Philip Hilton scribbles,
It seems to be a common opinion among Christians that suffering is a kind of test sent by God. This, while a very common opinion, is only one explanation, and probably the least useful for dealing with suffering.
Suffering is far more than a kind of divine exam, sent to test you against your neighbors, so that God can assign places in heaven. God is prescient, and quite aware of where you will go; he’s also omniscient, and knows exactly where you are. Rather than any such arbitrary things, suffering is a kind of training.
Another common illusion is that suffering precludes happiness, and that people who suffer are sad. Equally false! As far as I have seen, suffering is a basic fact of life that results from activity of any sort. Consequently, there is no reason to believe that an exercising athlete is unhappy: he is certainly undergoing hard work, but he is doubtless happy. Suffering, whether physical or spiritual, is simply a kind of hard work.
Its basic reason is simple: people who do not suffer, while they may be very good people, can hardly improve. Hard work is the only way to do that. And suffering is that way.
In detail, suffering helps in two ways.
Firstly, it strengthens our confidence and central impulse. When one has for years relied on one guiding star, and found ways through swamps and forests through following it, one is very confident in that star. One does not feel the urge to follow another star. This, in its own way, is a kind of crutch, that precludes doubt about our course. Man can hardly survive doubt about his ultimate purpose; doubts about how to continue following a course are secondary.
Secondly, it strengthens us ourselves. We can hardly help building some great astronomy and geography as we follow our star. Similarly, we can hardly fail to build honesty, charity and clear-mindedness if we follow our conscience.
Thirdly, it makes us happy. People who purposely avoid pain are easy to find, but it is never as satisfying to avoid pain as to go through it and achieve something.
As long as we suffer for a just and honest cause, the suffering can hardly help but make us happier and better people.
Hey, folks. I thought we needed a little bit of an update, given our situation, and John gave me the go ahead. If anyone has any disagreements, these are all, of course, entirely up for discussion (if anyone wants to add or remove anything, let me know). On the other hand, until someone objects, these are in effect. Just a few points
-We don’t have any explicit rules about topics. It’s really just a grab bag of stuff. Generally, try to keep it sharp and organized.
-This is important. Read this one. We have seven contributors right now, and each one has an assigned day. We’ve been using these rather loosely for the past few months, and they’ve served their purpose, but I don’t think we need them anymore. Instead –
*IF you haven’t posted for seven days, please post again. It doesn’t matter what day it is.
*IF nobody has posted for three days, please post, even if it’s been less than seven days since your last post.
*BUT if someone has posted in the past three days, please don’t post, out of courtesy.
*AND please don’t post if you were the last person to post.
-We’re looking for more contributors. If you want to contribute, you need to have three of the current contributors agree to let you in. We really want some more people, so even if you can only post a few times a year, please get in touch with one of us. We’d appreciate it.
*Normally, three people need to vouch for you to get in.
That’s it. Stay cool. Nick.
Chapter 4
Love is a flower, love is a tear,
– Lilyroach Elizabeth
Oh Jack…
I made my escape.
I wondered into the street, dazed, wandering how Jack could do something like running up a large bill when he knew very well that I, who loved him as no man ever loved another woman, was depending on him to help me in my quest to pursue my father. Dreams lost; relationships gone afoul; opportunities ruined; friendships cooled; rivalries heated; despair instigated; hope confulgrated.
“Oh, Jack”, I shouted under my breath. “Oh, Jack, the very lace that tied my shoes – how could you? I gave you my heart!”
My heart wept, tears streaming down my face.
Days later, as the last of the salty tear drops was dripping down my freckled check. I met Mrs. Willowbend. She looked up from her brisk trot down the pebbly, pot-holed lane.
“Oh, my dear. The girl’s crying. What’s wrong?” she said, sympathetically.
Her voice was so beautiful even in old age, but in a different way. Her age only made her seem all the better in my eyes. I could see that she had had a much harder life then me.
“Oh, Mrs. Willowbend”, I intoned, “I cannot find my father, and now the one man I love has ran off with my cousin’s sister! I just need love and understanding.”
“There, there, my dear,” she said, patting me comfortingly, “I’m sure your father will turn up sooner or later.” She sighed. “I too have had my share of tribulation. I know how you feel.”
“Nobody knows how I feel!” I wailed. I placed my heavy head in my lap and felt like it would never come up again. Mrs. Willowbend came beside me and patted me on the back. Comfortingly.
