The New Hysteria

It used to be that going for a walk or spending a couple of hours at Starbucks was a routine undertaking. No more! The best way I know to describe it is to say that there just seem to be a lot more people -- everywhere. It's like the worst-case scenario of how overpopulation might someday force us to live.

Take yesterday, for instance: an ordinary, damp Thursday, the last day of February. I wrapped myself up in coat, hat, scarf, and gloves, and for a change of pace, took a ramble through the neighborhood instead of the park. Since it was mid-afternoon, gray and chilly, I figured I'd have the streets to myself. It's a pleasant neighborhood for walking, bounded on one side by a wooded area and filled with an eclectic group of mid-century homes. There's generally not a lot of traffic, just birds, stately trees, and quiet houses.

But what had gotten into everybody yesterday? As I cut through the hospital's back parking lot and headed up the first hill, there was a whole procession of cars climbing the rise with me. As I turned left onto the next street and descended a gentle knoll, I continued to see traffic, and it only increased the farther I went. I had to look at my watch a couple of times, wondering if I had mistaken the time. Normally, traffic picks up on these back streets at 4:30 or so, and it was well before then. I couldn't imagine what so many people were doing in such a quiet residential area in the middle of the day. It was like a full-fledged passeggiata, but with cars instead of people.

I can't count the number of times I've been walking in the Arboretum lately and had to stop and wait for someone carrying on a loud conversation to go on past. One of the pleasures of walking in the park is to enjoy the birds singing, listen to the wind in the trees, and hear yourself think -- or so it used to be. It wouldn't be so bad if people didn't seem so aggressively determined to share what they have to say. I was recently on the path behind the garden, strolling toward the bridge over the hollow place, when I heard a young woman coming up behind me yelling breathlessly into her phone, "And then, I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO DO!" I had to step off the path, contemplate the trees, and count to thirty until she was out of sight. Another day, I had to sit on a bench and pretend to be tying my shoe while another woman, who seemed determined not to pass me no matter how slowly I walked, carried on an energetic conversation about blood thinners. I sat and soaked up the sun until she disappeared.

Then there's the local Starbucks. I've spent many hours there, studying, reading, or writing, and it used to be that you expected it to be busy only on Saturdays and Sundays. The crowd is usually a combination of regulars, students, and people from the neighborhood, which is a fairly mixed demographic. Lately, however, it has taken on more the frenzied atmosphere of a cocktail party at full tilt rather than the cafe feeling of days past, complete with ear-splitting conversation, immoderate laughter, and people who seem desperate to engage your attention. You almost have the impression that Andy Warhol is going to show up any minute. Or Truman Capote. Someone like that.

I'm not dogging myself. For a middle-aged girl, I've held up pretty well. But when I tussle my MacBook, power cord, and iced coffee into the only available seat to find myself nose to nose with a stranger looking like a slightly creepy version of Michael Fassbender in Jane Eyre, who apparently has nothing to do but send come-hither signals . . . well, I just start to wonder, that's all. You just don't meet Mr. Rochester in Starbucks (or in elevators or concert crowds either; he's a fictional character).

The next time I sat in that corner, I kept noticing a young woman in an adjacent chair, playing with her hair and staring at me. In both cases, it was just too, well, weird, and I had to get up and move.

On another occasion, I had to endure the carrying voice of a local radio personality who had apparently decided to call everyone he knew while waiting for a dinner companion. One of the rules of engagement seems to be that if someone is going to have a loud conversation, they'll have it directly across from me and make eye contact as often as possible. I notice that a number of people besides me still come into Starbucks with books and computers, and I can only surmise that they've been working mightily on their powers of concentration.

I'm not sure what's up with all these noisy, aggressive, in-your-face people, or why there seem to be so many of them. Maybe it's a form of temporary insanity. It's rather like being in a crowd of cawing, competing crows with bad manners and no concept of the indoor voice. I'm hoping the flock will suddenly take to the air and fly north for the summer . . . I believe there are plenty of wide open spaces in the Arctic. In the meantime, there are always ear plugs.

What's in a Weekend?

O for a Muse of fire.

I started a new book this week -- this time, it's a novel. It's a story I've tried to write before, without success, but this time, having already written another book, I may be able to bring it in for a landing. I now know that doing something daunting one time can be enough to break up your mental reservations about what you are and aren't capable of for good. Actually, that's one of the themes of the book.

It's not exactly true to say this is my first novel, because I did finish one during National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) about seven years ago. That was my first novel, and if it wasn't stellar (or even remotely publishable), it was a fun exercise in creativity. With only a month to work in, your fingers really have to blaze to meet the deadline, and the speed is freeing in and of itself. There's no time to edit, ponder, or second-guess. Whatever comes into your head is what ends up on paper. It's a great way to show yourself that you can produce a story with a beginning, middle, and an end, but it's very unforgiving as far as allowing you an "out" if you start down an unproductive plot line.

I'm intrigued by limitations. Haiku are my favorite kind of poems to write because I like having to get it just so in a few simple words. My new novel has a built-in limitation in that it tells the story of a single weekend. No tortured, extended Proustian remembrances here -- my challenge will be to try to relate how one weekend can change your life, even if it does so in a different way than you imagined it would. That's another of its themes, the disconcerting experience of looking for one thing but finding something else that may in the long run be more valuable.

Patience, ambiguity, the seizing of the moment, the fallibility of the heart, truth, illusion . . . all of these play a part in my story. Actually, it may be more of a fable, something you can read in less time than it takes the described events to unfold. I'll play with it and see where it goes. Unlike some other stories I've started in the past, I already know the ending of this one. I've sometimes thought that not knowing where a story is going can be one of the most exciting inducements to write it, so that you can find out what happens. I think there are times when that's true. This time, though, having the plot sketched out lets me concentrate on how to tell the story, which to me, in this case, is a much more interesting prospect.

Ian McEwan's novel Saturday, which tells the tale of a series of game-changing events occurring in the course of a single day, comes to mind as a literary example of how much life a single day can hold. As I recall, it revealed how a number of seemingly inconsequential events led to completely unforeseen and devastating consequences. A bit of an existential nightmare, that one, but very well told. Mine will be more light-hearted than that and deals with intentionality instead of chance. Rather than leave you shuddering, I hope to leave you smiling.

So far, I've enjoyed the writing. As always, the process of putting things into just the right words is exciting, frustrating, painstaking, difficult, and liberating. I may be at it for a while, but this time there's no rush.

After the Valentines

I like Valentine's Day, but in my opinion, it's more fun when you're a kid. Remember those days when you made Valentines out of paper, glue, and cut-outs for everybody in your class? I do, and in all honesty, it beats any Valentine's Day I've had since then by a wide margin. There was something so innocent about giving and receiving those cheerful red and white handmade cards -- everybody was your Valentine! This was before the boys and girls started to dislike each other as they did from fifth grade until puberty.

In that forgotten time, the battle of the sexes extended mainly to the boys chasing the girls around at recess with giant insects in their hands (in South Florida, where I lived then, big bugs were easy to come by). Nobody seemed to mind it too much, and relations remained civil afterwards. Everybody called each other by his or her first name; that unpleasant habit of last-name address didn't start until later. So what went wrong?

There is something very poignant about the days of hormonal awakening, puppy love, and first crushes, but dang it if things don't start getting complicated then. I don't know how young men see it; I can only speak from my perspective. A host of previously nonexistent problems swim into view in those years, including self-consciousness, insecurity, unrequited love, and acne. How much better it seemed for all to play together freely without being divided by gender lines or competition. And how much better, too, to define yourself in your own terms, to be sufficient unto yourself, rather than mooning over a boy who barely knew you were alive. Or, once you did land a boyfriend, to be worried about keeping him.

I've noticed how much I enjoy stories that feature young heroines in that magical, mythical time in which they remain free and answerable to themselves, battling dragons, solving mysteries, going on fantastical journeys, or just being who they are. I've written a story like that myself. I wish there was a way for girls to hold onto that freedom; it still seems to me that it's easier for boys to retain their independence without defining themselves primarily as someone else's partner, parent, or helpmate.

I'm all in favor of marriage under the right circumstances, but I would never want to give up my ability to enjoy my own company and my own thoughts. I'm good at cooperating but not at being told what to do. And I've seen firsthand how many people still seem to regard an unattached woman as an anomaly, a problem to be solved. That's changing, and it can't change soon enough. An unmarried man with any graces at all is considered a catch; an unmarried woman, even an accomplished one, is often considered wanting.

If you want to see a movie that captures the freedom I'm talking about, see Benh Zeitlin's Beasts of the Southern Wild. The young heroine, six-year-old Hushpuppy, resides with her father in a mythical landscape seemingly outside of space and time, although they live in southern Louisiana. Hushpuppy goes to school, but she, and all of the people around her, live a wild, dreamlike existence anchored in a natural world unconcerned with convention. They live and die by their own choices, and although their lives might not suit everyone, they're rich in imagination, self-determination, and joy.

While watching the film, one is hard-pressed to imagine Hushpuppy growing up to become ordinary. You want her to remain extraordinary, because that's what she is. I think we all start out that way, and for a while, before the pressures to conform set in, we're allowed to be like that. How wonderful it would be, in spite of hormones, careers, the need to grow up and pay taxes, home ownership, and parenthood, not to put a time limit on that independence of spirit . . . for anyone.

Look, Hortensia: A Jogger!

Yesterday, like the day before, was sunny and warm: a day that cried out for strolling in the park and soaking up sun. I put on my walking shoes and headed to the Arboretum, where dozens of like-minded people and dogs were already taking the air. No sympathetic magic was necessary yesterday; the people I saw running in shorts and Ts were dressed more appropriately than I was in my turtleneck and down jacket. The sun smiled down, and the air was nearly balmy.

