The Wanderer - Final Translation

Here is my complete translation:

Often the solitary one waits for honor for himself,
God’s compassion, although he sorrowful at heart
over the seaways stir with his hands
the frost-cold sea, for a long time
traveling paths of exile. Fate is very resolute.
So spoke the wanderer, mindful of hardships, of fierce slaughter, deaths of dear kinsmen: Often I must, alone, the hour before dawn lament my sorrow. No one is now alive to whom I dare openly reveal my soul. I know as a truth: It is in a warrior noble custom
That he firmly bind his life-enclosure,
govern his wealth-chamber, whatever he may think.
Weary heart never provides fate,
nor does troubled heart provide help;
Therefore, those who are eager for glory often bind fast
a sorrowful mind in their breast-chamber.
So must I my spirit—
often wretchedly sorrowful, separated of homeland,
far from kinsmen bound with fetters,
since long ago I covered my former lord
in darkness of earth, and I, wretched, thence,
traveled sorrowful as winter, sought over the freezing waves, hall
sorrowful, a giver of treasure
Where I far or near
I might find one in mead-hall who knew my people
or could find me, friendless, would console me, entertain me with pleasures. He who experiences understands
how cruel is sorrow, as a companion,
For him who himself has few beloved friends
The path of exile holds him, not at all twisted gold,
his soul-chamber frozen, not at all earth’s glory.
He remembers men of the hall and receiving of treasure,
how in his youth his generous lord
accustomed him to feast. Pleasure all perished!
Therefore he knows, who must do without his lord-friends
beloved teachings for a long time.
When sorrow and sleep simultaneously together
often bind a wretched solitary thinker,
it seems in his mind that he embraces and kisses
his lord of men, and he lays hands and head
on his knee, as sometimes before he
benefited from the gift-seat in days of yore.
When the friendless man awakes again,
sees before him tawny waves,
sea-birds bathe, wings spread,
frost and snow fall, mingled with hail.
Then are the heart's wounds more grievous, sore for the sake of beloved.
Sorrow is renewed
when the mind reviews memory of kinsmen;
he greets with melodies, eagerly examines
hall-companions of men. Again they swim away.
Floating spirits there seldom bring
familiar speeches. Care is renewed
to him who very often must send
his weary spirit over the freezing waves.
Therefore, I cannot imagine, throughout this world,
for what reason my spirit does not become dark,
when I entirely ponder the lives of warriors,
how they suddenly abandoned the hall,
brave noble kinsmen. So this Middle-Earth
of all days everyone perishes and falls.
Therefore a man may not become wise before he has
his share of winters in kingdom of the world. The wise man should be patient,
not too angry, nor too hasty of speech,
nor too weak a warrior, nor too reckless,
neither too fearful nor too glad, nor too greedy for wealth,
nor never too eager to boast, before he knows well.
A warrior should wait when he speaks a vow,
until, stout-hearted, he knows well
whither thought of the mind wish to turn.
A wise warrior understands how spiritual it will be
when all this world's riches stands ruined,
as now here and there throughout this world
walls blown upon by wind stand,
frost-covered, the dwellings snow-swept.
The wine-halls decay, rulers lay
deprived of joy, army all fallen,
splendid by the wall. Some war took away,
carried into death; one a raven bore away
over the deep sea; one the grey wolf
shared with death, one a sad-faced warrior
hid in a grave.
So the Creator of men devastated this world,
until, lacking the revelry of town-dwellers,
old works of giants' stood empty.
He with a wise mind then deeply ponders this wall and this dark life,
the one wise in mind often remembers long ago
multitudes of slaughter, and says these words:
“What has become of the horse? What has become of the kinsmen?
What has become of the gift-giver?
What has become of the feast-seats? Where are all the hall-joys?
Oh, alas for the bright cup! Oh, alas armored warrior!
Alas the king's might! How that time departed,
grew dark under cover of night, as if it never were.
Now stands on track of the beloved war-band
a wondrously high wall, adorned with likenesses of serpents.
Multitudes of spears, weapons greedy for slaughter,
took away the warriors - the glorious fate –
and storms crash against these stony-cliffs;
falling frost with tumult of winter,
binds the earth, then darkness comes,
night-shadow grows dark, fierce hailstorms issue
from the north in anger toward warriors.
All earth’s kingdom is full of hardship,
fate of events overturns the world under heavens.
Here riches are transitory; here friendship is transitory, here
mankind is transitory, here kinsmen are transitory;
all this earthly-foundation becomes idle.”
So said the one wise in mind, sat himself apart at counsel.
Good is he who maintains his faith, never reveals his
suffering from his breast too quickly, unless he, warrior,
knows beforehand how to bring about
the remedy with courage. Good is he who seeks mercy for himself,
comforts from the Father in heaven, where the protection exists for us all.

