Christmas 2019

When I was 13 years old I acted in a community production of "Little Women."

The director had us read for various roles; and of course, one look at me and she wanted me to play Marmee. I was sweet, soft-spoken, plump, and nurturing. I am good at reading aloud. Since it was the role she ushered toward me, I probably would have got it without any further consideration after only reading for the one part.

But I didn't want to play Marmee. I wanted to play Amy. I wanted to play Amy because she was the least like me of all the other characters: plucky, a bit shallow, kind of a brat, concerned with social status; and later well-travelled, witty, and the one who landed the main male romantic interest. I insisted on playing Amy.

What interested me about acting and what still does is that you get to be someone you're not. And you can be, within reason, anyone. For once, you are not limited by circumstances and personality. Your everyday boundaries and deficiencies don't apply. I had to almost-kiss a boy three to four years older than me: me, who hand't had a boyfriend and wouldn't until I was well into my twenties. I was horrified. But I did it. Acting freed me to do things that the otherwise insecure, bookish adolescent never would have.

I can still recite the first line: "MY castle in the air is to go to Paris, become a painter, and become the best painter in the WHOLE world."

After we wrapped our last show, the director gave us all lovely hand-written notes. She thanked me for pushing to play Amy; that in doing so I knew what I was doing.

Almost ten years later, during my last year of college, I played Ariel in Shakespeare's "The Tempest." It was the last play I'd ever be in. I remember I kept asking for someone to provide me with the music to go with Ariel's song and that my request kept being forgotten. So one day, during rehearsal, instead of merely reciting the lines, I broke out into singing: "four fathoms five thy father lies..." It was my own melody, and I still remember it, and it was what I imagined when I read those lines.

A professor-mentor of mine, with whom I had become estranged over the years and who has since passed away, approached me after the show. He didn't have to say anything to me. But he told me that mine was the truest portrayal of Ariel he'd ever seen, that I was more Ariel than any other who'd played the role.

I've never, ever forgotten that.

St. Lucy's Day

Today is the feast of Saint Lucy, a Sicilian martyr particularly venerated in Scandinavia, there known as Saint Lucia. Her martyrdom was particularly gruesome: among other things, having her eyes gouged out. She is always depicted holding the dangling eyes, but completely whole. Perhaps a reference to the fact that her true sight was unaffected, that is, her willingness to suffer anything for the love of Christ. As such, she is the saint of light.

Today is always ruthlessly dark in north Wales. I feel a particular kinship with Lucy, not so much in her historical personage as in the mystical immortal soul who lives in eternal glory with God. Like all saints, she transcends time and place, but for me it is this aspect of St. Lucy that most moves and kindles. She is what, I imagine, our pre-Christian ancestors would have called a god: someone who speaks to them out of the quiet part of the soul and points to something greater beyond.



In this sunless winter, St. Lucy is a steadfast beacon, joining in the ranks of all the Advent saints in pointing to the horizon where the star of Christ will soon rise.

Spring 2019 in Black and White

Beyond the Bridge

Today is the 8th day since our clocks turned back an hour, and I am feeling the effects: a bit lethargic, a bit melancholy.  Suddenly we have turned the sharp corner toward winter.

October felt like a blind charge from the recent memory of summer.  And it was too rainy.  I finally made it to Tu Hwnt i'r Bont, the "internet famous" tea room in our own little Llanrwst, made out of a 15th century coach house.  Its name means Beyond the Bridge.  We picked up some buckeyes beneath the giant horse-chestnut tree, and the following Saturday Roan and I drank hot chocolate, read books in bed, and punctured our buckeyes and tied them through with string to make conkers.

But autumn is still here!  Early November on the Conwy coast is the height of color.

November feels like a month of dormancy; of rest after the harvest and Hallowtide.  Of turning inwards, into our warm glowing homes and our quiet inner thoughts, before the preparations of Advent.

June