“Listen,” said Mrs. Willowbend, after I had had a cry, and she had promised me some freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies which were to die for, “I need your help with the orphanage. We’ve some terribly naughty children that need disciplining.”
Mrs. Willowbend used to have a husband, but he’s dead. No one knows how.
“Oh, I love little children. Can I help?”
“Yes, of course you may, dear.”
Just then, I felt the world go out from under me, and everything went black. I saw Mrs. Willowbend chuckling evilly, and saying, “I’m so sorry, my dear, about your mother and father. Only… we needed some more orphans.” And then everything went dark. She laughed.
The next thing I remembered was the sound of water.
Chapter 5
My life on the boat was not very happy.
They kept her locked up with the rats down in the cellar. I cried very often and made friends with the rats. Her cell was about 4 by 6 feet, with old cinders from a pine tree. She had a little hole big enough to fit you’re pinky through that she could see out of, but it was mostly dark down in the depths of the ship, so she couldn’t see through it anyway. I was given a crust of bread and some water every few months.
The memories flooded over me. I was overwhelmed. I remembered the times when Jack and I would walk in the lush, emerald-green hills with the ochery-buff gold saffron leaves of autumn at the dawn of a bright, new day. And also the times, months later, when we would wander the auburn hills, our feet swooshing in the leaves. We would feel a complete sense of inner peace, an utter joy, and happiness, and peace, and love, and camaraderie.
keep trying, Cantaloupe
fight for happiness and love!
fight for it!
keep trying!
believe in yourself
That day, the Captain came down, and said, “Cantaloupe. I strongly advise you to marry me. I think you’ll find me a fine, charming, handsome, man,” he said, twirling his handlebar mustache.
“Oh, thou, fool,” she said. “My heart is already taken, reserved for a shoulder far finer, more charming, more handsome, more manly -”
“How dare you!” cried he. “You’re going back on the plank tomorrow morning.”
I was not sad. I was glad to be rid of this body, for this world was not for me.
Chapter 6
Meanwhile, I sat in my cell in the bottom of the boat. Tears streamed down my face. I dreamt of my mother, wiping the tears away from my face wit
h her warm palms. When would I be happy again? When would the world be back to normal?
Days past.
Slowly, ever so slowly, I lost all hope of rescue. I had no friends and everything was horrid.
As I sat in the cell, I thought I heard a noise. I looked out into the hall, and saw a dark, handsome, figure approaching me. The cell door opened and Antonio walked into my life. He was a sailor of average farm-stock. And he had lovely burgundy eyes.
“W-w-who are you?” I whispered, terrified.
“Never fear,” he said in a sincere, soft voice.
“I’ve come to break you out of this cell. I’ve come to help you find your father.”Antonio said, “But to get out of the cell, you must connect your soul with Nature.”
“How?” I asked, wailing.
“Try to feel what your father is feeling. Thinking. Right this minute. All around you,” he said, giving a flip of his beautiful black hair.
“But…how? H-h-how?”
“Just the spontaneous thoughts that burst forth from your soul, and the light of peace shining on your spirit. Just be yourself. One with nature.”
“I think…I think…I can see him now.”
“Good. What’s he thinking?”
“Joy!”
“Good. Yes.”
“Peace!”
“Good!”
“Happiness! Global communion from the same cup of love and joy and peace and happiness and love!”
“Good! Good!”
“Oh, Antonio,” I said, “I know! I know how to share the same thoughts with my father! This is wonderful.his is the best day of my life!”
This would be the last time I would be happy.
I felt that at last I had a soul mate. Antonio was my only friend in a grief-striken world. He was my deepest spiritual friend. Oh, Antonio, if only things could have worked out. Our love was so complete, so passionate, so full! Oh, Antonio, these were among the happiest moments of my life.
A step came from outside the cell. Antonio’s stark features looked alarmed, and he blew me a kiss and said, “Dearest thing, I’ll be with you tomorrow. Don’t worry about the plank. I have it all figured out.”
Antonio had dark eyes.
To be continued…
Hannah Roorda writes:
My sister and I wrote this story a couple of years ago, and I expect most of you have read it, but, if not, I hope you will find it enlightening. Oh, I’m sure you will. And if you have read it, and don’t wish to read it again, Nick assures me I can say, “Pooh to you!” I hope you’ll read and enjoy it again, anyway.