On such a day, I sometimes enjoy just sitting in the sun, idly watching the clouds float by. That's what I was doing yesterday when Apollo showed up. At least, that's who I think it was. I was ensconced on a bench in the middle of the park, meditating on sunshine, when I heard the noise of an approaching helicopter. We see a lot of medical helicopters coming and going around here because of hospitals, but they normally have little reason to visit the Arboretum. This one flew overhead lazily and landed in the field across the street. Thinking some visiting dignitary might emerge, I watched to see what would happen. Either no one stepped out or I missed it, and after a couple of minutes the helicopter took off again.

I mention Apollo because he's the god of science and reason and, by association, aeronautics in general. You really sense his presence when you're around airplanes or walking through an airport, with the superstructure of a soaring atrium above your head. I guess when he's in a certain mood, he might take to a chopper. That seemed to be the case yesterday. It was a plain, dark helicopter that you couldn't see into, perfect for a god traveling incognito, except that it kind of stuck out in the bucolic suburban setting. Every neck was craned skyward as the helicopter proceeded to slowly circle a small area of the Arboretum, coming back at least three times to cruise slowly over the trees.

I don't know, maybe I'm wrong. It doesn't seem like Apollo, after all, to fly so close to the ground, directly over a park with so many people gathered below. A new kind of scavenger hunt, maybe? There are no wild mustangs in the Arboretum, so it couldn't have been a roundup. Maybe it's now legal, with the right permit, to hunt chipmunks from the air. Or maybe rich people now pay to fly over the famous LFUCG-UK Arboretum as they do the Grand Canyon, marveling at the staring locals below.

Feeling it was not really safe to sit below a rocking, nearly stationary helicopter, I got up to walk around some more. The helicopter finally flew away, leaving the blue sky and sunshine intact. Thinking it over on the way home, I decided it might be worth calling the police to see if anyone else had reported the incident or knew anything about it. I was told by the dispatcher that she had "just come on duty half an hour ago" and "didn't know what was going on" but that if that many people had been there "someone must have reported it by now." But when I asked if I could add my name to the report, she said there was no report. Then she said I should have reported it while it was happening. Hmmm. I thought someone was keeping tabs on public airspace other than random citizens, but I guess I overestimated official interest in oddly behaving aircraft.

Not feeling quite reassured by this conversation, I hunted around online for the number of the nearest FAA office. I called them today and received a call back from a gentleman who seemed pretty interested in the presence and behavior of a helicopter flying so low in a crowded area. He couldn't give me any conclusive answers but asked a lot of questions, took my report, and said any further sightings should be called in, too.

So there you have it. Be on the lookout for any random helicopters, especially if they seem to be flying low enough to knock you off a bench. If it were the end of a play, I guess we might suspect a deus ex machina, except no one descended, and nothing was solved, as far as I know. I still like my theory about the Grand Arboretum Tour but can't understand why it's necessary to get quite that close for views of scrubby grass, mothers with strollers, and middle-aged writers. Haven't these people ever heard of binoculars?

So Much Chocolate, So Little Time

I was reading a travel magazine in Starbucks yesterday afternoon when suddenly the memory of the late, lamented European Travel and Life popped into my head. I subscribed to it for the last few years of its publication, and it was a magical experience every time I found it in the mailbox. It had glossy pages, beautiful photographs, and great writing, and it even smelled good (due, I think, to perfume samples in the ads). I had gone to Europe with friends in 1989, and reading the magazine was a way of extending the experience.

On our trip, we did nine countries in three weeks, starting and ending in London. We stayed in small hotels and boarding houses listed in Frommer's Guide to Europe on $30 a Day and largely relied on the guidebook's recommendations for places to eat. Traveling light as we did, we were able to see and do a lot for a modest amount of money. We did not stay in the glamorous spots European Travel and Life depicted so lavishly, but we saw a lot of great art, relished street life and people watching, took in the sights, and sampled chocolates all the way from Germany to Geneva.

I kept a travel journal, stealing moments on ferry crossings, train trips, and the waiting rooms of bus stations to scribble down impressions, but even without looking at it I can call up images and remember tastes and smells. Sometimes it's the little things, small scenes glimpsed along the way, that stay with you, for whatever mysterious reason.

From a bus window, on the way to Dover, I saw a West Indian woman walking down a crowded East London street in the late afternoon. Her colorful clothing and dignified posture made her stand out in the gray light and drab surroundings like a rare flower. I remember the blue sweater my friend was wearing during a tedious ferry crossing to Oostende that night and how mysteriously several hundred passengers seemed to melt into thin air in the station at the other end.

I remember how cold the light was in Belgium that morning, how foreign (and daunting) Amsterdam and all its brick houses seemed when we arrived, and how very steep the stairs were in our hotel, not far from Anne Frank's house. A man walked by on the street that afternoon as we came out of a cafe whose face--intense, bearded, and thin--could have belonged to Van Gogh. A sandwich of simple bread and cheese on the train to Berlin was a revelation, as was the ease with which many Europeans spoke graceful English, even when they downplayed their ability.

A hammer and chisel for extracting your own piece of the Berlin Wall cost seven marks to rent, and the faces of the guards were extremely stern at the crossing between the former East Germany and the West. I recall my first sighting of someone wearing lederhosen and an alpine hat (in Munich) and the taste of hot chestnuts purchased from a street vendor (in Salzburg). I recall watching the sun go down behind snow-covered mountains as the mists rose over the lake and Salzburg lay at our feet like a fairy-tale village.

I remember how deep the snow lay around the town of Fussen as we walked up to Neuschwanstein with plastic bags on our shoes in lieu of boots; there were swans in the river as we walked through the town. We headed down into Italy, hoping for warmth, and stayed in a pension that had formerly been a monastery, with a shower in the middle of the room. We climbed Giotto's Tower to goggle at the Tuscan countryside, straight out of the background of a thousand Renaissance paintings. I tasted my first espresso in a small cafe and was impressed by the effortless style of the Florentines we encountered on the streets.

I remember peering out the window of our train compartment as we crossed the Alps, glimpsing some high and distant peaks in the dawn light. I remember how the grayness in Geneva made the mountains invisible, but the city itself was clean and prosperous. I recall little of the French countryside that sped by on the fast train to Paris (being distracted by an assortment of Swiss chocolates probably explains the lapse), but I can easily call up Paris's wide and elegant avenues. I loved Montmartre and the small, bustling place where we had dinner on a narrow street. Sacre Coeur was eerie by night, but the steps that led back down into the city were magical under the streetlamps.

I remember how unfamiliar Tavistock Square and Bloomsbury seemed to me once we were back in London, though I had spent half a summer there only six years previously. It was as if I had never been there. I recall the taste of naan in the Indian restaurant where we had dinner with a new friend, and her stories of traveling alone in Greece, shared over dinner, that made her seem so adventurous.

The next time I go to Europe, I hope I'll have as much fun as the last time. I've done a lot of traveling around the United States in the intervening years and had forgotten, until something glimpsed in Afar triggered the memories, just how exciting 1989 was, with all of the planning and dreaming that went into that European adventure. With a few versatile wardrobe items, light baggage, a Eurail pass, and an open mind, you can really get around. There's no place I have been that I wouldn't go back to, and there are so many unexplored destinations to anticipate. And at the end of it, you can always come home again.

Have Romance, Will Travel

I thought I had tapped out the public library's stock of Mary Stewart books, but I found a newer edition of the first one I ever read, Nine Coaches Waiting, on the shelf the other day. When I was in the 7th or 8th grade, I discovered a copy of this book in the school library. I don't think it caught fire for me initially, but when I re-read it a few years later, I thought it was great. And then there were all of her other romance novels, 10 or so at that time, waiting to be explored. It was a booklover's feast.

I would call Ms. Stewart a writer of the old school. Considering her suitability for the shelves of a Catholic school library, you might think she'd be too tame for modern tastes, but you'd be wrong. She usually starts with a young, intelligent heroine, a romantic (sometimes exotic) locale, and a plot whose complications include at least one attractive, mysterious man. There's usually a sinister game afoot that entangles the young woman, and she's sometimes faced with choosing between two romantic rivals. Sometimes she makes the wrong choice, but she's always united in the end with the one she should have chosen, and everything turns out happily.

It sounds like pretty standard romance, but several things set Ms. Stewart apart: her vivid descriptions of locations as varied as a cliffside castle in Corfu, a chateau in the forests of Haute-Savoie, or a remote hotel on a Scottish island; her intelligent plotting; and her elegant prose. Her heroines inhabit a world similar to that of Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca, but theirs is less brooding. There may be bloodshed, villains, intrigue, wild hillside scrambles, and narrow escapes, but the heroine manages to overcome them all, occasionally losing a shoe or having to swim for her life. Some combination of common sense, humor, luck, and timely intervention (the rescue by dolphin in This Rough Magic, for example) sees her through.

I well remember the summer in my teens when I read one Mary Stewart book after another. Initially, I think it was the long-separated lovers in the The Ivy Tree that lured me in. There was something about their sad, moonlit reunion and Adam's scars that made an indelible impression on romantic 15-year-old me. The public library had nearly all of her books, and I finished them all in succession, eventually reading the well-known Merlin series as well. But it was the romances that created a glamorous, entertaining, and almost plausible world perfect for a lazy summer day in a small town without much else going on. Mary Stewart was as good as a passport.

