Memory, that winged host that flew above me

Have you heard about the book club Hayley at Carrots for Michaelmas is hosting about Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisited? I'm thrilled because Brideshead  is my favorite book. Ever since it was on my summer reading list senior year of high school, I've re-read it about once a year. On every return visit I've changed a little, and so I notice or enjoy new things. The notes my 17 year old self feverishly made in multi-colored pencil seem a little silly today.

Brideshead Revisted is a great novel becaue its decades-long story has something for everyone. Carefree college antics, coming-of-age angst, love affairs, guilt, religious identity, family drama, the place of Catholics in English society, and some great papist insider jokes. There a so many different facets to ponder, and I've added a page to this blog tracking some of my favorite recent commentary on it.

For me, BR continues to be an obsession because it's all about decorative arts, yo. Architecture and home furnishings are practically the star of the show. Like the Flyte family in Charles' life, BR passages kept popping into my head when I started my master's program at a "museum and country estate."

"Is the dome by Inigo Jones too? It looks later."
"Oh Charles, don't be such a tourist. What does it matter when it was built, if it's pretty?"
"It's the sort of thing I like to know."

All the descriptions of the Flyte family house make so much more sense now. On my first visit to Winterthur, I scoffed at its seemingly redundant acres of antique furniture. Gradually, as I learned to guide tourists through the corridors, I discovered the joy of paying close visual attention to the things around me. After all, historical context is the sort of thing I like to know too.

It was an aesthetic education to live within those walls, to wander from room to room, from the Soanesque library to the Chinese drawing-room, adazzle with gilt pagodas and nodding mandarins, painted paper and Chippendale fret-work, from the Pompeian parlor ... to sit, hour after hour, in the pillared shade looking out over the terrace.

The Chinese Parlor at Winterthur, full of painted paper and Chippendale fret-work.

Even though Charles Ryder is a total jerk sometimes, I do identify with his artistic journey. Eventually shedding his lazy undergrad ways, he soaks up all the art around him, tries his first big painting project, and eventually makes a career out of documenting historic architecture. As the existential trauma that is grad school fades, I tend to remember fondly my two years "in arcadia": with unlimited access to an eight-story mansion.

Most of the time I use my "looking at furniture" master's degree to make obnoxious comments about the background in Downton Abbey scenes (oh man, that William and Mary high chest in Mrs. Crawley's parlor), but I'm still obsessed with photographing architecture. Like Charles, I feel closer to the big truths in life when I'm pondering beautiful things. 

7 NYC Quick Takes

Linking up with Jen Fulweiler at Conversion Diary for 7 Quick Takes. Her new memoir, Something Other Than God, just arrived in the mail and I am super pumped to read it!

It's been a while since I've told any commuter stories, so here are some random NYC-ish things that have happened lately. If you're curious what life in New York is really like, Nathan Pyle's Basic NYC Tips and Etiquette pretty much nails the good, the bad, and the strategic positioning of it.

by Nathan Pyle

1. I gave a man directions on my subway ride to work, then he got mad at me for not knowing where the station's elevator was. 
   
2.  Lest you think all New Yorkers are rude, the next day I bonded with the man who got stuck in a traffic median with me waiting for the crosswalk sign to change. He joked that he would witness for me if I got hit by a bus; I helped him locate the nearest ATM. Meanwhile another man across from us decide to try and outrun the crossing traffic. "Hey, you wanna hit me mofo?!"
   
3. The subway is always a weird combination of high and low social brackets. One night at Chambers Street, a smelly/probably mentally ill guy got on and proceeded to stumble around the car belching and yelling at random intervals while clutching a Powerade bottle.  At one point he stood right over me. I alternately kept repeating to myself "This person is the Face of Christ, this person is the Face of Christ" and "Please don't vomit on my head."
   Then he got off at 14th Street and was replaced by a chick carrying a Louis Vuitton bag. She also skittered around the car, but because she couldn't keep her balance in her Louboutin heels.
   
4. A few Saturdays ago I hit up some places on Museum Mile and rode the NYC bus for the first time. Taking the M1 ten blocks from the Whitney to the Met took just about as long as walking. As an added bonus, I got to fight Upper East Side older ladies in structured jackets for personal space. They do not mess around.
   
