An Uncluttered Mind

In class last week, we discussed Howard Gardner and his theory of Multiple Intelligences.  (If you don't know anything about this, I encourage you to read up -- it's fascinating and relevant to just about everyone.)  Later, I watched this interview between him and the dean of the Massachusetts School of Law, in which this quote appears:

"We are all inundated by information. If you look up anything of any degree of currency on the Web, you could spend months going to the links and reading everything.  So, when I talk about the synthesizing mind, I'm pretty simplistic about it: I'm saying, what do you pay attention to you, and what do you ignore; what criteria are you using to decide what to pay attention to and what to ignore; and then, how do you put it together for yourself so it makes sense to you and so you can hold onto it; and then, how do you communicate it to other people?"

I have been accused of having a synthetic mind; people often ask for my notes after meetings or classes because they know I have a gift for articulation coupled with a respect for the kernels of the ideas.  Even if I'm just making a list on the board, I enjoy the look of relief on my students' faces after they've stammered around their thought, given up, and then seen it expressed in my words: "Yes!  That's exactly what I meant!"

Gardner then quotes John Gardner (no relation) with regard to the importance of an "uncluttered mind" -- one that can sift away the chaff and keep the wheat, so to speak.  It was this phrase that stuck out to me: though I do have a gift for synthesis, many days my mind is so cluttered I can hardly put a sentence together for myself, let alone for another.  I think this is the great danger of the modern age, both intellectually and spiritually.  With so much clutter, it's hard to think, let alone to pray.

I am thinking of the upcoming fast, and how I can use it to gain spiritual strength and insight, and it occurs to me that the best way might just be to accept a simple challenge: mental tidiness. One thing at a time.  A phone call OR grading papers OR a blog post OR a ride in the car.  We save time multitasking, sort of, but we waste so much more.

The Blessings of Brigid

It may sound a little weird that to join my church you need to choose a new name.  People who do this always seem to be hiding something: the most famous examples -- Malcolm X, Marilyn Monroe, Prince -- are dubious at best on that count.  And to legally change your name in the great state of Maryland, you're required, among other things, to take out advertising space in your county of residence.  Just in case your old self might owe someone money.

The practice of re-naming might make more sense when you consider that adult conversion to Orthodoxy is not the norm; most children are born into their parents' faith.  Traditionally, families have named their children, and not with mere modern anomalies -- fruit, acronyms, and absurd spellings -- but names that mean something.  Often, children are called after their ancestors, especially if said ancestors had qualities parents want to see reflected in the next generation.  My cousin, in a touching example of this, named her youngest after our musical, sarcastic and loving grandfather, who departed this world five years ago today.

So if you think of the Church as a family, including even those ancestors who lived many centuries ago in foreign lands, the whole practice makes a lot more sense.  In many cultures, children are named after a saint who entered Heaven on the day they were born; others are named for a saint whose life has been inspiring to the parents or godparents.

But woe to the adult convert, who must choose a name for herself.  I hardly qualified as an adult when I entered Orthodoxy at sixteen, and in fact tried to weasel out of the decision by asking if there wasn't a Saint Emily somewhere.  My priest said no.  Turns out he was wrong, but I'm sure that was part of the plan.

So I chose St. Brigid of Kildare.  For no particular reason besides a current obsession with All Things Celtic (including, but not limited to, Braveheart, U2 and painting knotwork on my bedroom walls.)

It goes without saying that St. Brigid's life and circumstances were very different from mine.  The daughter of a clan chief and one of his slaves, she dedicated her life to Christ by founding monasteries all over Ireland, exercised strict spiritual discipline over herself and her disciples, and in an interesting twist, supported increased independence for women.  At one point, she also ran a dairy (and thus is patroness of this local gem.)  I haven't had much success and / or interest in any of these areas, unless you count my love for milk in all forms.

As people, though, we share several striking similarities.  A devotion to and love for the natural world; one of the sweetest stories about St. Brigid concerns a red fox that "adopted" her in infancy and remained her pet, sitting quietly at the back of the church during services. A disposition that was eminently practical, and a gift for efficiency.  Also, a troublesome lack of attachment to worldly possessions: she gave away her father's goods with abandon to the poor and diseased, while I am constantly scolded by the head of my household for a lack of care in lending, gifting and misplacing things I just don't regard as important.