Back then, I counted The Ivy Tree, Wildfire at Midnight, and Nine Coaches Waiting as my favorites. Over the last few years, I've sought out and re-read all of the Stewart books I can find from that summer. The author's special magic remains intact, but (unsurprisingly, I guess) my reactions to individual books have changed. This time around, I found The Ivy Tree too unbelievable, though I was perfectly able to swallow the deception the first time (once you know the secret to this book, I don't think you can read it the same way again). Sadder but wiser, I had to say goodbye to my former fascination with Annabel and Adam.

On the other hand, I was intrigued by My Brother Michael, a truly suspenseful tale set in Greece with one of Stewart's best male leads, the steady, reliable Simon Lester--a hero worth the name. Wildfire at Midnight was still enjoyable (if a bit more predictable on the second go), but This Rough Magic's delicious blend of lushly scenic Corfu, seaside villas, refugees from the London stage, literary allusions to The Tempest, counterfeiters, and a semi-magical dolphin was irresistible. I found Lucy's wild motorcycle ride on the hairpin turns to the Castello great fun and wondered how I could have forgotten such a wonderful episode.

Stewart often brings in bits of folklore and mythology that make her books more atmospheric; allusions to the Greek gods pop up in both My Brother Michael and This Rough Magic. Eventually, I'll track down The Moon-Spinners, which I recall liking but have little memory of. Since it's set on Crete, it will be fun to see if Stewart has any references to the labyrinth in the story; I look forward to finding out.

As for Nine Coaches Waiting, I'm still enjoying it on this, my third time around. I like the setting in the French countryside, the sophisticated dialogue, and the heroine's composure. I can also report that, just as these novels were perfect summertime reading all those years ago, they also translate into a cozy escape on winter afternoons at the coffeehouse.

In Praise of Winter

Winter has arrived, in all its gray dampness and icy chill. Not only is it winter, but it's Kentucky winter, which gives it that je nais se quoi I-only-went-to-the-store-how-did-I-end-up-in-Lapland flavor. It's been pretty mild, with just a little snow and no extreme temperatures. In fact, I went out for a walk last week on a day of unexpected sun and met several joggers in T-shirts and shorts.

It's common around here to see people in summer attire at the first hint of warmth. Right after a really cold spell, I've seen college students dressed for Key West when the thermometer was still in the 30s. In general, I don't think Kentuckians are a winter-loving crowd, but they do tend toward optimism in their forecasting and will celebrate their faith in summer's return at the barest sign of a singing bird or a patch of blue between clouds. It probably has a playful whiff of sympathetic magic about it: If I put on my shorts, the sun is bound to come out.

I just finished reading a book about an Appalachian winter with very unusual weather, Barbara Kingsolver's Flight Behavior. At the heart of the novel lies a natural phenomenon that, while breathtakingly beautiful, turns out to be a harbinger of environmental crisis. The scientists in the book are well aware of this and unable to see what's happening in a positive light, but the inhabitants of the area respond more to the beauty and poetry of what seems to them a miracle. The main character encompasses both views, and I liked her for holding on to an appreciation of the radiance in nature in the midst of a very discouraging crisis.

That inspires me to think of all the things that are beautiful about winter, which, though not as easy to like as summer, has its moments. For one thing, a bright color stands out at this time of year with unearthly clarity -- take those red winterberries against a bare branch, for example. When you visit the Arboretum in winter, that red pop in the middle of so much drabness is enough to make your jaw drop. The leafless trees have their own kind of beauty, especially standing up against a blue sky. You see their structure and shape and really understand that they only reveal their whole selves without their leaves.

Snow is beautiful, especially when it falls slowly in huge feathery flakes, covers everything to the depth of several inches, and transforms the old world into a new country. Sadly, it's really hard to enjoy this if you have to worry about getting to work, as cars and snow do not mix well. But if you have the luxury of watching from a cozy room, or of walking through a snowfall, with no urgent errand, it can be wonderful. Best of all are the days when the sun comes out over a snowy landscape, finding the diamond dust and making it sparkle.

An ice storm can be stunning, transforming trees, bushes, fences, and wire into sculptures of glass. Even in the middle of the worst ice storm, with power out and branches falling dangerously all around, it's hard not to see how a simple coating of ice changes an ordinary street into something fabulously unfamiliar, as if you've stepped through the looking glass into an alien world. There's also such a thing as a frozen fog, which once seen is never forgotten. Imagine a cloud in stop-motion, hanging in the air as if painted there, the very ice crystals glued into place all around you. Sleeping Beauty's castle could not be more still.

And, of course, there are the winter stars, which seem to shine fiercely on clear winter nights. I have a memory of being outdoors in my hometown one night when I was probably 12 years old, not an especially happy time, but one that stands out for the beauty of a particular night sky. It was January or February, and my siblings and I were out in the neighborhood for some errand. I remember looking up at the sky over the rooftops and trees of our town, seeing how full of stars it was and how brilliantly they were shining, somehow wondrous and intimate at the same time, like an illustration for a fairy tale.

That night, I couldn't have picked out Orion, my favorite constellation, but now I often look for it on clear nights. It caught me by surprise years ago when I was taking an early morning flight; once airborne, I happened to look out the window and see it striding boldly across the December sky. It instantly became an emblem of courage for me (I'm afraid Orion doesn't always come across well in myth, but it's the image I'm talking about, not the stories). It still inspires me.

So, yes, winter does have its advantages. When you factor in a fireside, hot chocolate, Christmas lights, and the smell of woodsmoke, you find that the beauties of winter may be subtle but are not non-existent. Like the quietly melodic Winter Solstice CD I sometimes listen to, winter's beauties are conducive to introspection, reflection, and meditation on small things.

What Are You Doing After the Apocalypse?

I first became aware of the energy surrounding the apocalypse when people started talking about it my first year at Pacifica. I remember hearing about images of giant waves that were coming up in people's dreams and artwork. Not long after that, I heard about the Mayan calendar and the hype surrounding December 21, 2012. Over the last few years, I've seen so many references to not only the Mayan myth (misinterpreted though it may have been) but to other variations--involving everything from zombies to asteroids--that it seemed to amount to a collective obsession.

That first quarter at school, I had a dream that I did not connect at the time to any collective concerns because it seemed so personal. Still dazzled by the novel experience of commuting to lush, sea-swept Santa Barbara County, I dreamed that I was sleeping on the balcony of a house on a cliff, under a full moon. It was just before dawn, and there was a magic moment when the moon gave way to a newly risen sun. It was wonderful to wake up in the open air, but the feeling of incredible joy was soon interrupted by a realization that the sea was rising.

I went into the house--where a male relative and some others were hanging around--to get help moving the furniture inside, but no one was moving very fast, and in any case, the water was already at our feet. The perch on the cliff was now at sea level, and I was upset over the way the water was ruining everything. Then the dream ended.

Just the other day, I saw a picture of a young woman standing in a room with the end wall missing, looking down at the sea just below her feet. The caption was a quote from Rumi that said, "Listen to the sound of waves within you." The ethereal quality of the illustration, with the moody sky and the missing wall, was remarkably reminiscent of my dream.

At school, I was fascinated by the sea as a metaphor for the unconscious and explored it in several papers. Rumi advises listening for something the waves can tell us. In my dream, I was focused on the destructive quality of the water, which not only interrupted my idyll but ruined the furniture. It rose silently, for no apparent reason. When I thought about it later, I decided that the dream was a clue indicating that the new freedom and exhilaration I was experiencing had another side. It meant being closer to the place where all the myths and dreams well up and therefore in a good position to see whatever came into view, good or bad. The people in the house, by contrast, all seemed unmotivated, unable to act.

I think now that my dream was probably more like the dreams and artistic creations I heard other people talking about than I realized. Tsunami or rapidly rising sea; apocalypse or meteor strike; the specific forms no doubt have their own individual meanings, but there is a common theme of an overwhelmingly destructive force. Why were so many people captivated by these images? Why was everybody talking about them, either in jest or in earnest? Where did they come from to begin with?

These questions can probably be answered in more than one way. I tend to think anxiety over climate change might be playing into it, but there are other issues, economic, social, and environmental, that could also be playing a part. What interests me now is how people see the world beyond the wave. After it passes, what then?

Destruction and creation are two sides of a coin. Was all the attention focused on the idea of destruction somehow cathartic? Did the ending of 2012 sweep out the old and make room for a different kind of energy, something focused on creative change and new beginnings? All of that water and blood--were we having unconscious labor pains?

I want to think so. You might think that, as a responsible myth person, I spent December waving around the Penguin Dictionary of Symbols and advising calm, but I didn't. I have to admit that, other than observing the fray, I tried to stay out of it (I'd already lost one set of furniture in the dream). I spent the day of destruction baking cookies and trying to remember how to create an href tag. Modest attainments, but hopeful ones. Like Scarlett O'Hara, I guess I always believed that "tomorrow is another day." I'm glad we were right.

Janus Has Two Faces

Today is the third anniversary of this blog. I'm not sure where I thought I'd be in three years the day I started it, but let's accentuate the positive: I'm still around. I did think that I would have moved by now and am mildly surprised that that hasn't happened, but the amount of traveling I've done has probably made up for it.

January is named for Janus, a two-faced Roman god with one face looking forward and the other looking back. I admit I haven't made any resolutions for 2013 or written down any goals. There are things I'm working to accomplish, but I also like to leave a lot of room for events to just unfold. Not only is that my character, but I've learned to expect not just the unexpected but the totally improbable.

Actually, I'm more inclined to do a year in review. This is not your mother's year in review, but mine, so I'm almost positive many of these events won't be in the history books. I'll leave it to someone else to chronicle those Great Historical Moments none of us will ever forget. This is a personal reminiscence (Mnemosyne, here we go!) of highlights for each month of 2012. Are we ready?