   
5. Speaking of uptown women, yesterday I got a call from someone looking for weekday (?) brunch recommendations near my museum. For a group of 20 "ladies." The way their leader said "I don't really know Brooklyn," we might as well have been discussing Afghanistan. She practically gasped when I mentioned the new (and expensive) Hill Country Barbeque up the street. "That doesn't really sound like brunch."
   
6. Don't worry ma'am, the women of King's County still keep it classy, even if we do sometimes eat peasant cuts of meat on our lunch breaks. In Duane Reade last week I overheard someone telling her friends how she's overdue for her weekly manicure. "I was gardening at my mom's and now my nail are all farkakte!"
   
7. For us working stiffs, the endless cheap ethnic cuisine options are one of the best things to love about NYC. My office's best kept lunch secret is the local Hare Krishna temple vegetarian lunch buffet. It's like any food made with love by church ladies, only with more Indian spices. No one tries to hand you a flower like in Airplane, they're just all "Do you want cheesecake with that?" It's amazing.
   Sadly, the building is up for sale and some developer will probably make it into a hotel. Oh well, complaining about long gone favorites is practically the national pastime in this city.

An Open Letter to the Archdiocese of New York About Holy Innocents

Dear Cardinal Dolan,

Greetings in Christ! Like you, I am a transplant to the NYC area with Midwestern roots. It was an honor to attend the young adult Mass you celebrated at St. Patrick's Cathedral last December. Your joyful witness to our Catholic faith is such an inspiration.

It's come to my attention that the Archdiocese of New York is considering closing several churches. It's always a shame to see a parish go, but I get it. Neighborhood demographics change, and we're no longer in an era where multiple ethnic parishes need to co-exist within blocks of each other. Urban dioceses now find themselves with more real estate than they can handle. New York is an old city full of historic buildings, but it's also constantly evolving.

Among the parishes under consideration for closure is Holy Innocents on West 37th Street. Its closure would be a great loss to the spiritual life of the this city and a regrettable mistake.

The parish entrance on West 37th. 

I've gotten to know the parishes of Midtown West because of my daily commute from New Jersey to Brooklyn through Penn Station. Once Penn was a magnificent landmark, a beautiful space carefully designed by a famous architect. But Manhattan changed, as it always does, and the old Penn was deemed unnecessary. You know the rest - good design was demolished and replaced with a smaller dungeon. Today that unnecessary, beautiful old station is sorely missed and needed. The new Penn is too overcrowded to meet commuters' needs, let alone elevate their daily lives.

When I get weary from spending two hours a day in crowded underground metal boxes, I know there are refuges of peace and grace not far away. At first glance, consolidating the parishes of Midtown West might seem like an obvious practical move. There are three churches within five blocks of Penn Station, an embarrassment of religious riches. The largest of these, St. Francis, offers an impressive array of sacrament times and ministries, seemingly enough to serve the area. Both St. Francis and Holy Innocents have been godsends on bad days. St. Francis is like the department store of sacraments - it's big, convenient, and offers a wide selection to suit your needs. Mass, adoration, and confession happen nonstop during rush hour. I'm eternally grateful for the kind wisdom offered by Franciscan friars willing to get up early so we can sleepily stare each other down in a confessional at 8am.

If St. Francis is Macy's, Holy Innocents is an independent boutique. Its building is smaller and more intimate, marked by a small neon cross peeking out between wholesale clothing shops and a kosher falafel/shwarma place. It has fewer Mass times, but what it does offer is superb. The reverent liturgies there are exquisite and even better, accessible. Attend any of their Latin masses, and you'll see everyone from commuters in business attire to the kid in a plastic vest who was hawking tour bus tickets outside. Getting to know the extraordinary form of the Mass can be challenging. To us born after Vatican II, this part of our Catholic heritage feels like a foreign country. Holy Innocents makes our liturgical patrimony feel one of the rich cultural experiences available here in NYC, ready for new explorers to dive right in. At other homes of the EF I've felt like an outsider, but at Holy Innocents I've only found a warm welcome with humility, not snobbery. 

The Constantino Brumidi mural at Holy Innocents

The EF Mass could happen at any parish, but there are two more reasons not to close this gem of a church.