For some time I have wondered how to best celebrate her feast day, which just passed; the trouble is that the Feast of the Presentation of Christ is the very next day, so we serve Liturgy the evening before.  Thus, a party on St. Brigid's day can never be.  A few years ago I started making Irish Soda Bread and bringing it to share after the service, usually accompanied by Guinness or Killian's (legend has it she once turned bathwater into beer; this is probably apocryphal, but I like it anyway; plus, there's the irony of toasting my dear grandfather, who would NOT have approved.)

This year I used a recipe that Rob acquired last spring after the feast day of another, slightly more famous, Irish saint.  He had raved about it so much that I was eager to see what he thought of my effort.  Since I didn't have enough for everyone, I kept it out of the food line, but interested friends sidled up to my table with alarming speed, and before I knew it I was sharing the last piece with my sister, leaving nothing for my poor husband at home.

Somehow, I think that's how St. Brigid would have wanted it, but it didn't stop me from making another pan this morning.  We'll call it Groundhog Bread.  And if I told you that even that humble holiday has origins in the Christian faith, you'd probably think that was even weirder than my changing my name.

Taught with Gladness

After two or three weeks' rest, returning to school is tough.  My feet aren't used to so much standing, or my vocal cords ready to talk talk talk for hours on end.  (Yes, I know I should be letting my students do most of the talking.  But if I asked them to summarize the plot of the Iliad, we wouldn't get very far.)

So, although I would prefer that vacation last through the end of the Christmas season, which came at last night's Liturgy, it's a special blessing to pause midway through this first exhausting week and hear the prayers over the water, to drink it and be sprinkled (or doused, depending on your proximity to the priest) and revel in the renewal of creation that occurred when Christ deigned to be baptized by a mortal.

The Blessing of the Waters is a miraculous and inspiring event, whether it occurs on the shores of the Jordan or in the midst of a crowded nave in suburbia.  The effusively exclamatory language of the prayers never fails to move me (the rubrics for one state that the priest begin the prayer in "a great voice".)  But last night I happened to be paying very close attention during one of the Old Testament readings because I guessed, correctly, that the reader was having trouble and wanted me to take over.  And listen to what I heard:

Seek ye the Lord, and when ye find Him, call ye upon Him; and when He draweth nigh to you, let the ungodly forsake his ways, and the transgressor his counsels: and let him return unto the Lord, and he shall find mercy; for He will abundantly pardon your sins. For My counsels are not as your counsels, neither are your ways as My ways, saith the Lord. But as the heaven is far from the earth, so is My way far from your ways, and your thoughts from My thoughts. For as the rain or snow shall come down from heaven, and shall not return until it have watered the earth, and it bring forth and bud, and give seed to the sower, and bread for food, so shall My word be: whatsoever shall go forth out of My mouth, it shall by no means turn back until all that I have willed is accomplished; and I will prosper thy ways and My commandments.

For ye shall go out with joy, and be taught with gladness: for the mountains and the hills shall leap out as they welcome thee with joy, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands with their branches. And instead of the briar shall come up a cypress, and instead of the nettle shall come up a myrtle tree: and the Lord shall be for a name, and for an everlasting sign, and shall not fail.

Esaias 55 : 6-13

Blast from the Past

Somehow this has become the Week of My Birthday on this blog.  If you're not already tired of my narcissism, perhaps you'd like to read something I wrote after my last decade birthday.  It was a Paschal letter, actually, but I based it around the night my family whisked me off to a wonderful, exotic restaurant and spent the evening being themselves -- which is to say, crazy and wonderful.  Of course, it's always interesting to look back at this snapshot and see what panned out (the summer in Greece was the best of my life) and what didn't (getting married trumped a Masters of Architecture, but I think I got the better end of that deal.)  Enjoy the turn-of-the-century references, too (a DVD player?!  Oooooh!)

Click below to read -- it's a little long for the homepage:



My birthday has always fallen at a rather awkward time; the middle of September finds everyone settling back into the school / work routine, and it's hard to remember to make a big deal out of it. This year was even stranger, because I wasn't in school at all - I had decided to take a leave of absence after a particularly stressful two years of studying architecture in New York, had only been home a week, and really had no idea what to do with myself. My mom came to tuck me in one night and said, "We're planning a little get-together tomorrow night with the M-G's (our priest and his family.)" It took me a second to realize that the get-together was in honor of my birthday; I had completely forgotten about it.