January: Seeing Elijah Wood (or his doppelganger) in a restaurant in West L.A. Giving a present to a friend with bows made out of paper napkins from the same restaurant. (There's no real connection between those events.)

February: Being told that my dissertation was done and I needed to write an abstract.

March: Surviving a John le Carré-style journey to Carpinteria, CA, that started with a plane and ended with a can of Red Bull, a rental car, and a very stimulating drive to KY from Atlanta, GA. Somewhere in there was my oral defense.

April: Having to think fast when the situation called for de-training (that is, getting off a train) but the compartment door was locked.

May: Reading the words "Your manuscript is on its way to the printer" and "We are all so proud of you" from the dissertation office.

June: Publishing my first book. Wow, was that exhausting. But it's bound to make me rich.

July: Eating an ice cream cone and watching dogs play in a wading pool on the courthouse lawn on a sweltering July 4th.

August: Walking into the City Winery in Chicago, suddenly awash in a sea of romantic blue light and glowing candles.

September: Realizing how American Graffiti is like Egyptian mythology.

October: Wow, where do I start? How about Springfield, Missouri?

November: All Saint's Day and those wide open spaces. I started to say "standing in line to vote," but that was actually a bit anticlimactic.

December: An otherworldly dulcimer. Avant-garde jazz in a belly-dance studio. Faces from the past. Children opening presents. (December was active.)

I'd like to thank everyone who played a part in 2012 and to say that I sure hope the cameras were rolling. And if 2013 isn't the dawning of the Age of Aquarius, may it at least be a year of blessings, pleasant and intriguing surprises, wrongs righted, old friends meeting, vacations in exotic places, three-hour meals on the Italian model, peace, love, mint meltaways, and an Eileen Fisher silk comforter for everybody who wants one (it can't be just me).

Grown-up Christmas

Christmas can be a little tricky when you're an adult, especially if you're single. This is true even if you know the mythology behind it and understand it as a holiday celebrating light in the darkness, even if you can expound on the marriage of Christian and older traditions, on Mithras, Saturnalia, the solstice, and Sol Invictus, until you're blue in the face. No matter. If you grew up celebrating Christmas, it's bound to be fraught throughout life with emotions tied up with family, home, traditions, memories, and what you think you ought to feel and do.

I'll be honest: grown-up Christmas rarely matches up with memories of Christmas past. The last Christmas that really seemed full-on to me occurred when I was nine, so I've had many more holidays that didn't measure up than I've had of those that did. What was it about those vanished Christmases that made them beautiful? Quite simply, it was the belief in magic. I remember a special sheen glinting from the surfaces of holiday decorations, Christmas carols that resonated with mystery and joy and still seemed new, and the ease with which I could believe in multiple department store Santas at once (ha! most of them were Santa's elves).

Furthermore, Christmas was a shared experience. Everything you did was with other people, whether you were singing in your nightgown as part of the angels' chorus in the play, shopping with your siblings at the mall, going to midnight Mass, or opening presents under the tree (oh, the enchantment of a pile of wrapped gifts).

As more of the Christmas glitter wore away year by year, I gradually adopted a less-is-more attitude. This basically means resisting any pressure, real or imagined, to throw myself full-throttle into things like decorating, socializing, shopping, listening to Christmas music, or watching holiday specials, unless I really want to. Pursuing the spirit of Christmas too assiduously is the surest way to lose it; it's a delicate, elusive thing, prone to disappearing completely if you put too much effort in. In my experience, it finds you, often when you're not looking.

Last year I decorated, shopped, baked, entertained, and enjoyed it all. This year, I did most of those things on a smaller scale. I watched A Charlie Brown Christmas, baked gingerbread in the shape of stars and stockings and trees, and spun the Christmas CDs a few times. I bought presents for my nephews and wandered around the toy department. True to form, I made plans to go to midnight Mass and changed them when push came to shove. It was just too cold out, and I was sitting in the living room late in the evening entranced by my Christmas lights; my tree brightens a normally dark corner.

A holiday surfeit often sets in for me on Christmas Day; last year, I played bossa nova on the stereo while washing dishes in an effort to conjure up summer. Today, it was good to get out, see other people on the streets, and do a little non-holiday reading by the picture window in the library. Coming home, I noticed how cheerful people's holiday yard displays looked in the gathering dusk but still had the feeling of wanting to move forward, to carry on with things and get ready for a new year.

Actually, a few memories of grown-up Christmas do come to mind, nearly ready to be boxed away with the ornaments but suitable for one more airing before then: the first Christmas in a new apartment, made special by a chocolate box; driving around, singing carols, and looking at yard displays with college friends; making gift bags with offbeat stocking stuffers for a party; a weekend in L.A. to see a band; a climbing cat, a teetering Christmas tree, and a furry face peering out between branches; a Christmas parade with dancing elves in a coastal town; a black velvet shirt with pink satin trim; a red rose purchased in an airport; watching The Lake House multiple times, tucked up on the couch, while Christmas lights shed a soft glow; finding the perfect Christmas nightlight in a bookstore; standing up for the opening bars of the Hallelujah chorus.

They may not duplicate the privileged enchantment of childhood Christmas, but here and there, now and then, a little bit of magic stills shines through.

A Hobbit, Not an Elf

I went to see The Hobbit on Saturday; along with most everybody else, I had been looking forward to it for a while. Normally, I don't read a book shortly before seeing the movie, but as it happens I did re-read the book quite recently, detachable cover and all (I got it as part of a boxed set for Christmas when I was a senior in high school). The story is so familiar to me that even without having it fresh in my mind, I would have noticed the places where Peter Jackson inserted material.

I've read that most of the added scenes can be traced to material in the appendices of The Lord of the Rings. It seems reasonable of Mr. Jackson to tie this movie (and the rest of the trilogy) to his prior work. The Hobbit (as a book) has an entirely different flavor, a lighter and more humorous tone, than the somber Lord of the Rings; I remember having to adjust to the change in atmosphere when I first read the books. The Hobbit is a caper, but LOTR is an epic. Mr. Jackson has emphasized the aspects of the story that place The Hobbit more firmly within the sequence of events leading up to the cataclysmic episodes in the later books.

So seeing the movie is both like and unlike reading the book; it is a little jarring if you go to the theater expecting absolute faithfulness to Tolkien's story as originally written. I agree with those who think some of the scenes were a bit long. (I thought we'd never get out of the Orcs' tunnels, but I felt the same way when I read the book. And the scenes with Radagast in the forest seemed misplaced, almost as if they been transplanted from a Disney movie.)

All of that aside, any combination of Tolkien and Peter Jackson is bound to have its share of magic, and it was fun to see The Hobbit on the big screen. One thing Mr. Jackson has always emphasized is the heroic nature of the quest; in LOTR he poignantly addressed the characters' struggles to live up to the enterprise and the ways in which their adventures changed (and scarred) them. The fellowship of the ring came together to accomplish something more important than individual ambition; in serving something larger, all of its members (even the weak ones) grew. In The Hobbit, Mr. Jackson seems intent on bringing out in a similar way the noble aspects of Bilbo and his companions. Not merely disgruntled treasure-seekers, the dwarves are in search of a home and a legacy that has been violently taken from them. No longer simply their bewildered "burglar," Bilbo becomes sympathetic to their loss and their real emotional need to reclaim their inheritance.

If any young person happens to be reading this, you may not have had the experience of a book (or a movie) somehow becoming different as you come back to it over time. It's happened to me with books I didn't like the first time around (like Moby-Dick, now in my dissertation, if you can imagine) and with books I've always loved. The first time I read The Hobbit, it was simply a very enjoyable, highly imaginative fantasy. It stayed that way for a long time, but when I started studying mythology, I was able to see it and LOTR in the light of a hero's journey and to understand intellectually the story's appeal. Then a little more time went by, and wow, the stories and characters took on an even more vivid hue as I started to recognize myself and other people I know in them.

In the introductory pages of my edition of the The Hobbit are the words of a commentator, Peter S. Beagle, who states, "Lovers of Middle-Earth want to go there. I would myself, like a shot." Imagine your surprise when you finally figure out that you don't have to go there because you're there already. Tolkien's world is really just a mirror, showing us ourselves, in costume, dropped into an imaginary setting, as myths tend to do. I just recently realized how completely familiar Bilbo's conflicted nature, the respectable, tea-cake loving Baggins side, and the wildly adventurous Took side, were to me. I also share his love of meals and the comforts of home. (I had always wanted to be an elf, but it turns out I'm more of a hobbit. You can't always get what you want.)

At the movie's end, Thorin and company are standing on the eagles' rock, looking eagerly toward the Lonely Mountain, with Bilbo declaring, "I do believe the worst is behind us" (of course it isn't -- there are two more movies to go). I don't know about you, but my reaction to that was a wry and painful sympathy. They haven't even gotten to the spiders yet, much less Smaug! This is where Bilbo and I part company: if it had been me, considering all the Orcs, wargs, and trolls I had already bested, I would have been demanding that someone take me back to Rivendell, poste-haste, for some R & R, river views, and a permanent hiatus. Of course, then there wouldn't have been a story.

Thank goodness for heroes!

That's What You Get for Being You

What with baking gingerbread cookies, making the local arts scene, and doing what writers do, I've barely had time to wash clothes and go to the grocery store. Somehow, though, I still have time to think about things I'd like to write but haven't yet. I have so much material, between one thing and another, that I'm not sure how my head even holds it all. (People keep saying to me, "I bet you have a lot to write about." That's true, but how do they know?)