This concludes "The Wanderer", who is not only crossing the earth but also traversing the metaphysical landscape of faith and fate.

It is quite possible that there are two speakers in “The Wanderer”. There is the narrator who introduces the work from lines 1-7 and who completes the elegy with lines 111-115. In its final lines the narrator tries to reaffirm his (and the readers) belief in God: “Good is he who seeks mercy for himself, comforts from the Father in heaven, where the protection exists for us all.” This is to be expected, for all elegies have in their text a search for consolation that is (re-)discovered in Christian faith.

Then there is the wanderer himself; alone on the sea, friendless, and at the mercy of nature. He laments his losses and reflects upon the ruin of mankind as he realizes that all of life – “All this earthly foundation” - is transitory. The stark images of loss and abandonment that the poem has brilliantly conjured are compelling. The snow falls and seagulls stand in for hall-companions as the wanderer rows across the frost-covered waves and cries out, “What has become of the horse? What has become of the kinsmen? What has become of the gift-giver?” The wanderer’s description of his own immediate situation is much more forceful and heartbreaking.

It is possible to believe that the wanderers religious affirmation is akin to the old adage that “There are no atheists in foxholes. However, it is also possible that the wanderer has used his time of exile for personal reflection that has reaffirmed his faith and allowed him to move beyond the pain of the transitory world to find solace in the mercy from his Father in heaven.

This is for each reader to ponder and discover for himself.

The Wanderer - 2nd Assignment

The Wanderer continues his journey of exile. Here are lines 39-80a in the original Old English:

ðonne sorg ond slæp somod ætgædre
earmne anhogan oft gebindað.
þinceð him on mode þæt he his mondryhten
clyppe ond cysse, ond on cneo lecge
honda ond heafod, swa he hwilum ær
in geardagum giefstolas breac.
ðonne onwæcneð eft wineleas guma,
gesihð him biforan fealwe wegas,
baþian brimfuglas, brædan feþra,
hreosan hrim ond snaw, hagle gemenged.
þonne beoð þy hefigran heortan benne,
sare æfter swæsne. Sorg bið geniwad,
þonne maga gemynd mod geondhweorfeð;
greteð gliwstafum, georne geondsceawað
secga geseldan. Swimmað eft on weg!
Fleotendra ferð no þær fela bringeð
cuðra cwidegiedda. Cearo bið geniwad
þam þe sendan sceal swiþe geneahhe
ofer waþema gebind werigne sefan.
Forþon ic geþencan ne mæg geond þas woruld
for hwan modsefa min ne gesweorce,
þonne ic eorla lif eal geondþence,
hu hi færlice flet ofgeafon,
modge maguþegnas. Swa þes middangeard
ealra dogra gehwam dreoseð ond fealleþ,
forþon ne mæg weorþan wis wer, ær he age
wintra dæl in woruldrice. Wita sceal geþyldig,
ne sceal no to hatheort ne to hrædwyrde,
ne to wac wiga ne to wanhydig,
ne to forht ne to fægen, ne to feohgifre
ne næfre gielpes to georn, ær he geare cunne.
Beorn sceal gebidan, þonne he beot spriceð,
oþþæt collenferð cunne gearwe
hwider hreþra gehygd hweorfan wille.
Ongietan sceal gleaw hæle hu gæstlic bið,
þonne ealre þisse worulde wela weste stondeð,
swa nu missenlice geond þisne middangeard
winde biwaune weallas stondaþ,
hrime bihrorene, hryðge þa ederas.
Woriað þa winsalo, waldend licgað
dreame bidrorene, duguþ eal gecrong,
wlonc bi wealle.