I have always appreciated my parents' ability to throw a good party, but even more so now, when I hardly remembered what to do in a social situation after months of being cloistered in my studio. The scene was Tio Pepe's, a fancy Spanish restaurant in Baltimore which the Oren kids had never before visited. (I don't know why; we've pretty much outgrown that straw-wrapper-blowing thing.)  We were duly impressed as we entered the dimly lit, low-ceilinged room that oozed Europeanness, from the white stucco walls and restrained red trim to the ridiculously polite staff that insisted I sit at the end of the table: “Eet eez a special day for senorita, no?”  For once, no one ribbed me for being overdressed; all the other restaurant patrons wore jackets, ties and eveningwear, and Baltimore Orioles hero Jim Palmer dined a few tables away with a pretty blonde.  For the first time in ages, I felt completely relaxed – at a huge long table with a white tablecloth and sparkling silverware, surrounded by friends and family, overwhelmed but happy, ready for a night of jokes and stories and good food and drink.

My dad, at the head of the table, as usual: also, as usual, trying to get the "inside info" on what's going on. "I hear the deal at this place is that half the stuff they make isn't on the menu," he says, his raised eyebrows accentuating the last four words. "You just gotta know what to ask for." When the waiter comes, he immediately addresses him as amigo, then gets right to the point: "So, I hear you guys have some unlisted stuff here?" in a wink-wink-nudge-nudge tone of voice. "Can you tell us about that?" Anyone else would have gotten a snobby look for that comment, but you can't not like my dad; the waiter lists some of his favorites, and my dad orders a round of appetizers and sangria. When the food comes, everyone's eyes widen; the plates are heaping, this isn't even the main course - and they're pouring alcohol into all the glasses. "Eeezokay, eeezokay!" the waiters chorus. "Just a taste."

My dad does what he's always done; he works hard and plays hard. He took my mom to Greece (after some major hinting on her part) for their 25^th anniversary - they toured the islands on a cruise ship, stayed with some friends in Athens, visited countless churches and ate lots of feta cheese. Oh, and he'd be glad to tell you about all the different types of feta, if you'd be willing to listen. His job, as Vice President / Product Development at the CMD Group, enables him to see some of the most cutting-edge technology in the construction industry, and it never lets him get bored. This last year he's been really interested in the possibilities of online collaboration between contractors, owners and architects during the construction process. And on Christmas, amid exasperated sighs from Mom and uncontrolled squealing from Elliot, we unwrapped a DVD player with an accompanying set of surround-sound speakers, enough to set the whole house rumbling during the gunfire sequence at the end of MI-2.  Every once in awhile, he deems the family worthy of new technology.

Moving counterclockwise around the table: my mom is probably looking indignant as one or more of us tease her about being the smallest and oldest one in the family, getting mildly confused at the number of choices on the menu, and being ready for bed even though it's only 9 pm. This is all a joke, of course; anyone who saw her at her 25th college reunion last fall knows she looks great, but her reactions are reward enough for us to keep ribbing her.  She's nice enough to laugh every time one of us cracks a joke, but beware: most of the time it's just her "sympathy laugh," a monotone heh-heh-heh-heh that means, "Sorry, that one didn't quite make it."

She was perhaps the busiest of anyone in 2000.  She taught thirty piano students in addition to what was, de facto, a full-time job: directing the choir at our church, Holy Cross. Despite her claims that she is underqualified for the job, she's done incredible work with the twelve-to-sixteen-member group. Since almost all of us are new to this liturgical style of worship, it requires that much more dedication just to understand how the services are laid out, much less learn the music and teach it to a bunch of amateurs. Learning from my wisdom, she took a sabbatical in the early part of this year, turning over the leadership to a few able-bodied persons in our parish, and was amazed at the difference in stress level after she returned - this year Pascha (Orthodox Easter) brought excitement and anticipation instead of dread and cold hands.