Take this thing about researching my family history . . . have I mentioned that? My mother had some questions about her origins that I think deserve to be answered. In between an Irish family tree I couldn't make heads or tails of and some memories that troubled my mother throughout her life, I think I'm more than justified. I don't mind an Unsolved Mystery on TV, but when it comes to my own life, I'm a regular Sherlock Holmes.

Of course, you know writers have a lot of imagination and a tendency to take even a tiny bit of material and run with it. Well, picture this: my mother was told (by her father) that her mother was not her mother, and she remembered being visited as a child by some wealthy people who singled her out for attention.

This suggests to me something like the following:

Child born out of wedlock in 1930s Ireland (or maybe England, and she was spirited to Ireland?). Wealthy, powerful father; poor, powerless mother (possibly a maid of some kind?). Maybe the father doesn't know about the pregnancy; maybe he insists on an abortion, but the mother refuses. She finds someone to take her baby in (a relative? a friend?). But somehow the father (or his people) find out about the baby.

Now, why would these people care? If the baby is raised in ignorance of her origins, no harm done -- right? But suppose there was a lot of money involved, and the father died without another heir. Or suppose the baby was his first-born, or the other heirs died, or joined nunneries, or were castaways on desert islands. (Note to self: investigate the laws of inheritance in Ireland and/or England.) Suppose -- suppose there was even a title involved. Now that's something people could really get worked up over.

So, the whole game becomes one of watching and making sure this baby never finds out the truth. But she's already wondering, because the people stupidly came and showed their hand. ("She doesn't look like the rest of them.") She'll never remember; she's a child! But she does; she does remember! Eventually, she marries an American serviceman and moves to America, where she has children and tries to forget the past. But it won't forget her, because, because -- (why not go for broke?) she's the daughter of a king! She's an actual princess (or a duchess, or something), starching shirts and changing diapers, in 1950s America.

Now, this won't do. She's already the heiress to a title, and now her line is flourishing. All those healthy babies. So attempts are made . . . that time with the gas jets, very, very strange. The car accident. The broken leg. All that interference with her marriage. Her life falls apart. A lot of trouble for this lady, but she keeps on ticking, and all of her children survive to adulthood.

It's years later, the lady is now elderly, and her children are scattered. She is feisty and difficult. While her daughter is away, she is hospitalized. The hospital uses the wrong telephone number to notify the daughter (Note: a similar plot device was used by Thomas Hardy in Tess of the D'Urbervilles, in which an all-important note, slipped under a door, goes under the rug by mistake). The children find out in time to rush to the hospital, but the lady dies, having barely regained consciousness.

Life goes on. But unbeknownst to the daughter, the forces that tried to bring her mother down are now marshaled against her and are even closer than she thinks. An unfortunate coincidence has placed an enemy in the very office she works in! (Gasp!) The siblings, engrossed in their own lives, are unaware of the danger that stalks their sister, and the sinister beings (disguised as ordinary folks) who have infiltrated her life will do anything for a buck. (I'm sorry to have to break it to you.)

Gradually, the daughter has to wonder: how long has this been going on? (How long has it been going on: plot point yet to be decided!) When the daughter calls in some surprising allies, things really get twisted: things half said, half unsaid; mysterious messages; people who look like other people (some of them dead); pretense; deceit, attempted murder. So the daughter decides to fight back with a little help from her friends and a little acting of her own.

Literally, a cast of thousands (by conservative estimate). Feigned madness, cross-country chases, mind games, stolen keys, identity theft, money changing hands, double agents, skinny dipping at 2 a.m., musical interludes, midnight rambles, Hollywood, the FBI, the CIA, foreign agents, garrulous cab drivers, incompetent bankers, jealousy, poison, trains, planes, automobiles, stolen guitars, politics, biological warfare, "accidents," veiled threats, unshakable loyalty, shakable loyalty, Democrats, Republicans, kings and queens, a MacBook, a possible love story (or several), some really bad disguises, traps, strange tapping noises, and a whole lot of people muttering "WTF!?" Somewhere in the book, someone has to shout, "Why are these Brits always in our face? We fought a war 200 years ago, and we're still not shed of them! I mean, I like scones as much as the next person, but still!" (That dialogue is non-negotiable.)

Sounds like a best-seller, doesn't it? I never thought espionage was my line, but life throws up some surprising material, and some of it may even be true.

Evildoers: All I can say is, never, ever put material like this in the hands of a writer. (And one who happens to be a librarian? Are you mad? They can look stuff up!) You've been warned -- and if it's already too late for you, well, that's what you get for being you. Maybe Jack Nicholson will play you in the movie, or Glenn Close, but as for my money, you ain't gettin' none of it. I've got student loans to pay.

Dream Trains, With Horses

I had a very striking dream a few nights ago, one that seems worth recording. In the dream, I had somehow walked into an area between two separate train tracks. I was standing near the track on my right when a loud train approached, moving very fast. The noise and power of the train were almost overwhelming, not to mention the fact that the train itself was outsized (as were all the other objects in the dream). In fact, the entire feeling of this dream was a lot like stepping into the pages of a book by Chris Van Allsburg (Jumanji, say, or The Mysteries of Harris Burdick), in which objects out of context behave peculiarly and take on a charged but veiled significance.

One train was bad enough, but there were two. Right after the first train, another came blasting toward me on the other track; they were almost simultaneous. The second one, too, was enormous, loud, and aggressively fast. Right after that, an oversize cart drawn by horses came bearing down on me between the tracks, but the cart was so large that it went right over me. I was shaken by the speed and the size of these moving objects, but I was not hurt.

The feeling of overstimulation due to noise and motion reminds me of the time I went to see Escape From L.A. with a friend at the midnight movie. This wasn't something I would have picked on my own, since action movies aren't my forte (or didn't used to be); my friend picked it out. Imagine someone accustomed to sedate Merchant Ivory productions and quiet character-driven dramas sitting in a big-screen cinema, way past her bedtime, being pounded by Dolby sound at a teeth-jarring level and assaulted by image after image of mayhem and doom, all conducted at warp speed. I don't remember the plot, just the nauseating feeling of sensory overload and a wish to bolt from the theater.

My dream was a little like that, except that it was in my head, so bolting wasn't an option.

For a Jungian, a situation like this calls for explication, amplification, and active imagination. I will assume, first off, that the two trains and the horse-driven cart are what they seem to be, objects of transportation. From my point of view, everything else was in motion, and I was stuck in a dangerous spot. I wanted to be moving, but no opportunity presented itself. On closer inspection, I saw a chasm in front of me, over which the trains were jumping without benefit of tracks. They continued to repeat this maneuver, and as much as I wanted to be on one of them and on my way, I couldn't help noticing how dangerous it was for the trains to keep making this leap. Disaster seemed to be in the offing.

When I think about trains, many things come to mind. I've traveled by train several times and often found myself driving alongside trains on my recent trip out west. I live not far from a railroad track and was nearly stopped by a train the other night after running an errand. I recently told someone about a memory or dream I have of traveling in a Pullman car once when I was very young. These associations are both positive and negative.

On an archetypal level, trains are synonymous with power, with the ambitions of the Industrial Age, and with the expansion, in our country, to the west. Trains traveling from two directions met to celebrate the completion of the Transcontinental Railroad. Interesting that the term "Iron Horse" was once applied to locomotives, since oversized horses dragging a giant cart also appeared in my dream.

Power. Ambition. Industry. Expansion. Transportation. Speed. And also, perhaps, from a certain point of view, a kind of ruthlessness or unheeding momentum.

In active imagination, you try to start a conversation with the people or objects in your dream. When I think about trying to talk to either the trains or the horse and cart, I feel at a bit of a loss. The very speed and force of their motion almost seems designed to preclude speech. And yet, standing still, in a seemingly precarious spot, I saw something that none of them seemed to notice: the width of the chasm and the danger it represented. Though eager to be on my way, I still saw that getting on one of the trains (never mind the cart) was not a safe proposition. Other than the discomfort of being where I was, I was safer on the ground.

At the end of my dream, the chasm loomed as the most important image. I started to think of how to get across it but wasn't able to figure it out. If I now address the chasm, and say, "Hello, what are you doing in my dream? And how do I get across?" The chasm might say, "You're right not to trust these lunatics." And, "Are you sure you need to cross? If you're meant to be on the other side, there's bound to be a bridge somewhere. Think about where you want to be. In the meantime, get away from these idiot trains . . . you've had enough drama. Go get a cup of tea or something. And those horses? And that stupid cart? Don't even get me started . . . "

Press Releases for Ariadne

I went to a reading by writer Barbara Kingsolver tonight at a local bookstore and enjoyed hearing her read and talk about her new book. I went to the reading partly out of interest in Ms. Kingsolver's work and partly for inspiration. It's always enlightening to hear other people talk about how they work and what inspires them.

I wanted to ask her the same question I asked of Neil Gaiman a few years ago: Do you know where your stories are going before you write them, or do you find out as you go along? She partly answered the question in talking about the thought she puts into her stories before she starts writing. I especially liked what she said about deciding at the beginning what she wants the reader to get from the book and using that as a guide; I hadn't thought about doing that with fiction, but yes, it makes sense. I'm going to try it the next time I attempt a novel (it's got to happen sometime because I already have a title).

I'm not, like Ms. Kingsolver, a methodical writer. I'm more from the Writing by the Seat of Your Pants School of Composition, which has its drawbacks. (Plan blog posts in advance -- are you kidding?) Outlines have always seemed a little artificial to me, and I've always had fun writing just to see what would show up on the page. When I started my dissertation, I struggled to corral my thoughts, which ran all over the place like a herd of stray cats. I had to work hard to organize my ideas and was in despair at the seeming ease with which other people got their thesis in focus. What works for a shorter piece isn't necessarily appropriate for a dissertation.

