The Beginning
Tomorrow I turn 35. A number in the middle of two decades of adulthood.
On paper, I have checked off the requisite milestones (that collection of exterior markers of success) – a family, a home, a respectable vocation, and a physique that is a little bit soft but not totally displeasing.
I was born on a Thursday in 1983, somewhere in the Western world.
According to the poem Monday's Child, first recorded in 1838 in Bray's Traditions of Devonshire – while other children are born bonny and blithe and even gay – Thursday's child has 'far to go'. Other kids get to be pretty and cheerful and I am a WIP. A work in progress.
I came across Hayley Stewart a while ago. She started out as a Protestant but soon she would convert to Catholicism (Orthodoxy was the other choice) because she felt 'a hunger' for the Eucharist.
I was born into the cradle of Orthodoxy and my spiritual ache is assuaged to an extent. I have not built the same home environment that my parents gave us though. I yearn for that life in Christ where the home runs like a clock attuned to the spiritual seasons.
I have read critiques of contemporary feminism, that they do not honour the interior, secret, communal life women had together before industrialisation. We're torn from our sisterhood too soon, the kind where you gain knowledge and support from the women in your extended family.
We are disparate units forced to function as provider, nurturer and somehow retain a busy and fulfilling social life, and an Instagram body – a hard masculine physique with exaggerated haunches. We're not only separate from each other, we are in competition with one another.
We become embroiled in 'mommy wars', the constant comparing and judging of mothering skills, children's development, who knows what else, birth stories? 'Did you have a natural birth?' We fear failure and judgment at every turn. We're in a hyperactive pecking order where the Internet becomes the biggest chicken coop ever conceived of.
In reading Tolstoy's Anna Karenina I felt crushing nostalgia when the women in Kitty's family gathered together in the evening on the terrace of Levin's country home to make jam, patch blankets and take in shirts – to be in each other's company and to talk of their burdens and hopes. When is the last time I felt the dusk on my face, and clean air, and quiet feminine company? We all feel deep in our sinew that there was once an unrushed existence where God and nature were present.
Not to become embroiled in the political mire of today – the dismantling of society to an extent where the inmates are running the asylum – but who doesn't despair?
Who doesn't despair for the sick world?
This will be my story how I build an Orthodox home in a busy modern life, and to at least heal my own small world.
On paper, I have checked off the requisite milestones (that collection of exterior markers of success) – a family, a home, a respectable vocation, and a physique that is a little bit soft but not totally displeasing.
I was born on a Thursday in 1983, somewhere in the Western world.
According to the poem Monday's Child, first recorded in 1838 in Bray's Traditions of Devonshire – while other children are born bonny and blithe and even gay – Thursday's child has 'far to go'. Other kids get to be pretty and cheerful and I am a WIP. A work in progress.
I came across Hayley Stewart a while ago. She started out as a Protestant but soon she would convert to Catholicism (Orthodoxy was the other choice) because she felt 'a hunger' for the Eucharist.
I was born into the cradle of Orthodoxy and my spiritual ache is assuaged to an extent. I have not built the same home environment that my parents gave us though. I yearn for that life in Christ where the home runs like a clock attuned to the spiritual seasons.
I have read critiques of contemporary feminism, that they do not honour the interior, secret, communal life women had together before industrialisation. We're torn from our sisterhood too soon, the kind where you gain knowledge and support from the women in your extended family.
We are disparate units forced to function as provider, nurturer and somehow retain a busy and fulfilling social life, and an Instagram body – a hard masculine physique with exaggerated haunches. We're not only separate from each other, we are in competition with one another.
We become embroiled in 'mommy wars', the constant comparing and judging of mothering skills, children's development, who knows what else, birth stories? 'Did you have a natural birth?' We fear failure and judgment at every turn. We're in a hyperactive pecking order where the Internet becomes the biggest chicken coop ever conceived of.
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| Alicia Vikander as Kitty Scherbatsky in the 2012 film adaptation of Anna Karenina |
In reading Tolstoy's Anna Karenina I felt crushing nostalgia when the women in Kitty's family gathered together in the evening on the terrace of Levin's country home to make jam, patch blankets and take in shirts – to be in each other's company and to talk of their burdens and hopes. When is the last time I felt the dusk on my face, and clean air, and quiet feminine company? We all feel deep in our sinew that there was once an unrushed existence where God and nature were present.
Not to become embroiled in the political mire of today – the dismantling of society to an extent where the inmates are running the asylum – but who doesn't despair?
Who doesn't despair for the sick world?
This will be my story how I build an Orthodox home in a busy modern life, and to at least heal my own small world.
You sound kind of like Shauna Niequist. Very encouraging! Not sure what Alicia Vikander has to do with it. Love you, Muahs xxx
ReplyDeleteIt is Kitty Scherbatsky as played by Alicia Vikander in the Joe Wright film adaptation of 'Anna Karenina' (2012). I have to look up Niequist. Thanks for the encouragement.
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