Things have been few and far between around here lately, to say nothing of grim. Just once, when I was in a good mood and had something good to report, I wanted to say 'hello.' For, as Paul wrote to the church at Philippi, "..whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honorable, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things."
Okay, it's a stretch, but it's one of my favorite verses, so I went with it. Shoot me.
I have spent the last 22 hours or so (okay, the conscious bits, anyway) recuperating from a bad cold. Far from being annoyed that I was spending one of my days off recuperating, I relished the chance to rest. I spent a little time resting and meditating, but the bulk was spent playing the new Legend of Zelda game and tinkering around on the newly-opened Pottermore site. It is about the latter that I wish to opine.
There's been a lot of griping — a bit of it even from me — about the inordinate amount of time it's taken for Pottermore to get out of beta. I don't know why it took so long, apart from the fact that creating anything for the sheer volume of users they must have been expecting can be no easy task.
Anyway, after several false starts, the site finally (and quietly) opened to everyone Saturday morning. Word began to spread like wildfire Saturday morning (or, if you like, fiendfyre), and by noon or so that day, our family had its very first Hufflepuff. Yvonne and I waited more or less patiently the rest of the day for our own "letters," which came late Saturday. Tired, but undaunted, we opted to plow ahead until we at least knew what house we belonged to. We'd gathered around my daughter as she had been joyfully sorted into Hufflepuff (which has long been 'her' house). Now, she returned the favor as first she, then my wife answered the questions that would determine our own houses.
Yvonne had registered before I had, so it was only fair that she got sorted first. She has long identified as either a Ravenclaw or a Slytherin, and so was more than a little surprised when she was sorted into Gryffindor (which she'd conceded as a remote third possibility a few hours before the sorting). She's, in the main, pleased, but she's still sorting it out, I think.
I had always sort of liked Gryffindor, but was often embarrassed to say so. Because the books focus on three young Gryffindors, who are, in the main, taught by Gryffindor teachers, the House of Godric Gryffindor is a popular choice among Potter fans. It seemed something of an unimaginative choice, and I am just vain enough to let such things as being thought unimaginative matter. But I couldn't argue the fact that I strongly identified with the principle virtues of Gryffindors, including loyalty, courage, and a love of justice. So when my family told me that I was definitely a Gryffindor, I didn't argue much. Secretly, I really wanted to be one, but just didn't think I was in that class.
Whether I am actually in that class or not, I am pleased to report that the sorting hat also thinks I'm a Gryffindor. I would have actually been fine being a Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw — both noble Houses with fine qualities of their own. I would not have been happy as a Slytherin, which appear to value the self more than I'm comfortable with at this phase of my life. But, Gryffindor it is, and I am inclined to regard it as official. And, if I may say, quite pleased.
I have good words for the site itself. It isn't a video game or MMORPG, and that's a good thing. Nor is it about the movie versions — it's about the books, and the site takes none of its visual cues from the films. The illustrations are, as far as I can tell, original. The whole thing seems to be designed to compliment the books, but it very much feels like its own entity at the same time. Books, movies...web site.
While it's free, the site also features plentiful opportunities to purchase digital eBooks or audio books — perhaps the reason the site exists, as far as the 'money' people are concerned. If so, then that, too, is a success — the cost of putting the entire Harry Potter on my iPad is a more-than-reasonable $60. And while my finances do not permit such extravagances at the moment, I feel certain that the next time I re-read the series — and there will be a next time — it will be done precisely this way.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Sunday, April 8, 2012
A Grief Observed
Hello,
I only have a minute to write this; it is Easter Sunday, and services at my church begin in an hour. Easter is one of the most joyous — no, the most joyous — day in the Christian calendar. It is the day the disciples discovered the empty tomb; it is the day that Jesus Christ conquered death for all of us. It is a day full of rebirth, and beautiful spring days, perfect for soaking in the awareness of God's love, and watching children enjoy the surprise of more candy than they can possibly eat in one sitting — although many of them will certianly try.
Easter is a day that I cherish. And even as I write this, I am able to bask, just a little, in the specialness of this day.
This is also an Easter that I was able to appreciate without the benefit of much imagination the disciple's feeling of loss that Friday and Saturday night. As many of you may know, Yvonne and I lost one of our dearest friends on Palm Sunday. Amy Dodson was, in part, one of the reasons we chose the name Amy for our daughter, and she was always known as Aunt Amy in our house. I first met her when the girl I was dating at the time (and who kindly consented to marry me a few months later) brought her over to my apartment.
This was the mid-eighties, and Rush was still very much a cult band that were almost exclusively the earnest province of nerdy young men. Women at Rush concerts at that point were a complete unknown, unlike today, when they are merely an occasional rarity.
When they arrived, Amy walked to the center of the room, turned to face my stereo, and the 3x4-foot "Rush"Starman banner that dominated the wall, and exclaimed "Oh, cool! Rush!" Somewhat stunned, I soon learned I was in the presence of what must have then been the only female Rush fan in the entire Mid-South. (my wife would soon join her, which was probably a very good thing for her sanity, since she'd be living with the band for her entire married life — in fact, to date, she's seen them nine times).