Two years ago, I was just finishing my first two chapters. At the time I didn't know that I was off to a good start, just that it was hard work each and every time I sat down to write. It's like that sometimes.

Happily, it worked out over time, the dissertation got done, and I turned it into a book, which is out there for the world to see. I think it turned out great and would like everyone to wind up with one in their Christmas stocking, if at all possible, so that I can give readings just like Ms. Kingsolver and have my own driver.

I could have paid someone to write a press release for me, but as I told my sister the other day, I used to write press releases for a living and am not sure someone else can write a better one than I can do myself.

So here's my homemade press release, guaranteed to tell the truth and guide you in your buying decision:

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Dazzling New Talent Scores Big With First Book

Lexington, Kentucky - November 27, 2012 - Ariadne is a king's daughter living the good life on Crete when a dark secret from her family's past catches up with the present, threatening to destroy her romance with a prince on a mission. When Theseus arrives on Crete as part of a contingent due to be sacrificed to the insatiable Minotaur, Ariadne is smitten, even in the face of her father's anger. As keeper of the labyrinth's secrets, she is the one person who can save Theseus and the Athenian youths by revealing the labyrinth's innermost ways. Moved by love and haunted by fear, Ariadne must decide between loyalty to her father and country and loyalty to the sinewy Theseus. Like any good myth, this story has it all: love, death, family, sex, betrayal, a boat, and a man with a bull's head.

But behind the story you think you know lies an even more exciting terrain. Just who is Ariadne, after all, and why does she know the secrets of the labyrinth if Daedalus built it? Who is the Minotaur, really, and what does everyone have against him? If Theseus is such a prince, what's up with him and Phaedra? What really happened on Naxos? Why is everybody doing the Crane Dance? And why do these characters show up again and again in different guises over the centuries, almost recognizable but tantalizingly transformed?

Ms. Hackworth handles all of these questions with grace and aplomb, guiding you through the bewildering byways of labyrinth lore with the assurance of one who has been there, proving that it really can be solved by walking. You will be a-mazed as the Holy Grail, A Midsummer Night's Dream, a mysterious white whale, and even Bruce Springsteen flash before your eyes in this no-holds-barred tell-all. Solved by Walking: Paradox and Resolution in the Labyrinth is available now through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Powell's, and other online retailers, or you can always go to your favorite bookseller, be shocked if it isn't there, and ask for it. This timeless classic is sure to be on everyone's bestseller list, so beat the rush and get your copy today!

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(I told you I could do it.)

Better Angels

Yesterday I went to see Stephen Spielberg's Lincoln. I wanted to see it but was a little apprehensive since the trailer made it look rather dark and brooding. However, I knew I would see it sooner or later, and a friend was also interested in going, so off we went to a matinee.

This is not the first time Mr. Spielberg has made a film that leaves you feeling you have immersed yourself rather than simply watched; Schindler's List was another experience of the same type. I would say, though, that the emotional tenor of the two films is very different. Schindler's List evokes horror and pity (among other things), but Lincoln inspired, in me at least, an intense sadness mixed with a painful awareness of the great personal cost of honor and responsibility. There are lighter moments in the film, and Lincoln's legendary sense of humor is glimpsed now and again, but by the end you feel that you have witnessed (and truly, participated in) a terrible struggle.

In the middle of a cruel and seemingly interminable war, amid personal tragedy, and in the face of resistance and hostility, even from his allies, Lincoln struggles to secure passage of the 13th Amendment, to abolish slavery. The film details the deals, the personal appeals, the compromises, the shaky alliances, and the strange bedfellows that went into producing a victory for the pro-amendment side. Mr. Spielberg has emphasized that he is a filmmaker, not a historian, so I don't necessarily assume complete faithfulness to actual events. But I think the spirit of the times, and the flavor of the struggle, as incendiary and divisive as it must have been, has been captured in this somber portrait of the era.

Of course, there is a lot of mythology surrounding Lincoln, as with any great leader. He embodies the hero archetype, and although he appears as a near saint in this portrayal, with his patience, wisdom, and compassion, he no doubt had his faults as a human being.  Political expediency was a reality, and others did not always view him as "trustworthy." It appears he was not above using whatever means he could find to accomplish what seemed to him a necessary end.

As is usually true of myth, Lincoln's story is timeless, having parallels in our own recent struggles as a nation to carry on in spite of great polarization. Although we do not perhaps have an issue as momentous as slavery dividing us, we have to contend with differing ideas about the proper course for our country and the best way to achieve prosperity. Again, the two major political parties frequently lock horns and fail to connect when it counts, and the public, too, is divided.

I don't think the divisions we have today create an impassable road block, any more than they did in Lincoln's time. Reasonable people may disagree on the best way to move forward; no one has a monopoly on virtue, intelligence, or truth. One thing I know about conflict resolution is that the way to start is to find the common ground, the place where everyone can stand and say, yes, we all agree on this. It may not be as difficult to find this place as it appears. Some disagreements are more superficial than they might seem to be at first.

I was moved to look up some of Lincoln's writings today, which happens to be the 149th anniversary of the Gettysburg address (and the occasion of Spielberg's commemorative speech in honor of the day at Soldier's National Cemetery). Even if we did not remember Lincoln as a great president, we would have to remember him as a great writer, poetic and eloquent even in the face of tension and opposition. From the First Inaugural Address: "We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature."

From the Gettysburg Address: "Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal."

From the Second Inaugural Address: "With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds . . . to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations."

What I gather from his words and actions was Lincoln's faith in his country and the ability of those within it to come together (and also to come together with the citizens of other countries). Another archetype emerges from all of this, that of wholeness and integration -- what we experience as the Self, present in our sense of relating to something larger than ourselves (though we also experience wholeness within). I think most people would still agree that we are stronger together than we are apart, whether we are talking of families, communities, nations, or the world at large.

I wish I had written the phrase, "the better angels of our nature," but I didn't. However, that may not stop me from borrowing it for my title, with full credit to Abraham Lincoln. It's in the public domain, so it belongs to all of us now.

Out West

O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been
Alone on a wide wide sea:
So lonely 'twas, that God himself
Scarce seemed there to be.
-- Samuel Taylor Coleridge, "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner"

Once upon a time (two and a half weeks ago) I decided to take a fall break and drive to the West Coast and back. All I can say is it seemed like a good idea at the time. I've never actually driven that far (and it's doubtful ever I'd do it again, not alone, anyway), but at the time, the thought of a little California sunshine was very appealing, and driving seemed the way to go.

If I had known what kind of a trip it would be, I would never have left home. The day I left, it was sunny, hot, and pleasant here, but I went through a number of climate changes before I got back and soon realized I was smart to have packed so many layers (though the two bathing suits I included never got any use). I left in the afternoon, at first driving a familiar stretch of interstate between Lexington and St. Louis, and then stopping for the night about an hour west of the latter. I got a clue that this wouldn't be a normal trip when the desk clerk at the Holiday Inn* (see comments below) did a double-take on seeing me and said that another guest who looked just like me (and was dressed like me, apparently) had just gone up in the elevator. Of course, that was a bit strange, but . . . what the heck. Coincidences happen!

Driving across unfamiliar stretches of Missouri, Oklahoma, and the Texas panhandle, and encountering increasingly unpopulated segments of road, I decided getting through quickly was the best plan, so I drove all night through New Mexico and found myself in Arizona the next morning. Looking for a hotel in the town of Holbrook at first seemed sensible, but on closer examination, I decided a more touristed area would be safer, so I drove on to Flagstaff, where finding a suitable hotel proved challenging. Looking up one that sounded reliable, I discovered it was outside of town, and I drove through miles of forest and desert only to somehow miss it and end up napping in the back seat of my car next to a residential area, waking in the middle of the night and discovering, on the way to get gas, that I had literally been almost next door to a Best Western. I checked in and spent the rest of the night in bed.

Although I was close to the Grand Canyon (which I have never seen, except from the air), I had by that time decided that to get where I was going was highly desirable, and that perhaps I would see the Grand Canyon on the way back. Pressing on, I crossed the state of Arizona, not before discovering in Kingman that my passenger side door had been unlocked (probably while I was at the Best Western). Since I had lost my keys (at home) back in the summer, that gave me pause, but by a strange twist of fate, it was actually lucky for me that this happened because I had just accidentally locked the driver's side door (with the motor running) and was thus equal parts perplexed and overjoyed to find the passenger door unlocked. After somehow getting on the interstate going the wrong way for 20 minutes (Arizona, your signage?), I righted myself and headed for the California border at Needles.

Now I have spent considerable time in California, but driving across the desert in a car was totally new to me. I had been here before on a train, but everything looks quite different when you're in a car, especially by yourself. By this time, it was dark and a little scary. An unexpected light moment came when the border guard, prior to giving me an inspection pass, asked if I had any live animals with me. I'm not sure why that was funny (three days in a car, and you get a little punchy), but I laughed and told him, "Just me."

I drove to Ventura County, almost home ground for me since I went to school next door in Santa Barbara County. I hadn't realized finding hotels in October could be such a challenge, but evidently October is high tourist season in some parts of the West. I ended up staying in Santa Paula, a nice town though a small one, but checked out of my hotel on Sunday, earlier than planned, to head down to L.A.