Eventually the main courses arrive, and everyone's eyes widen at the thought of having to cram any more food into our already full stomachs. It's wonderful: fish, lobster, chicken, cooked in creamy interesting sauces, lightly steamed green beans on the side. And, of course, more sangria. Abby is busily injecting quotes from The Simpsons and nonsequitirs into the already quote-and-nonsequitir-ridden conversation. She looks pretty and polished, like she always does - I could never figure out what to do with my long hair, so I cut it off, but hers is always twisted or in little braids or pulled back halfway with an arrangement of glittery hairpins. It's fun having a cool little sister to borrow clothes from and go to the movies with. We're kind of in the same situation this year: most of her friends were in the year above her, and they're all in college now - and mine have long since settled into their respective niches at school or work elsewhere. But she is so easy to talk to, we don't even have to leave the house to hang out, and around her I usually don't even have to finish my

Abby is still undecided about what to do after she graduates in May. She is thinking about attending Messiah or Eastern colleges, having ruled out some of her cross-country choices because of distance, but is also considering a state school. Right now she loves her job as a busser at The Crab Shanty, a local family-style seafood restaurant, where she takes pride in folding the best napkins for miles around. She is also taking classes at the local community college to count towards core requirements at her school of choice.  Her interests are so varied that she despairs of ever choosing a major, but her intellect and many talents assure me, anyway, that she will always be busy and learning.

Elliot is the tallest and most amusing one at the table. Every time I visited home from college, he was bigger; he now towers above me and enjoys pinning me down if I'm doing something he doesn't like.  Our pastor deadpanned to my mom one afternoon: “I think Elliot grew a few inches *during* Liturgy this morning.”  Not only does he look older, (at 14, he doesn’t get carded at the movie theater; at 20, I get the “Does your mother know you’re here, little girl?” look.) but his very manner is more mature.  He pestered my parents for weeks to get fitted for a three-piece suit – he wasn’t old enough to go to the prom, but just wanted something to dress nicely in.  And there is no one I have a hard time coming up with someone who can make me laugh more easily.  Somehow he missed the bad joke gene that dominates in our family, and his antics are a constant form of entertainment.  My favorite is the “pizza” skit: he rings the back doorbell surreptitiously, completely unprompted, shouts “Anybody gonna get that?” and then strides to the front door, pokes his head out of sight, and carries on a dialogue with the imaginary pizza delivery guy:

“Hello?  No, no . . . I don’t think so, hold on . . . (turns around and shouts to anyone in the near vicinity: “Hey, anybody order a pizza?”) No, sorry.  Here, lemme see the address.  Oh!  No, you want *South* Rolling Road.  Yeah, no problem.  Happens all the time.”  And he slams the door and turns around, arms spread wide: “Man, are some people *slow*!”

It wouldn’t be funny, except for the extreme randomness with which it occurs.  The same impromptu and creative spirit follows him everywhere: to his classes at Catonsville High, where his teacher unabashedly writes “Best paper in the class” on his composition, to his antics with the staff at a small neighborhood local Italian restaurant, where he works in the kitchen, and among the band of friends with whom he plays rock and roll occasionally (in the garage.)  He took up guitar a year or so ago, and no one can believe how quickly he’s learning, playing things from ear and by rote.  His ambitions include the Naval Academy and / or a music major, but he has a few years to decide yet.

Though this is perhaps the worst time to talk about *my* future, since it is so loosely determined, I suppose I should give a brief overview: After pretty much deciding I couldn’t go back to Cooper Union and face the administrative mess that followed the death of their dean last spring, I’ve considered almost every single option; I am currently planning on attending school in Maryland while continuing to work part-time at Cochran, Stephenson & Donkervoet, the architecture firm I’ve been with since I moved back to Baltimore.  My office, on the top floor of an old warehouse building, overlooks the scenic Camden Yards ballpark, and the work I do is interesting and varied, giving me a real taste of what life in the field will be like.  I do see my career being involved with architecture, eventually, but I don’t like the market-driven attitude most schools take, forcing students to get on the fast track and dumping them straight into a firm after graduation.  I hope to complete my undergraduate degree in another major – currently I am leaning toward Classics, though Literature would be a close second – and aim for a three-year Masters of Architecture program afterwards, always keeping it in the back of my mind, trying to decide what kind of a path I can make for myself that involves *all* of the things I love.  I have been doing a little more freelance writing and really enjoying it, and am busy gathering experiences for that book my fortune cookie promised I’d write.  Last summer I was given a scholarship to study art theory with a bunch of Christian grad students at the University of Notre Dame for two weeks, and this summer I hope to go to Athens to live with some friends and soak in the Orthodoxy and architecture all around me.