The Three Little Pigs and the Re-po Man
by Hannah and Sarah Roorda
Once, there were three strapping young pigs. They lived with their father and mother in a small house in the middle of nowhere (because the outskirts of nowhere are filled with old cellphone burial grounds). The two older pigs had tried and tried to teach their little brood good manners and common sense, but they had failed miserably. Father Pig attested that this failure was due to not enough beatings when the grunts were younger. Mother pig knew the reason was that they had not attended enough parenting seminars. Either way, the pigs were…pigs.
Father pig finally decided enough was enough and told the pigs that if they didn’t shape up he would kick them out of the house. A few days later Herbert, Henry and Herkimer were standing outside of their parent’s house with their ratty old suitcases. They had a quick conference and decided to go to the Big City. You know, the place where everyone lives in apartments and condos and orders pizza every night.
When they reached the Big City they all headed to the first real estate agency they could find. Herbert, the aesthetic, because he was very environmentally friendly, purchased a house made out of old plastic drinking straws. Henry bought a “tasteful log home, located in a middle-class neighborhood close to a laundromat”. Herkimer, the youngest, and also the smartest of the three, rented an apartment, conveniently located in the south half of the dugout of the Big City Baseball Stadium. He realized the importance of living in an apartment in the Big City.
The three pigs all spent monstrous amounts of money on throwing monstrous parties and soon they began to grow monstrous debts.
One day Mr. Wulf, the re-po man at the local bank, came to call on Herbert.
“Herbert Pig! I, with the powers vested in me by Big City Big National Bank demand you open this door and either pay me massive amounts of money or surrender all your earthly belongings! Mr. Pig! Let me come in!”
Herbert shouted back, “Look, fatso, I bought this house, and you and your big stupid bank can go jump off a large precipice! And furthermore, I protest, by my lovely facial hairs, your entry.”
Mr. Wulf sighed and then took a deep breath, and he huffed and he puffed and he blew the house in. While drinking straw homes are very aesthetically and environmentally friendly, they are not properly fortified against re-po men blowing them down. It collapsed, knocking the pig out. Mr.Wulf then took all of poor Herbert’s nice things, including his plasma TV, his blue beanbag chair, and all of the lovely rose china he inherited from his Aunt Hildegarde. When Herbert awoke, he decided he’d just move in with Henry. Which he did, while Henry was at the laundromat.
The next day Mr. Wulf came to call on Henry.
“Mr. Pig! I, as Lord High Re-po Man of Big City Big National Bank require and demand you fling wide the portal to your home and yield to me either all the money in your cookie jar, or I shall be forced to refurbish my house with your belongings! Mr. Pig! Let me come in!”
Henry was off teaching Herbert how to use the laundromat, and so did not answer. Of course, Mr. Wulf, being a re-po man, took the liberty to assume Henry was simply sullen, (as people often are to re-po men), and huffed, and puffed, and blew Henry’s house down. Henry, unfortunately, had not bothered to have the foundation of his house checked by Big City’s Home, Apartment, and Condo Inspector, (who, by the way, in only 3 months, earned his degree at home, as you can, too!) and it being weak, fell in. If only people paid attention to housing codes. Mr. Wulf was very dissatisfied with this, as all he could salvage were Henry’s rock collection and his avocado colored barstools. Returning from the laundromat and finding the remains of the house, Henry took Herbert and his clean laundry to move in with Herkimer.
The next day Mr. Wulf came to call on Herkimer. He was slightly thrown off by the location of Herkimer’s house, but being a re-po man, staunchly knocked on the cardboard door.
“Herkimerkus J. Pig! I demand, require, and insist you allow me, Big City’s Big National Bank’s Re-po Man to enter this dwelling place and either claim everything you have behind that big picture of your mother in your front hall, or take the picture, and everything else you keep in this pit. Including, but not limited to your ducky shower curtain and flowered bedspread (we know everything, Mr. Pig!). Mr. Pig! Let me in!” The three pigs, who were hiding under the aforementioned bedspread, were very concerned. What would the baseball fans do if Mr. Wulf blew the stadium down? And how could a baseball stadium stand up to a re-po man?
But Herkimer bravely answered, “Mr. Wulf! I refuse, by the hairs on my chinny chin chin,” (he was quite prone to swearing when angered) “and I further request that you stop making dents in my door! It’s rental property, remember!”
But Mr. Wulf was not in the least taken aback. He’s a re-po man, after all. And so, drawing a deep breath, he began to huff and puff.