All I wanted was a good night's sleep in a decent hotel, and a little sightseeing the next day. I thought of going to the Getty Center. When I got to Santa Monica, I started to stay at one of the fancy hotels near the beach, but a trip to my room convinced me otherwise. I was stuck in a remote corner of the hotel, out of sight of anyone else, with a lock that didn't seem to quite work (this became a theme on the trip). I hauled my suitcase back down to the desk and told the clerk I didn't like the room. She offered to reassign me, but having gotten a bad vibe from this experience, I told her I'd look elsewhere.

I can't honestly say why, but I was no longer sure I really felt comfortable in L.A. I drove around for a while, decided to go down to San Diego, did so, tried to find a hotel district, and somehow found myself on the residential side of town, no hotels in sight. (Finding a hotel in the dark when you're tired isn't always as easy as you might think, along with the fact that experiences of the last couple of days had me leery.) Since I knew no one in San Diego, I decided after all to drive back to L.A.

The next day's adventures included going for what was intended to be a short walk, getting dehydrated, not being able to find my car, almost deciding to fly home in panic and frustration, and finally locating my car with the aid of the police. The police helped me look through my things to discover if anything was missing and told me to call the next day if I discovered anything amiss later on. After they left, I noticed once again that my passenger side door was unlocked. Wow! After spending the night at a favorite hotel in Santa Monica, I called in to report this the next day.

Could the trip get any stranger? Well, yes, actually, it could. After I ate lunch in Malibu, bad fish forced an emergency stop in Santa Barbara. I was ready to call it a night, and the hotel seemed nice enough, but after taking a shower and lying down for a while, I became increasingly uneasy about the door -- which did not have a dead bolt lock -- and the open transom above the curtains. I checked out that night, and after driving north in search of another place to stay, I suddenly wanted to be gone and decided to head home.

On Halloween, I found myself crossing the wide open spaces of Nevada, trying with difficulty to reach friends and family on my cell phone. Since this saga has already gone on too long, I won't go into detail about my unsuccessful attempt to see family in Idaho, the invitation from a friend in San Francisco to come and visit, my drive back to California and the Hotel of the Windy Corridors in Stockton, the impossibility of finding a parking space in San Francisco on a Friday night, and an overnight stay in Morgan Hill with a hotel full of lacrosse players. Heading east the next day, I experienced one of the few moments of joy and ease on this trip as I passed through the fertile hills around Gilroy, where they grow many things, including garlic -- whose scent suffused the air. The hills were enveloping and welcoming, and I was sorry to leave them behind, reminders of happier times on previous trips.

The scenery from Bakersfield to Barstow, and then on to Needles, across the mountains and down to the desert, was magnificent, but I felt like I was viewing it distantly, on a very small television. It was like something out of an old Western, especially the closer I got to Needles. I have heard that California is many states rolled into one, and I certainly had proof of it on this trip. I saw parts that I had never seen before, or had never seen by car, which makes a big difference; even the familiar parts looked strange, as if they had been flipped upside down. As a child, I remember once or twice experiencing a strange sense of disorientation, in which suddenly directions seemed to have reversed themselves when I came to a familiar place from a different angle. That sensation was something like what I experienced on this trip.

I stopped not long after dark in Kingman, Arizona, where I ended up in a room with a loose safety latch; traveled on the next day to Amarillo, Texas, where I had the identical problem with a safety latch in a different hotel chain; and finally decided I was getting home no matter what, so that I drove carefully and methodically across parts of five states before crossing back into Kentucky and collapsing at a Sheraton on the outskirts of Lexington. I took what was almost a semi-vacation that last day, going to the mall, buying chocolates, and shopping. I came back to my apartment the next day, Wednesday, and thought about kissing the door frame once I was inside. (I was so tired, I forgot.)

I could (and will) call this trip "The Vacation That Wasn't" or "I Dreamed a Dream of Driving to California, But This Was Not It." I could also call it "The Magical Mystery Tour," though my use of the word "magical" isn't meant to connote anything positive. I could call it "Into the Wild," though that title, too, has been taken. Or with the Grateful Dead, I could truthfully say, "What a Long Strange Trip It's Been," and be perfectly accurate.

One moment of great clarity stands out: I was driving west on I-80 in Nevada, whose harsh and immense landscape might as well have been the surface of the moon, when a great loneliness came over me. The only thing I could think of was my own apartment, my books on the shelves, and how much I wanted to see them. I was so far from anyone I knew, or anything familiar, and all I wanted was to get back home. And so I did, eventually. And here I am.

Like Dorothy, who wanted to leave Kansas so badly, I find myself, at the end of the yellow brick road, back where I started, if a little worse for wear. I was looking at a picture of myself that I took after getting home and thought, "Wow, the wear and tear is kind of showing." It brought to mind what Indiana Jones famously said: "It's not the years, it's the mileage" (literally).

On the other hand, it may not be anything that a good night's sleep and a little moisturizer can't cure. Check with me in a couple of days.

And if you yourself are on the road, drive safely.

Stories of the Wind

This afternoon I heard a strong wind in the trees outside, and it made me think of a paper I wrote a few years ago about the role of the wind deities in Navajo and Greek mythologies. I remember how strongly the wind blew that week, whistling through the cracks of the window in my room as I was writing. It was a cold, blustery December wind, fierce and shrill, an uncanny but appropriate backdrop to my scholarly efforts.

The wind I heard this afternoon had a different timbre. It was an autumn wind through and through, like the one Shelley addressed as "O Wild West Wind, thou breath of autumn's being," "sweet though in sadness." It was an expectant wind, unlike the storm winds of winter and summer, which somehow seem just part of the season, striking not a new note but blending into the overall effect. An autumn wind is restless and heralds change.

In many mythologies, wind is the life force of creation, the breath of the divinity. In some cases, it is the speaking of a word by a god (whose divine breath shapes the word) that creates the world and its humans. I was especially charmed by the conception of the wind in Navajo stories, in which the wind is present not only in nature and the gods but in each individual. Wind plays a central role in creation as well as in the ongoing relations between humans and deities. It sometimes takes the form of a helpful god appearing to an individual in times of trouble or need. At these times it takes the guise not of a powerful storm but of a quiet companion, whispering advice and wisdom. Not quite a guardian angel or a conscience, it's more like a sage friend. The Navajo call this wind deity Nilch'i.

Nilch'i plays an important part in the adventures of Reared Within the Mountains, the hero of The Mountain Chant. He appears to the hero at crucial times, issuing guidance, giving warnings, and teaching him how to access and use his own power. Although Nilch'i is a deity, the life force in him is the same force that animates Reared Within the Mountains and all other people. Nilch'i is much like an inner voice, inspiration (from Latin, "to breathe upon or into") that arises when the individual pays attention to its sometimes subtle utterances.

I was struck by the contrast between the role of the wind in the Navajo stories and the Greek myths. Heroes in the Greek myths are often at odds with the winds, which appear as tools of the gods, used to manipulate or punish humans; Odysseus and Agamemnon battle the winds on several occasions, usually coming out the worse for wear. Once, the god Aeolus tries to make Odysseus a present of the winds by tying them up in a bag, but Odysseus's men set them free, whereupon they blow the ship wildly off course, displaying the tricksterish nature that is often their hallmark.

The portrayal of the winds in both traditions is complex, but I see a fundamental difference between them centered on the issue of power and control. In Greek mythology, humans often seem to be at war, either with nature or each other. They are guided by the principle of Arete, "excellence," often in military and athletic pursuits that involve competition or strife. In Navajo mythology, the key concept is Hozhooji, living in harmony and beauty. Strife and discord are a part of the scene, but an individual seeking Hozhooji learns to live in balance with contending forces. Anyone can do this; you are not dependent on the whims of the gods or the impersonal workings of Fate but rather on your own ability and desire to live in tune with nature and other people.

In the Navajo stories, even a wild or destructive wind has its place and purpose in the overall scheme. It may cleanse the world and prepare it for a new season, like the wind blowing leaves around my apartment building this afternoon. It may come as a whirlwind, drilling a hole in which the hero shelters from his enemies. Or it may simply bring needed rains.

To me it seems that the wisdom in this Native American tradition has been trumped too many times by forces thriving on antagonism, but it's always possible to change course. I love the Greek myths but have always thought it would be tough to actually inhabit the world they portray (though in a way, we do inhabit the world they portray). I can better imagine living within the boundaries of the Navajo universe. Life is still difficult there, and certainly the winds still blow. But how different it would be to be measured not by the length of your sword or the size of your ship but by how well you listen.

Household Gods

The other day I read an essay by someone who was critical of people who identify themselves as "spiritual but not religious." His general point seemed to be that people who think of themselves this way are dabblers, holding only a shallow acquaintance with the beliefs and texts that inform the world's religions. He seemed to believe that these dilettantes are invariably fence-sitters, guilty of cherry-picking only the spiritual bits that appeal to them and blithely avoiding the hard truths that are always part and parcel of a religious worldview.

I wonder what he'd think if he ever visited me. I won't even get into my book collection. After three years in a myth studies program, I have books on Buddhism stacked on top of books about the Hebrew Bible, West African religions, and Celtic folklore. Texts on Hinduism share shelf space with volumes on Native American traditions, Christianity, Islam, and ancient Egyptian gods.

Like everybody in my program, I studied all of these belief systems and more, seriously and open-mindedly, though I wouldn't call myself an adept in any one of them. Our goal was not to choose among them but to try to understand their core beliefs, their origins and development, and above all the stories they tell us. I thought of myself as "spiritual but not religious" a long time before I started graduate school, and the program pretty well convinced me I was on the right track with that approach. I've always been cross-disciplinary in my thinking and have found that being eclectic is not only very enriching but also makes greater sense of things than trying to find all the answers in one place.