Anyway, it was natural with a bond like that that Amy and I would become friends. And for 27 years, she was a charter member of a group I call "the circle" — a group of five or six college friends that have remained close well after what should have been our expiration date. Since then, a few of us have fallen out of touch, but in many cases, we still keep in touch, we call each other more than some families call each other, and we manage to juggle finances and schedules to see each other a couple times a year, if not more. They are, in short, friends that have become family.
And Amy was the first of us to leave.
I've lost family members before, so I know what grief is. This is somehow different. This is a someone who died unexpectedly, who took us completely off-guard. It is a loss that has changed us both. I could write all day, and still not be able to tell you how — somehow, words seem like the wrong reaction to this.
I am writing this morning because my friend was buried on Good Friday, and today is Easter Sunday. I have felt the joy of the resurrection in years past, but today, the sorrow of the tomb is, I'm sorry to say, still coloring things.
It also seemed wrong to let this occasion pass without comment. I was not about to use this space to memorialize Steve Jobs, who made the products I love, and little more than that, and not make some mention of a woman who was, in my estimation, far his superior in kindness, compassion, and innate love of her fellow men. I realize that it is common to over-romanticize the good qualities of the recently departed, but Amy was, quite simply, one of the most innately compassionate people I will probably ever know. The way she cared for people was, as my wife observed, Christ-like — she always put others before herself, she was one of the world's great listeners, and she seemed completely without the self-centeredness that plagues many of us, myself certainly included. I am among the many who are infinitely better for having known her.
And now, I must go. It is Easter Sunday. And, hallelujah, He is Risen!
I only have a minute to write this; it is Easter Sunday, and services at my church begin in an hour. Easter is one of the most joyous — no, the most joyous — day in the Christian calendar. It is the day the disciples discovered the empty tomb; it is the day that Jesus Christ conquered death for all of us. It is a day full of rebirth, and beautiful spring days, perfect for soaking in the awareness of God's love, and watching children enjoy the surprise of more candy than they can possibly eat in one sitting — although many of them will certianly try.
Easter is a day that I cherish. And even as I write this, I am able to bask, just a little, in the specialness of this day.
This is also an Easter that I was able to appreciate without the benefit of much imagination the disciple's feeling of loss that Friday and Saturday night. As many of you may know, Yvonne and I lost one of our dearest friends on Palm Sunday. Amy Dodson was, in part, one of the reasons we chose the name Amy for our daughter, and she was always known as Aunt Amy in our house. I first met her when the girl I was dating at the time (and who kindly consented to marry me a few months later) brought her over to my apartment.
This was the mid-eighties, and Rush was still very much a cult band that were almost exclusively the earnest province of nerdy young men. Women at Rush concerts at that point were a complete unknown, unlike today, when they are merely an occasional rarity.
When they arrived, Amy walked to the center of the room, turned to face my stereo, and the 3x4-foot "Rush"Starman banner that dominated the wall, and exclaimed "Oh, cool! Rush!" Somewhat stunned, I soon learned I was in the presence of what must have then been the only female Rush fan in the entire Mid-South. (my wife would soon join her, which was probably a very good thing for her sanity, since she'd be living with the band for her entire married life — in fact, to date, she's seen them nine times).
Anyway, it was natural with a bond like that that Amy and I would become friends. And for 27 years, she was a charter member of a group I call "the circle" — a group of five or six college friends that have remained close well after what should have been our expiration date. Since then, a few of us have fallen out of touch, but in many cases, we still keep in touch, we call each other more than some families call each other, and we manage to juggle finances and schedules to see each other a couple times a year, if not more. They are, in short, friends that have become family.
And Amy was the first of us to leave.
I've lost family members before, so I know what grief is. This is somehow different. This is a someone who died unexpectedly, who took us completely off-guard. It is a loss that has changed us both. I could write all day, and still not be able to tell you how — somehow, words seem like the wrong reaction to this.
I am writing this morning because my friend was buried on Good Friday, and today is Easter Sunday. I have felt the joy of the resurrection in years past, but today, the sorrow of the tomb is, I'm sorry to say, still coloring things.
It also seemed wrong to let this occasion pass without comment. I was not about to use this space to memorialize Steve Jobs, who made the products I love, and little more than that, and not make some mention of a woman who was, in my estimation, far his superior in kindness, compassion, and innate love of her fellow men. I realize that it is common to over-romanticize the good qualities of the recently departed, but Amy was, quite simply, one of the most innately compassionate people I will probably ever know. The way she cared for people was, as my wife observed, Christ-like — she always put others before herself, she was one of the world's great listeners, and she seemed completely without the self-centeredness that plagues many of us, myself certainly included. I am among the many who are infinitely better for having known her.
And now, I must go. It is Easter Sunday. And, hallelujah, He is Risen!
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