anthropology

The Diving Bell and The Butterfly is based on the memoir of Jean-Dominque Bauby, editor-in-chief of Elle magazine. After suffering a massive stroke, Jean-Dominique lived with locked-in syndrome, meaning that though his mind was active and healthy, his body, except for his eyes and minor head movement, was paralyzed.

A speech therapist devised a system so that Jean-Dominique could communicate by blinking his left eye (his right eye had to be sewn closed because of problems--I can't stand watching anything related to surgery, needles, or sharp objects and eyes). She repeated each letter of the alphabet (arranged according to popularity rather than in alphabetical order), and he blinked at the correct letter to spell words.

After Jean-Dominique learned the system, he contacted the publisher that had recently signed a contract with him. He wanted to write his memoir.

This movie is some Swiss Family Robinson story. It doesn't gloss over the ugliness of the disease, making it some beautiful conduit without which Jean-Dominique would have never discovered himself. It is wonderfully acted, directed and filmed, often in a documentary style. When Jean-Dominique first wakes in the hospital after coming out of a coma (and for quite a bit after that), you see everything from his hazy perspective. My husband and I cringed at the blurry, vacillating objects. It's hard to watch, in other words, attempting to give you a taste of Jean-Dominique's adjustment.

Jean-Dominique is not suddenly some saint because of his stroke and syndrome. He feels sorry for himself; he doesn't always treat people well. In fact, at times, he can be an ass (at least in the movie--who knows what's fictionalized and what's true to form).

But here's what amazed me: even at this point, when his body betrays him, when he cannot function as he once did, he responds with creativity and culture. He chooses to use his imagination. This is how integral creating is to humanity. I found myself wondering if he, in fact, acted more fully human than I do watching TV on the couch every night (or in the office crammed together with my husband on the one overstuffed chair, since we no longer have cable and watch TV shows on the Internet). This shamed me. How can I complain about the difficulties of writing? He awoke early in the morning, considered what he wanted to write, memorized it, then dictated it by eye-blinks later that morning for four hours each day. No surprisingly, his book became a bookseller.

But he didn't have much time to enjoy that. He died ten days after it released.

Writing the book wasn't about acknowledgement. It was about creating itself and about communicating.

After Logan's painful, almost fatal surgery (the good thing about a prequel is you know Wolverine doesn't die!), he runs naked into a barn while the farmowners, driving up to their home, look on. Featured prominently on the back of their truck is a bumper sticker: "Not all who wander are lost."

This Tolkien quote does two things.

I'm up today at the Tapestry Blog talking about what it means to be human.

From the post:

"Flip through Scripture, and you'll find that while God uses angels to close mouths of lions (no comments from the peanut gallery), accompany His chosen through fire, and announce good tidings of great joy, He more often uses ordinary, even disgusting humans to do extraordinary, beautiful things."

They call him Superman.

They also call him Tiger Woods in a Speedo, but I'm not sure what to do with that one.

He did amazing things. He did the impossible. (How did he win that 100 meter butterfly anyway?)

They call them the Golden Girls.

(And I don't think they mean four old ladies.) 

They haven't lost a game in over a year. That makes 108 straight sets. In a row. 14 consecutive Olympic matches. Two consecutive gold medals in volleyball. No one's done that before.

I can't remember if this is part three or part four, but I assure you it's the last part.

I didn't know what to expect when I began telling you my story. Your responses and support means a lot to me. One never knows if when one opens their mouth if it'll be like the talking stain from the Superbowl commercial. So thank you for your encouragement. I've needed it these days.

I left you yesterday at my mental breakdown of sorts. I said that I had tried to force the jigsaw pieces. That's not true. No, I hid pieces. They slid between sofa cushions, beneath the fridge, under the candy dish on the TV.

My jigsaw puzzle picture was incomplete.

Every Friday night, I went to the Dallas Symphony (the seminary provided free tickets through some donor or something). And every Friday night, I left full and empty at the same time. Full of music. Empty because it wasn't me anymore. I wasn't up there playing.

As I sit to write this, I don't know where it will go. I don't know how the threads of the story will weave. I admit, it'll be rough. But stick with me as we figure out from whence came this imaginative, female theologian who loves the arts and how she came to accept that.

Inspired by Christianne, I've been wanting to do a post about my journey to femininity (is that a word? and while we're on the subject, is it towards or toward?). I want to share how I came to be okay with being both feminine and theologian.

But then I questioned myself--is it a matter of being feminine and theologian? or is it a matter of being my personality type and theologian? Perhaps both. In fact, I suspect both.

Which begs the question, what does it mean to be feminine?

Without spoilers:

For Christmas, my mom gave me this handy-dandy froth maker. It's a small hand tool that whips milk into shape.

In other words, it makes ordinary coffee into a celebration.

When did we stop making our own froth? When did we come to depend on Starbucks?

You must realize by now that I'm not just talking java. I'm talking imagination.

When did we depend on others to imagine for us? When did we stop singing songs and writing poetry and sketching landscapes?