Going back to that initial scene, remembering the wine-soaked fruit in the bottom of my glass, the groans when everyone realizes we *have* to order dessert, even as our stomachs cry for mercy, and the pleasurable act of picking away slowly at an almond-encrusted creamy cake and trying to think of a snappy comeback to the underhanded gibe that’s been thrown across the table, I think about the things we talk about and the company we keep.  At the table, besides our family, were Father Gregory and his wife Frederica and their son, Steve, and Melanie, another girl from church who was living with us at the time.  (It seemed natural for her to move in, as the college she attended was only five minutes away – and besides, everyone there seems so much like family already!)  I’m sure we were doing impersonations of choir members, and my dad and Father Gregory were trying to have an intense theological discussion even as their children showed the utmost disrespect for the gravity of the subject. It’s just impossible to write about our family without writing about our Church, which has become so integral a part of our lives; especially during this past season of Lent, where we fast as a body – our family, our congregation, congregations all over the country and the world – and attend so many services together.  Each of us has found a niche there: Dad, Abby and I sing in the choir under my mom’s direction, Elliot serves at the altar, and I have recently begun studying Byzantine chant: there are eight tones, foreign melodies which sound haunting and mysterious, and often dissonant, to Western ears.  I felt attracted almost immediately to the deeply rooted spirituality of the hymns, and have many opportunities during services to use what I have learned.  We all enjoy learning all we can about this ancient and wholly Christ-centered faith, and I think it has brought our family closer together than we’ve ever been.  An Easter letter is a bit unusual, I suppose, but it just seemed more natural to think about the events of the last twelve months now, just after Pascha, the Feast of Feasts, which is really the center of the church year.  We hope and pray that the joy of the Resurrection of Our Lord will follow each of you into every part of your lives.

A few days after the party, my friend Megan, the oldest M-G child, expressed extreme disappointment that she and her husband had had to miss it.  (They had a good excuse: she had given birth to their first child, my god-daughter Hannah, just the day before!) She said that her parents had told her about the experience: “They said Cal was having such a good time playing the host, being chummy with the waiters and so exuberant and funny, and everybody was just completely silly and excited and having fun.  I wish I could have been there!”

We wish all of you could have been there!  We miss you and hope to be able to see you soon.  It is always so lovely to hear from you.

With love,

Emily (and the rest of the clan.)

Advice from the Top

A blessed Feast of the Cross to all, especially my brothers and sisters from Holy Cross.

Last night, after roughly 3 hours of church and roughly half an hour of celebrating, I saw our beloved bishop sitting alone for a moment.  I am ashamed to admit that it has taken many years for me to be able to appreciate his annual visits.  He is a wonderful, godly man, with a sense of humor to boot, but from a church musician's perspective, the presence of a hierarch means an almost-certain upsetting of the delicate balance and routine on which we thrive.  We think of a bishop's visit as a sort of ascetic discipline.  You know, the way no one ever looks forward to Lent, but by its end they are glad for having struggled?  Like that.

Somehow I must have matured a little, because this year, I was pleased to find I was looking forward to his coming.  And I was able to field every pop fly he hit in my direction (a Jersey native, I think he would probably appreciate the baseball analogy.)  Greek?  Arabic?  Slow chanting?  Fast chanting?  Tone 1?  Tone 5?  Psh!

So, when I saw him sitting alone last night, I summoned my courage and approached, asking his blessing and seeking his insight.  I knew he had been a classroom teacher before entering the ministry, and I wondered if he could give me some advice about the profession that seems to have chosen me.

"Teach with love," he said first.  "That's all you can do.  If your kids know you love them and you love your subject, if they can see you're passionate about what you do, that's everything."

He shook his head.  "Teaching is hard, though."  Then he went on to tell me something amazing.  You remember that movie, Lean on Me?  Morgan Freeman plays "Crazy Joe" Clark, a tough principal who takes on an even tougher crowd of misfits and delinquents.  He gets them to succeed academically and vocationally, and he wins their respect with a combination of steely determination and self-sacrificing love.

The movie was based on a true story: Eastside High School in Paterson, New Jersey.  Yep.  My bishop was a teacher there.  Actually, he taught there before Joe Clark came and turned the school around -- when it was frighteningly underfunded and out of control.

"I'll tell you what: teaching is hard," he said again.  "The hardest thing I've ever done.  Harder than being a priest or a bishop.  Harder than working in a factory or owning your own business.  It's exhausting and it's thankless.  But you have to stay excited about it.  You have to know how important it is."

Thank you, Sayedna, for reminding me again of the magnitude of the task before me.  May I somehow find the strength to do it justice.

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