thing."
"Did she? Well, make her an elf. Tell her being a Yule-elf is like being a were-wolf and bite her or something."
No, I didn't tell June elfhood is contagious, but we did work something out, and the Great Hall was well-decorated by morning.
Monday, December 3, 2018
Mastery Year 2: Part 7: Post 5: Instructions from June
No, I haven't found out what's bothering June.
She seems to be over it, at least for now. She's relaxed and friendly around me again, so that's good, but I'm fairly sure that whatever it is will erupt again unless it's dealt with--it's lot like I don't know there was an underlying issue driving that argument.
I asked Allen about it, when I happened to see him, but he just said "couples counseling costs extra," so I suppose he didn't want to be bothered. I talked to Ollie about it, and he had some interesting things to say, but nothing that ultimately proved helpful. I even said something to Eddie, who said "do I look like a man who knows anything about marriage?"
"What does how you look have to do with it?" I asked.
"I am way too cute to be monogamous," he replied. And then he went on for some length about how much progress Elmo, his dog, has made. This is the supposedly untrainable Elmo, and apparently he's doing very well, now. He has basic obedience down solid, knows a few tricks, and as his confidence grows his fear-aggression has backed off dramatically.
"I even have an idea for what kind of therapy task he can do," Eddie said, excitedly. "Elmo has a lot of energy. He needs to run every day, and he's not shy about asking to go. I'm thinking he can be a jogging partner for someone with depression, you know, the kind where you just want to stay in bed all day? Now I just need to find the right person to match him with."
All that's very good and all, but it doesn't help me with my wife. I kind of feel like I'm walking on egg-shells, not that I'm worried she's going to attack me, I'm just thinking about what random thing might trigger whatever it is next.
Finally, I talked to my therapist. Remember that I have a therapist? It's part of the program here, all candidates need to do at least one year of individual therapy, and while I had my doubts at first--I was pretty sure I don't need therapy--I've come to like it. I get to talk about whatever I want for fifty minutes a week, without worrying about whether I'm being boring or sounding stupid or something, and sometimes our talks help me sort things out. My therapist is a man about ten years older than I am who graduated from the school but didn't come back for his ring. So he knows all about the school, and we get along.
But he didn't help me much with this thing with June, except to ask, quite perceptively, whether I was concerned about my issue or hers. Keep the focus on yourself, as they said in the few Al-Anon meetings I went to as a novice.
So I went to bed last night, puzzling about all of this, and then June came in. She turned on the lights, undressed and then put on her pajamas (an unfortunate side effect of winter--it's too cold to sleep naked, now), went back out to the bathroom to fill a cup with drinking water in case we got thirsty at night, turned off the light, and crawled into bed. She wrapped her fuzzy feet around by bare toes.
"Word out on the street is," she said, "you've been asking everyone and their brother's lover's cousin why I'm mad and what to do about it."
"Yes, I suppose so." Dang, foiled by the rumor mill. I wonder who talked?
"So how come you didn't talk to me?"
She seems to be over it, at least for now. She's relaxed and friendly around me again, so that's good, but I'm fairly sure that whatever it is will erupt again unless it's dealt with--it's lot like I don't know there was an underlying issue driving that argument.
I asked Allen about it, when I happened to see him, but he just said "couples counseling costs extra," so I suppose he didn't want to be bothered. I talked to Ollie about it, and he had some interesting things to say, but nothing that ultimately proved helpful. I even said something to Eddie, who said "do I look like a man who knows anything about marriage?"
"What does how you look have to do with it?" I asked.
"I am way too cute to be monogamous," he replied. And then he went on for some length about how much progress Elmo, his dog, has made. This is the supposedly untrainable Elmo, and apparently he's doing very well, now. He has basic obedience down solid, knows a few tricks, and as his confidence grows his fear-aggression has backed off dramatically.
"I even have an idea for what kind of therapy task he can do," Eddie said, excitedly. "Elmo has a lot of energy. He needs to run every day, and he's not shy about asking to go. I'm thinking he can be a jogging partner for someone with depression, you know, the kind where you just want to stay in bed all day? Now I just need to find the right person to match him with."
All that's very good and all, but it doesn't help me with my wife. I kind of feel like I'm walking on egg-shells, not that I'm worried she's going to attack me, I'm just thinking about what random thing might trigger whatever it is next.
Finally, I talked to my therapist. Remember that I have a therapist? It's part of the program here, all candidates need to do at least one year of individual therapy, and while I had my doubts at first--I was pretty sure I don't need therapy--I've come to like it. I get to talk about whatever I want for fifty minutes a week, without worrying about whether I'm being boring or sounding stupid or something, and sometimes our talks help me sort things out. My therapist is a man about ten years older than I am who graduated from the school but didn't come back for his ring. So he knows all about the school, and we get along.
But he didn't help me much with this thing with June, except to ask, quite perceptively, whether I was concerned about my issue or hers. Keep the focus on yourself, as they said in the few Al-Anon meetings I went to as a novice.
So I went to bed last night, puzzling about all of this, and then June came in. She turned on the lights, undressed and then put on her pajamas (an unfortunate side effect of winter--it's too cold to sleep naked, now), went back out to the bathroom to fill a cup with drinking water in case we got thirsty at night, turned off the light, and crawled into bed. She wrapped her fuzzy feet around by bare toes.
"Word out on the street is," she said, "you've been asking everyone and their brother's lover's cousin why I'm mad and what to do about it."
"Yes, I suppose so." Dang, foiled by the rumor mill. I wonder who talked?
"So how come you didn't talk to me?"
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