Here is my translation:

When sorrow and sleep simultaneously together
often bind a wretched solitary thinker,
it seems in his mind that he embraces and kisses
his lord of men, and he lays hands and head
on his knee, as sometimes before
he benefited from the gift-seat in days of yore.
When the friendless man awakes again,
sees before him tawny waves,
sea-birds bathing, wing spread,
frost and snow fall, mingled with hail.
Then are the heart's wounds more grievous,
sore for the sake of beloved. Sorrow is renewed
when the mind reviews memory of kinsmen;
he greets with melodies, eagerly examines
hall-companions of men. Again they swim away.
Floating spirits there seldom bring
familiar speeches. Care is renewed
to him who very often must send his weary spirit over the freezing waves.
Therefore, I cannot imagine, throughout this world,
for what reason my spirit does not become dark,
when I entirely ponder the lives of warriors,
how they suddenly abandoned the hall,
brave noble kinsmen. So this world
of all days everyone perishes and falls.
Therefore a man may not become wise before he has
his share of winters in kingdom of the world. The wise man should be patient,
not too angry, nor too hasty of speech,
nor too weak a warrior, nor too reckless,
neither too fearful nor too glad, nor too greedy for wealth,
nor never too eager to boast, before he well knows.
A warrior should wait when he speaks a vow,
until, stout-hearted, he knows well
whither thought of the mind wish to turn.
A wise warrior understands how spiritual it will be
when all this world's riches stands ruined,
as now here and there throughout this Middle-Earth
walls blown upon by wind stand,
frost-covered, the dwellings snow-swept.
The wine-halls decay, rulers lay deprived of joy, a fallen army,
splendid by the wall. /

And here is the translation by award-winning poet Greg Delanty:

Whenever sorrow and sleep combine
the wretched recluse often dreams
that he is with his loyal lord.
He clasps and kisses him, lays
his hands and head on those knees, loves
the liberal ruler as in whilom days.
As soon as the sober man wakes
he sees nothing but fallow furrows;
seabirds paddle and preen feathers;
snow and frost combine forces.
Then his heart weighs heavier, sore
for the loved lord, sorrow renewed.
He recalls friends from the past,
gladly greets them, feasts his eyes.
His mates swim in waves of memory.
Those fellows float away in his mind,
barely utter a word. Down again
the man knows he must cast
his harrowed heart over frigid waves.
It’s not hard to guess why in the world
my spirit’s in such a stark state
as I consider the lives of those lords,
how they abruptly quit the halls,
the bold youth. In this way the world,
day after day, fails and falls.
For sure, no man’s wise without his share
of winters in this world. He must be patient,
not too keen, not hot tongued,
not easily led, not foolhardy,
not timid, not all gusto, not greedy
no too cocky till he knows life.
A man should take stock before a vow,
brace for action, be mindful
of the mind’s twists and turns.
The wise man knows how ghostly it will be
when all the world’s wealth is wasted
as in many regions on Earth today,
the still-standing walls wind-wracked,
ice-bound; each edifice under snow.
The halls fall, the lords lie low,
no more revels, troops of gallant veterans
valiant by the wall.

The Wanderer takes on new levels of despair as he falls into a fitful sleep. In his dreams he is once again with his lord, showing him fealty (as he should) and remembering the many times he knelt before the “gift-seat” (a throne) from where his lord favored him with gifts. For a moment, the wanderer knows happiness once more.

Then he awakes suddenly to “frost and snow fall, mingled with hail.”

However, he – either in his delirium or futile hopes - believes that he is still in the company of his hall-companions. He remembers their songs and their fellowship. But, in the end, it is just a gathering of gulls that float nearby, preening their wings. Cold reality sets in once more. The gulls swim away from him leaving him alone on the water. The spirit of the wanderer longs to travel with them over the frozen waves. He is grief-stricken once more.

The wanderer uses the bitter cold as an analogy for wisdom when he says, “Therefore a man may not become wise before he has his share of winters in kingdom of the world.” As he travels through this particular winter the wanderer is gaining wisdom that he also shares with the reader. However, it is doubtful that the wanderer will actually survive through many more winters.

The wanderer reflects on the notion that all of human existence is transient. After all, he knows from bitter experience that he once had lord, who provided him with a home that was shared with people he loved. But, in the blink of an eye, all that disappeared. When he combines this sense of loss with his knowledge that men will die, he cannot help but reflect on how all of creation will eventually fall into ruin, too. Here the poem expresses this notion of transience with the image of a fallen army in front of a wall that is covered with frost, buffered and battered by the winds that slowly but surely wear it into a state of decay and, finally, into nothingness. One day the earth (middangeard – “Middle-earth”), too, will suffer the same fate.