I was raised as a Christian and came to have doubts about some of the dogma of the Church, though I was not sorry about the structure and moral fiber I ingested with my upbringing. Myth studies not only introduced me to beliefs different from the ones I learned in Catholic school, it also gave me a new respect for the texts and traditions of my own past. I read parts of the Old Testament in graduate school that I only heard about in catechism class and had never actually read for myself.

One of the professors at school liked to say it's helpful in any given situation to stop, look around, and ask yourself: Who is present? I'm asking myself that now. Over to my right, on a shelf behind my writing desk, is a statue of Ganesha, Hindu remover of obstacles and friend to students. Every time I happen to see him, I get a sense of well-being; he just looks so calm and immovable. On the bookshelf across the room is a statue of Kwan Yin, Buddhist goddess of compassion, sitting serenely atop a crescent moon. In the hall outside the living room is Bastet, the watchful Egyptian cat goddess who sees everyone who crosses my door.

In the kitchen I have refrigerator magnets in the form of an angel with a quill and a manuscript, a pretty little Virgin of Guadalupe, and a tiny metallic goddess engraved with the words, "How do I set a laser printer to stun?" I used to have a Shaker Tree of Life on the wall in there. (It's still around here somewhere. I'll have to find a new place for it.)

In the bathroom, Aphrodite (with one eye on her own reflection) and Hecate, triple goddess of magic, preside together over the sink, lotions, and potions. In my bedroom, a dancing Shiva, another Virgin of Guadalupe, a golden Buddha, my Japanese lucky cat, another Kwan Yin, and an exultant spring goddess coexist on the bookcase. There are also two dreamcatchers, a small angel, and two rather chipped and bemused looking gargoyles (they've been knocked over a few times) who act as bookends on the dresser.

What the gentleman who wrote the essay might interpret as sampling I prefer to think of as "taking all the help I can get." I'm so used to living with the images of all these different entities that I admit I often forget they're even there. But that doesn't mean they've forgotten me, and who knows what good they've done for me without my knowing it, simply because I've made room for them.

By the way, I've yet to hear complaints from any of them about having to share quarters, though they probably wish I would dust more often.

An Off-Cannes Film Festival: It's Archetypal!

I used to enjoy reading mini-reviews of movies that appeared regularly in a local publication. And when I say mini, I'm serious: the reviews were only a short sentence or two. They were pithy, often witty, sometimes mean-spirited, and not to be trusted as a guide to what you should actually see. They were interesting to read merely because it was fun to see the writer sketch an entire film in a few words while turning a catchy phrase.

I thought I'd try to do the same with the movies I've watched over the last couple of weeks at home. None of these films are recent, some of them are quite old, and this is not necessarily a guide to what you should actually see. Also, I think there's plenty of meanness in the world, so I'll leave that element out. Witty is probably aiming too high, but pithy I should be able to handle, having both headline-composing and haiku-writing within my realm of experience.

I always thought it would be fun to be a film critic, and now, through the magic of blogging, I can be, even though the pay isn't much. I'm calling this "The Eclectic Minimalist's Archetypal Film Roundup." If you read anything into my choice of films, it's your own fault, because there's no premeditation involved. I just know what I like (or think I like. I'm not always right). Here's the roundup:

Garden State
Boy living in L.A. heavily medicated goes home to Jersey, meets girl, does primal scream therapy on truck in a rainstorm, self-heals in a bathtub. Reading: Persephone charms Hades clean out of the Underworld.

Man on the Train
A bank robber and retired teacher forge a friendship, sample how the other half lives, exchange notes on slippers and target-shooting.
Reading: Hermes and Hestia have tea and shoot at cans.

The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (Abridged)
Three smart-aleck comedians zoom through the canon with a heavy emphasis on the tragedies (because "they're funnier"). They're right.
Reading: Hermes, Dionysus, and Apollo start their own circus.

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
Man-about-town journalist suffers catastrophic stroke, is forced to live imaginatively within severe limits, aided by heroic women.
Reading: Wounded Dionysus, attended by Mnemosyne and Muses.

An American in Paris
Gene Kelly paints, sings, and dances his way into hearts of two women, loves one, takes the other to a party, fantasizes choreography to a Gershwin melody.
Reading: Hmmm . . . the Apple of Discord maybe, but there are only two goddesses, and this is Paris, so there's singing, dancing, kissing, and starving artists, but no Trojan War.

Adam's Rib
Married lawyers mix careers and love in a hectic battle of the sexes in which the winner is -- it's a draw!
Reading: Zeus is bested but turns the tables on Hera, then they go to Connecticut.

Clerks
Generation X minimum-wagers get profane, play hockey on the roof, wax philosophical, attend a funeral on work time, weather bathroom death. First annoying, then wise.
Reading: Satyrs at the convenience store who sometimes channel Saturn.

The Umbrellas of Cherbourg
Young lovers dream, meet secretly, get pregnant, and are parted in a candy-box setting where everybody (even the mailman) sings. You can't get that song out of your head for days.
Reading: Aphrodite gets walloped by Hestia, which may or may not be a good thing. You decide.

Inherit the Wind
Teacher is arrested for teaching evolution; lawyers, politicians, townspeople, demagogues jump into the fray. Sharp and surprisingly modern.
Reading: Apollo loses, but the battle lines get blurred in the melee.

Coco Before Chanel
Early life of Coco Chanel, who dreamed of success on stage, struggled in a man's world, crashed some parties, made her own clothes, and then other people's.
Reading: Artemis becomes Aphrodite. Or, Ariadne picks up her own thread, grabs needle.

Cool Hand Luke
Couldn't get disc to play.
Reading: Mercury in retrograde. A failure to communicate.

First Day of Autumn

Last night I went to the Oktoberfest at a local church, a festival that's made a name for itself by bringing in exceptional musical performers. The last time I went was years ago, and I went there on an artist's date (I was doing the Artist's Way at the time). It was a sunny afternoon, and other than it being a pleasant day with a big crowd, booths, and bratwurst, I don't remember anything about it. This was in the days before Oktoberfest became hip by inviting big-name musicians to play in front of a crowd of beer-drinkers, kids, parishioners, college kids on dates, and hipsters.

My first impression last night was that, besides having better music, the fair has gotten more elaborate. I walked past innumerable games, bouncy houses, Cinderella castles, and other attractions for kids. Out in the open area, between the Bingo tent, the stage, and the food vendors, there was a sea of people, but no one I recognized. My dilemma beforehand had been what to wear, since the afternoon was warm but the night was going to cool off, and in the crowd you could see every possible answer to that problem as devised by other people: I saw women in sandals and women in boots, guys wearing shorts and T-shirts, denim jackets, sweaters, and blazers.

What I didn't see was anyone who looked like me, that is to say, unattached. It was definitely a family-oriented occasion. There are times you can go someplace by yourself and feel perfectly OK about it, but Christ the King's Oktoberfest isn't one of them. After a brief reconnoiter, I determined there was nothing to do except eat, drink, stand in line to eat or drink, play Bingo, or wait for the music to start.

I felt very conspicuous, just standing around (I didn't have flashbacks to the time I went to godparent training alone and received the icy stares of seven or eight married couples, all of whom were going to be parents, though it may have been in the back of my Catholic mind somewhere). I was almost on the verge of sneaking into the church to sit and look at the stained-glass windows (something I used to do in my college days) when I noticed a sign for a silent auction taking place in the church hall. I figured it would be something to do until the music started, so I went in and made the rounds of Wildcat athletics paraphernalia, game baskets, gadgets, and, on a special table in back, a slew of cakes, bundt, caramel, lemon, and iced, which diverted me for ten minutes or so.

Back outside, the musicians, Chris Hillman (of The Byrds) and Herb Pedersen (of The Desert Rose Band) were getting ready, and I was dithering about whether I even wanted to stay. Deciding it was useless to leave without sampling any of what made Oktoberfest famous, I rather indecisively took up a post at a back corner of the seated crowd. I wasn't about to sit. By that time, with the sun going down, it was getting chilly, and I decided that staying on my feet would help me stay warm and also enable a quick getaway.

The music was very good, though something a little less mellow and more rocking would have been a good excuse to move around more. As it was, I managed to bounce up and down on my heels. I never got over feeling out of place in the crowd, but a certain stubbornness prevented me from bolting, and I made it through the first set. While the sounds of mandolin and guitar drifted through the darkening air, and the odor of mustard and sausage wafted around on a stiff breeze, I reminded myself that I'm a mythologist, and that I could look at the scene with a mythologist's eye. I tried, but I have to admit drawing a bit of a blank. I knew I was at a harvest festival, but this suburban church parking lot, with its barbecue, hot dogs, bouncy castles, and soft drinks, didn't seem to have much in common with bringing in the grain. Then again, it's probably one of those things that makes more sense if you come with a crowd.

I lasted through the first performance before heading to my car. That's when a tiny burst of magic set in. I walked down the wrong street, which was OK; I felt like walking and getting some fresh air, so I took the long way around. On either side of the quiet street, warm light spilled out of houses; a half moon glowed between two rows of trees. I had a sudden, vivid memory of being out on a long-ago Halloween, roaming from house to house in the dark with a bag of candy and an even more delicious sense of license, magic, and mystery.

By the time I got home last night, it felt good to walk into the warmth of the hallway, and my apartment, which had seemed a little oppressive earlier in the day, now seemed cozy and clean and blessedly free of the odor of mustard. I celebrated surviving the Oktoberfest with hot chocolate and toast.

If there is any moral to this story, I guess it might be don't go to the Oktoberfest if what you're really in the mood for is something more mysterious. But if you do go, take a friend.