1. Closing Holy Innocents would mean the loss of an important artist's work. The mural behind the altar is an historic fresco by Constantino Brumidi, the same Italian immigrant who decorated the rotunda of the US Capitol building in the 1860s. Brumidi is so significant, he posthumously received the Congressional Medal of Honor in 2012. He left Italy because he was on the outs with Pope Gregory XVI, so a painting he did for the Church is an ironic rarity. Much as I love the Apotheosis of Washington, the sacrifice of Calvary is even more valuable. The parish has already invested a good deal of time and money to restore the mural's original brilliance. The scaffolding currently surrounding St. Patrick's Cathedral demonstrates the Archdiocese's commitment to historic preservation, so I know the Church can continue to keep up with the federal government in promotion of great art.

Brumidi's Apotheosis of Washington mural in the Capitol rotunda
(Via Architect of the Capitol)

2.  On a more practical note, Midtown West is just too crowded for just one parish. The soon-to-open 7 subway line extension and Hudson Yards redevelopment are only going to bring more traffic to the West Side. (My job involves transit news, so I have subway construction on the brain.) If there's a Duane Reade every ten feet in this town, surely one busy neighborhood can handle multiple churches.

For example, on Good Friday my husband and I initially planned to attend the 3 pm liturgy at St. Francis since it was earlier than other nearby offerings. Arriving at 2:45, we found It was already standing room only with packed aisles. So we walked up six blocks to the 3:30 at Holy Innocents, which was also well attended. If St. Francis is that busy now, imagine the crowds with two more parishes' worth of attendees. 

Please, don't make the same mistake the railroads did with Penn Station. Holy Innocents is cherished now and elevates the lives of many New Yorkers. It may be even more needed in the future.

God bless,
Sarah D. 

First Dance

Grace is doing a linkup about first dance songs, so here's ours. We're only newlyweds for one more month, so I better get in the wedding pictures while I can!

We didn't really have an official song during our 4 years of dating. Most of the time we were listening to music to pass the time while we were apart. Despite our nerdy mind-meld at times, the Southern Baron and I have very different musical impulses. He dreams of listening to Wagner's entire Ring Cycle nonstop on a road trip, while I can happily memorize the lyrics to any stupid pop song within two listens. When we first fell for each other, he sent me a gorgeous Chopin nocturne and I emailed him Aretha Franklin's "Baby I Love You."

We do associate certain songs with missing one another, especially on the long drives back and forth for weekend visits. He would always text me when Doc Watson's "Shady Grove" came on. "Ain't no gal on this whole world that's prettier than mine." One Republic was one of my highway staples, and their song "All This Time" would always have me crying into my steering wheel somewhere along I-95. "All this time we've been waiting for each other...Got all this love, can't waste it on another/ So I'm straight in a straight line, running back to you."

Classics and folk rock are two genres we can agree on though. The Wailin Jennys became a favorite of our visits, and were playing on the car stereo as we drove home from our engagement dinner. Their song "Asleep At Last" was an easy choice for our first dance. It describes the happiness and relief we felt at finally being together forever.

Be my asleep at last

Kiss me slow and hold me fast

Be my sail and be my mast

In the blue forever cast your love

Far from pain and past

Be my this one’s meant to last

It's a slow song, so we didn't pull out any wild dance moves. Having a calm romantic moment together was the perfect antidote to all the crazy schedule juggling the week before. Back when I was on my college's ballroom dance team I had dreams of elaborate choreographed wedding dances. Maybe now that we live in the same state we can finally take dance lessons together. But the memories of our sweet and simple first dance are way better than what my college self imagined.

Photos by JeanneMarie Photography

What is "Biblical Womanhood" Anyway?

The memoir of "a year doing X crazy lifestyle stunt" is a well-established book trend (gimmick?) right now,

and one I'm sure historians of the future will love trying to dissect. Personally, I think we love these stories because we're suspicious that modern life has all the keys to happiness, and it's nice to know that you can test drive other ways of living or find fulfillment by challenging yourself through some project.