And the wanderer rows on…

The Wanderer

"Introduction to Old English Literature" has kicked into high gear.

We are now translating poetry from the Anglo-Saxon world. This reminds me of those many months translating lines from Beowulf; The work is a challenge of finding the correct word-order while attempting to discern and maintain the original intent of the author.

First up - The Wanderer.

Our assignment for the next three weeks is to translate one-third of the poem into Modern English. I have decided to share my labors with you as well as my thoughts and observations about the work as a whole.

If you're still interested then read on...

This poem tells the story of a wanderer, a lone warrior who roams the world seeking shelter and aid after the death of his lord. In the first part of the poem the wanderer has set sail on the wintery sea. He finds no comfort roaming the wilderness beyond civilization. His monologue is a lament for his exile and the loss of kin, friends, home, and the generosity of his "gold-friend" (his liege lord). Poignantly the speaker imagines that he is among his companions and embracing his king, only to awaken to the reality of the gray winter sea and the loneliness of one in exile.

The poem is (possibly) an elegy, defined in literature as a mournful, melancholic or plaintive poem, especially a funeral song or a lament for the dead.

It is important not to underestimate the meaning of exile while reading the poem. This was not the Old West. Americans have long romanticized the notion of living alone on the frontier and traveling beyond civilisation into the wild. However, in the Anglo-Saxon age, a man was defined and nurtured by his role in society and by the lord he served. If you did not remain in your society then you were an "outlaw"; neither bound nor protected by your clan. This was a punishment; a form of living hell from which the wanderer may certainly perish.

Here are the first 38 lines in Old English:

Oft him anhaga are gebideð,
metudes miltse, þeah þe he modcearig
geond lagulade longe sceolde
hreran mid hondum hrimcealde sæ,wadan wræclastas. Wyrd bið ful aræd!
Swa cwæð eardstapa, earfeþa gemyndig,
wraþra wælsleahta, winemæga hryre:
"Oft ic sceolde ana uhtna gehwylce
mine ceare cwiþan. Nis nu cwicra nanþe ic him modsefan minne durre
sweotule asecgan. Ic to soþe wat
þæt biþ in eorle indryhten þeaw,
þæt he his ferðlocan fæste binde,
healde his hordcofan, hycge swa he wille. Ne mæg werig mod wyrde wiðstondan,
ne se hreo hyge helpe gefremman.
Forðon domgeorne dreorigne oft
in hyra breostcofan bindað fæste;
swa ic modsefan minne sceolde,oft earmcearig, eðle bidæled,
freomægum feor feterum sælan,
siþþan geara iu goldwine minne
hrusan heolstre biwrah, ond ic hean þonan
wod wintercearig ofer waþema gebind,sohte sele dreorig sinces bryttan,
hwær ic feor oþþe neah findan meahte
þone þe in meoduhealle min mine wisse,
oþþe mec freondleasne frefran wolde,
weman mid wynnum. Wat se þe cunnað, hu sliþen bið sorg to geferan,
þam þe him lyt hafað leofra geholena.
Warað hine wræclast, nales wunden gold,
ferðloca freorig, nalæs foldan blæd.
Gemon he selesecgas ond sincþege,hu hine on geoguðe his goldwine
wenede to wiste. Wyn eal gedreas!
Forþon wat se þe sceal his winedryhtnes
leofes larcwidum longe forþolian

Which I have literally translated thus:

Often the solitary one waits for honor for himself,
God’s compassion, although he sorrowful at heart
over the seaways for a long time
stir with his hands the frost-cold sea,
travel paths of exile. Fate is very resolute.
So spoke the wanderer, mindful of hardships,
of fierce slaughter, deaths of dear kinsmen:
Often I must, alone, the hour before dawn
lament my sorrow. No one is now alive
to whom I dare openly reveal
my soul. I know as a truth:
It is in a warrior noble custom
that he firmly bind his life-enclosure,
govern his wealth-chamber, whatever he may think.
Weary heart never provides fate,
nor does troubled heart provide help;
Therefore, those who are eager for glory often bind fast
a sorrowful mind in their breast-chamber.
So must I my spirit--
often wretchedly sorrowful, separated of homeland,
far from kinsmen bound with fetters,
since long ago my former lord covered
in darkness of earth, and I, wretched, thence,
traveled sorrowful as winter, over the freezing waves
sought, hall-sorrowful, a giver of treasure
Where I far or near could find I might find
one in mead-hall who knew my people
or me, friendless, would console me, entertain me with pleasures. He who experiences understands
how cruel is sorrow, as a companion,
For him who himself has few beloved friends
The path of exile holds him, not at all twisted gold,
his soul-chamber frozen, not at all earth’s glory.
He remembers men of the hall and receiving of treasure,
how in his youth his generous lord
accustomed him to feast. Pleasure all perished!
Therefore he knows, who must do without his lord-friend's beloved
teachings for a long time.