However, he’d chosen a particularly bad time to be assailing dugout dwellers. This was right in the middle of the 28th inning of a particularly long, drawn out baseball game. The fans were particularly tense, and were particularly angered when Mr. Wulf suddenly began huffing and puffing particularly loudly in the dugout. Mistaking Herkimer and his brothers for their star players, they stormed to their rescue. Sadly, Mr. Wulf was trampled. Actually, the fans got so carried away that the pigs were only saved from that same fate by hiding behind the sturdy cardboard door.
The moral of this story is simple. It’s okay to be in debt as long as you have someone to trample the re-po man!
And in case anyone was wondering, Big City Baseball Team won 3.7–0 against Large City Baseball Team.
Piping down the valleys wild
Piping songs of pleasant glee
On a cloud I saw a child.
And he laughing said to me.
Pipe a song about a Lamb:
So I piped with merry chear,
Piper pipe that song again–
So I piped, he wept to hear.
Drop thy pipe thy happy pipe
Sing thy songs of happy chear,
So I sung the same again
While he wept with joy to hear.
Piper sit thee down and write
In a book that all may read–
So he vanish’d from my sight,
And I pluck’d a hollow reed.
And I made a rural pen,
And I stain’d the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs,
Every child may joy to hear
This is the introduction to Blake’s Songs of Innocence, which are coupled with the Songs of Experience and published together as one work.
It is in trochaic tetrameter: -. -. -. -(.) which is often used for nursery rhymes (e.g. JACK and JILL ran UP the HILL). So the style has a sentimental air; and the diction’s just as bad. It’s bubbling over with wide-eyed bliss, and it’s full of piping and merry cheer and joy. (Some of it’s a little idiotic sounding — “the water clear”? Oh, yes, isn’t it marvelous that the water is clear?) In any case, if anyone thinks there’s any value in this fluff in and of itself, please keep it to yourself.
But against this background of sentimentality, it seems to me there’s something really interesting going on. The shepherd, since he is in the first person, can best be taken as Blake himself. He begins as a simple minstrel boy. Now, the laughing child on the cloud is an important image. The cloud is a clear sign of divinity, so the first thing that comes to mind is that this is the baby Jesus. This is supported by the fact that Blake mentions the baby Jesus elsewhere in the Songs of Innocence (The Lamb, Cradle Song). The baby Jesus is characterized by two things. First, as mentioned, the infant is divine; God is being specifically conceived of as a little child in the Songs of Innocence. Second, the infant’s nature is to be joyful; even before the minstrel begins his singing, the babe is laughing on his little cloud.
Here I think it’s important to understand that Blake wasn’t a traditional Christian. He probably didn’t believe in the trinity as most Christians do. For him, Jesus was not so much God the Son, as God the Man. He was, if you know anything about Hinduism, like an avatar. So the babe’s physical appearance does not symbolizes the nature of God the Son (in whom Blake didn’t believe). Rather, for the purposes of the Songs of Innocence, Blake is portraying the the one-personed God as childlike and joyful.
Anyway. This child-God makes three requests of the minstrel, one after another. First, he asks the minstrel to pipe a song about a Lamb. This capitalization of the L is significant. It suggests that the child-God is requesting that the minstrel pipe a song not just about any old lamb, but about the Lamb of God; the child-God himself. He’s asking the minstrel to make music for him and about him (how you’d pipe a song about a lamb is beyond me, but whatever). The child-God’s second request is that the minstrel put this song to words, and then sing it. Note that the child is very touched by both the piping and the singing — this kind of open emotion would have been approved of by the Romantics.*
The third and final request of the child-God is for the minstrel is to write a book with happy songs for everyone to read. Think about this one last one; the child-God is asking the minstrel to compose songs expressing the child-God’s nature for the world. In this commission, the minstrel becomes a prophet. And so this poem establishes what a prophet’s function is — what Blake’s function is — from the point of view of the Songs of Innocence. It demonstrates the point of the rest of the Songs of Innocence: to express the divine nature, which is childlikeness and joy. It’s a key and a lens to the whole rest of the work.
Since Blake was a masterful artist and symbolist, it’s worth taking a look at his illustration to his poem. I’ve linked it for you here. The shepherd raises his eyes to the child-God on his cloud, who shines heavenly light down on the face of the shepherd. The shepherd’s sheep are in the background; on the left is a tree, and on the right are two trees entwined. I don’t understand the symbolism of the trees; any insight would be appreciated.
Anyhow, hope you were interested.
*I’m not sure Blake can be considered as a Romantic himself, although his thoughts on Romanticism were mostly supportive. Regardless, though, I think here he’s not trying so much to sell Romanticism, as to identify it with Innocence.