Rachel Held Evans' A Year of Biblical Womanhood: How a Liberated Woman Found Herself  Sitting on Her Roof, Covering Her Head, and Calling Her Husband Master definitely fits this trend, and it's one of the best I've  read. It reminded me of Gretchen Rubin's The Happiness Project, with its reading list and monthly themes, but with the added fun of Biblical exegesis. Evens grew up in Evangelical Christianity, a church where the adjective "Biblical" serves as a stamp of approval and as a prescription for proper behavior. Through her year of exploring the women of the Bible, Evans analyzes her religious culture's expectations for women, especially how the domestic maven of Proverbs 31 often serves as an achievement checklist.

Rarely has anyone asked me if my life is "Biblical" enough, but being a Catholic woman comes with its own set of baggage. There aren't many saints who led a "regular" life - most swore off marriage and/or died grisly maiden deaths. You have to navigate modesty dress codes as well as vocation angst and the possibility that all the good men are either taken or discerning the priesthood. May crowning selection can feel like a homecoming  queen competition and then there are the debates over if and how to use things like NFP, homeschooling, and mantillas.

In her Year of Biblical Womanhood, Evans forces herself to tackle some of the feminine practices she's avoided, like learning to cook and sew. She puts coins in a swear jar of sorts every time she's "contentious" and practices silence at a monastery. Some of the more conservative habits, like head coverings and ritual impurity during menstruation, she's glad to abandon, but trying them gives her new-found respect for the more conservative women who embrace them. I loved her email friendship with an Orthodox rabbi's wife in Israel and visits with Amish women. In each new experience there are spiritual lessons and opportunities for humility and grace.

In Evans' own words, she also "subjects common assumptions regarding 'biblical womanhood' to an examination alongside the actual biblical texts and explores how hermeneutical biases are at work in our interpretation of this concept." Contextual analysis, Hebrew vocabulary, and even some goofy satire challenge buzzwords and sacred cows of Evangelical culture. For example, she turns Proverbs 31 on its head, countering that it was meant as a litany of praise for feminine genius, not a benchmark of requirements. The Bible doesn't uphold one master template of womanhood. Rather, its heroines are often outsiders, risk takers, and paradigm challengers.


There were many moments when I looked up from the page and thought, "Geez, I'm so glad I'm Catholic." The Blessed Mother's a lot to live up to, but at least we have a New Eve to balance out womankind's role in the Fall. Evans tells of preposterous sexism, like debates whether female Sunday school teachers violate Paul's order to be silent in church and wedding sermon admonitions that wives mustn't "let themselves go" lest their husbands be tempted to stray. Then there is the radical patriarchy crowd, which translates the Hebrew ezer, or helpmeet, as "personal assistant and comfort woman." Evans examines New Testament verses on marriage and realizes that Christian married sexuality is really about mutual self-giving and service. OMGJPIITOB! That's exactly it.

I'm so glad that I share my spiritual journey with courageous, outspoken women ranging from my namesake, Abraham's wife, all the way to philosopher and martyr Edith Stein.  I'm grateful for the Catholic tradition of celibacy in the religious life, which challenges the notions that women must live under a man's jurisdiction or that men are bundles of animal urges that must be properly satiated. Both scripture and the lives of the saints are packed with women who "prophesy," teach, and give witness.

Evans' book inspired me and also challenged some of my own preconceptions. Just as there is no exact Biblical woman prototype, there is no one papist female paradigm. (I like to call her "Catholic Barbie.") Fears of judgement reflect my own self-criticism, not the spiteful side-eye of ladies who love the rosary more than I. Women who wear veils to Mass or homeschool a large family aren't doing it to condemn me, just as I don't wear dresses to Mass just to spite my friend who shows up in jeans.

I was never enough of a "Little Flower" to be May Crowning material. At my First Communion, I was assigned the first reading instead - apparently my literacy trumped any appearance of delicate piety. And maybe I'm ok with that. Literacy is a gift I have to offer. I still read at Mass, and being a lector makes me feel connected to the life of our parish.

Last week I did another First Reading, this time an excerpt of the Acts Pentecost speech. When I lost myself in the words, I could feel Peter and the Psalmist moving through me. At that moment, I wasn't just my literate self; I was a vehicle for the Holy Spirit, just one of many down the line. That's what God calls all of us women to be.