A much more poetic translation is here, courtesy of award-winning poet Greg Delanty:

The loner holds out for grace
—the Maker’s mercy—though full of care
he steers a course, forced to row
the freezing, fierce sea with bare hands,
take the exile’s way; fate dictates.
The earth-stepper spoke, heedful of hardship,
of brutal battle, the death of kith and kin:
“Often at first lick of light
I lament my sole way—no one left
to open my self up to wholly,
heart and soul. Sure, I know it’s the noble custom for an earl
to bind fast what’s in his breast,
hoard inmost thoughts, think what he will.
The weary mind can’t fight fate
nor will grim grit help. Driven men often harbor
chill dread fast in their chests.
So I, at sea in my angst,
(wretched outcast from my land,
far from kind kindred) brace myself,
having buried my large-hearted lord
years back in black earth. Abject,
I wander winter-weary the icy waves,
longing for lost halls, a helping hand
far or near. Maybe I’ll find
one who’d host me in the toasting hall, who’d comfort me, friendless,
gladly entertain me. Any who attempt it
know what cruel company sorrow can be
for a soul without a single mate;
exile’s path holds him, not finished gold;
a frozen heart, not the world’s wonders;
he recalls retainers, reaping treasure,
how in youth his lavish liege
feted and feasted him. All is history.
He who lack a loved lord’s counsel knows this story:

I am simply in awe of the power and majesty found in these lines. "Stir with his hands the frost-cold sea" may be the most vivid description of rowing a boat that I have ever read. It doesn't take much to imagine the gray skies filled with churning clouds as the dark sea rolls with whitecaps as a lone man fights against both the current and his fate (wyrd). The sorrow in his inner-voice reflects his longing for the home he once had while attempting to arm himself with a steely resolve to face the grim future that lay before him.

The image of this man burying his lord ("since long ago I covered my former lord in darkness of earth") is heartbreaking. One can assume from the text that this man is unable to return to his family simply because he has not done so. I surmise that he has buried them all.

The Anglo-Saxon word "eardstapa" literally translates as "Earth stepper" which has been fashioned as "Wanderer". He is one who walks the Earth. And he is doing so alone - truly alone - in the wilderness.
I do not know where the Wanderer will lead us to next. I have not read ahead because I want the story to unfold before me as I translate the poem.

For now, I am haunted by his desolation.

Insights from Cædmon

My Introduction to Old English Literature class has introduced me to Cædmon's Hymn; more importantly, it has given me insight into the Anglo-Saxon world that I never expected.

First, some history: Cædmon was an illiterate cowherd who one night learned to compose songs in the course of a dream. This tale was preserved by the 8th-century monk Bede and is told in Book Four, Chapter 25 of Bede's Ecclesiastical History of the English People. It was translated into Old English, probably during the reign of King Alfred the Great, by an anonymous Mercian scholar. Cædmon composed what is believed to be one of the earliest forms of Old English poetry. All of this took place sometime between 657 and 684 AD.

And yet, this is not what fascinates me about details of Bede's account of Cædmon. Instead, it is line 6 from Bede's account that excites me. here it is in Old English:

"Ond hē for þon oft in ġebēorscipe, þonne þǣr wæs blisse intinga ġedēmed, þæt hēo ealle sceoldon þurh endebyrdnesse be hearpan singan, þonne hē ġeseah þā hearpan him nēalēċan, þonne ārās hē for forscome from þǣm symble ond hām ēode tō his hūse."

Translated by me as follows:

"And he therefore often in banquet, whenever there was judged to be cause for merriment, that they all had to sing to the harp in order, then he saw the harp approach him, then for humility he arose from the banquet and went home to his house."

A less cumbersome translation follows:

"...and for this reason sometimes at a banquet, when it was agreed to make merry by singing in turn, if he saw the harp come towards him, he would rise up from table (in humility) and go out and return home." *

Essentially, Cædmon could not sing any songs in front of the harp because he did not know any and, in his embarrassment, he left the banquet.

As I mentioned earlier, Cædmon was an illiterate lay brother of advanced years who was assigned to the monastery Streonæshalch. In short, he was not ordained as a monk; he was a worker who was occupied primarily with manual labour and with the secular affairs of the monastery. Yet, a close reading of line 6 tells us so much more about the life of Cædmon and the other brothers of the monastery.

The inhabitants of the monastery engaged in banquets. This means that it was possible for the monks to live well; if not all the time then once in a while, at least.

Members of the monastery attended the banquet. However, we do not know if both clergy and laymen attended together or not. I propose that both clergy and secular members were in attendance; if only because it is hard for me to believe that Cædmon was the only illiterate lay brother at the monastery. It stands to reason that the educated members of the order socialized with the laymen in fellowship.

The banquets often involved singing and a harp was used as an accompaniment. I do not know if the songs were sung while the harp was played along or if the harp was used as an introductory device only. Either way, there was music in the lives of those in the monastery.

When the monks did sing at banquets, a harpist made his way around the room for the monks to sing "in order". Whether this is by rank or simply by seat location is unknown. However, when the harpist stopped in front of you it was your turn to sing.

Singing was a form of recreation and used to "make merry". Clearly the oral tradition was both respected and enjoyed by the members of the clergy in the Anglo-Saxon world.

I may be over-romanticizing it a bit but I love the image of the monks sitting together after a hearty meal, reveling in their fellowship and choosing to make merry by lifting their voices together in song while a harp adds its voice to theirs. I can almost hear their voices echoing through the rafters as their melody moves outside the walls of the monastery and slowly drifts across the countryside and up into the night sky.

*http://www.jesus.org.uk/vault/library/bede_history.pdf

"Control of the Magic"

During my last session of "Crusades, Plagues, and Hospitals: Medicine, Religion, and Society in the Medieval Mediterranean" the discussion veered into fascinating territory. Professor Ragab made an intriguing, impassioned speech about how the people who lived in the Levant believed that spirits always walked among them and how this affected their day-to-day existence (I believe this discussion actually refers to the Islamic view of Angels). Clearly, any ideas of a spiritual nature would have been abhorrant to the invading Crusaders from the West. With this backdrop I certainly hope to learn more about the day-to-day magic that pervaded their lives so long ago.

My train ride home was full of ideas from the lecture; specifically, I was comparing how the Anglo-Saxon peoples also believed that magic was infused in their daily lives and how the Church sought to supress the pagan inclination toward "false gods" to that of the medieval Crusades.

Throughout Anglo-Saxon England (which existed from the 5th century until the Norman conquest of England in 1066) the Anglo-Saxons believed that there were spirits and supernatural forces that affected their daily lives. In The Real Middle-Earth by Brian Bates the author discusses the common practice of circumventing "local practices" and establishing the Church as the lone source of religious, supernatural authority:

"As ever, many of the bloody battles between warlords, chieftains and kings were over wealth, power and honour. Some were about rival religions, and involved the power of Rome and Europe-wide politics. Essentially it was a struggle for the control of the magic. The wizards and seeresses practised with the blessing and energies of the enchanted landscape and the spirit world, whereas the Christian missionaries wanted those powers to be mediated exclusively through the Church" (153-154).

Much like with the inhabitants of the Levant, the Church conspired to impose their own rituals over the existing religious practices of the indigenous peoples of Anglo-Saxon Britain. This process is illuminated from a passage found In CHAP. XXX. A copy of the letter which Pope Gregory sent to the Abbot Mellitus, then going into Britain. [601 A.D.] of Bede's Ecclesiastical History of England. This letter detailed how the conversion of the "pagans" in Anglo-Saxon England could be accomplished:

To his most beloved son, the Abbot Mellitus; Gregory, the servant of the servants of God. We have been much concerned, since the departure of our people that are with you, because we have received no account of the success of your journey. Howbeit, when Almighty God has led, you to the most reverend Bishop Augustine, our brother, tell him what I have long been considering in my own mind concerning the matter of the English people; to wit, that the temples of the idols in that nation ought not to be destroyed; but let the idols that are in them be destroyed; let water be consecrated and sprinkled in the said temples, let altars be erected, and relics placed there. For if those temples are well built, it is requisite that they be converted from the worship of devils to the service of the true God; that the nation, seeing that their temples are not destroyed, may remove error from their hearts, and knowing and adoring the true God, may the more freely resort to the places to which they have been accustomed. And because they are used to slaughter many oxen in sacrifice to devils, some solemnity must be given them in exchange for this, as that on the day of the dedication, or the nativities of the holy martyrs, whose relics are there deposited, they should build themselves huts of the boughs of trees about those churches which have been turned to that use from being temples, and celebrate the solemnity with religious feasting, and no more offer animals to the Devil, but kill cattle and glorify God in their feast, and return thanks to the Giver of all things for their abundance; to the end that, whilst some outward gratifications are retained, they may the more easily consent to the inward joys. For there is no doubt that it is impossible to cut off every thing at once from their rude natures; because he who endeavours to ascend to the highest place rises by degrees or steps, and not by leaps. Thus the Lord made Himself known to the people of Israel in Egypt; and yet He allowed them the use, in His own worship, of the sacrifices which they were wont to offer to the Devil, commanding them in His sacrifice to kill animals, to the end that, with changed hearts, they might lay aside one part of the sacrifice, whilst they retained another; and although the animals were the same as those which they were wont to offer, they should offer them to the true God, and not to idols; and thus they would no longer be the same sacrifices. This then, dearly beloved, it behoves you to communicate to our aforesaid brother, that he, being placed where he is at present, may consider how he is to order all things. God preserve you in safety, most beloved son. http://www.ccel.org/ccel/bede/history.v.i.xxix.html

The Church engaged in this type of activity for nearly 600 years before the time period (from the 11th-13th century) that our class will cover this semester.

So, while the conversion of the Anglo-Saxons was not as spectacular as that of the Crusades in the medieval world, it was no less pervasive and determined.

19 Years and Once Upon a Time Ago

Today is Jenna's 19th birthday and I have been strolling down Memory Lane.

As I have mentioned on the blog before, Jenna and I used to sing in the car together. Alot. Obviously, as Jenna got older there were some CD's that didn't make the transition; like, say, Disney soundtracks. But that doesn't mean we didn't listen to them once upon a time.

In honor of the day I am presenting two songs that we used to sing to (quite loudly) from The Little Mermaid and The Lion King.





It's funny to remember that Jenna really enjoyed when I sang the "Zazu" part from "I Just Can't Wait to be King" because he was all cranky and parental sounding. It seems he had more of an influence on my parenting style than I initially thought...

Go ahead - sing along. You know you want to.

Happy birthday, Jenna!

Love, Dad

So...Where Were We?

Many of you (okay...one of you) actually noticed that I hadn't posted anything in awhile. I believe the exact text was "You no bloggy; me no likey."

This made me smile.

Another friend asked why I hadn't actually posted anything since September and my mumbled response was something like "I haven't felt like it" before I changed the subject. Like ignoring my blog, I didn't feel like sharing my thoughts on the topic because, really, what can I say?

I haven't felt like it.

Sadly, this is pretty accurate.

After Mark's death I had so much to deal with on my own that the idea of sitting down and sharing my thoughts with others really seemed like an indulgence that I didn't wish to spend time doing. In this case, my thoughts have been my own and I truly didn't feel like sharing them. I now realize that this has spilled over into areas of my life that I didn't expect - like blogging.

There are times that I have wanted to share some of the wonderful experiences of the latter half of 2010 with you. However, I have not wanted to share any of the negative experiences on this space. Somehow I felt this was dishonest so, instead, I have shared nothing.

Truthfully, the loss of my brother has been an undercurrent to everything that has gone on in my life since June 30th. It has colored (tainted?) the way that I have experienced nearly everything for the past 7 months. There are times when the hurt makes a simple experience even more meaningful and awesome. Sadly, there are times when an experience that should simply be a joyous one is also tinged with melancholy. And this is to be expected. After all, I have experienced loss before (we all have) and I do know that this too shall pass. It's just taking its sweet-ass time doing so.

I have been writing this post for minutes now and I still don't know where it is going...

I guess I just wanted to give all seven of my readers a head's-up to let you know that yes, I am still alive but that - at least since June 30 - I really haven't felt like talking about my life.

Yet, rest assured; this too shall pass.