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Yesterday's Gospel reading was the story of good ol' Doubting Thomas (my *favorite* Bible story as a kid. I used to be able to recite the children's version word for word. I thought Thomas was the coolest story ever), and the homily (given by a Physics professor - I adore Jesuits) was all about how unbelief/doubt is GOOD, it is necessary to faith. Because faith is basically belief in that which cannot be proven/that which no one in their right mind would believe. The point was that doubt is good because doubt leads to honest questioning, which (in the right environment) leads to good honest discussion and through it a more full and informed faith. I love this. It is Susan. There are so many visions of Susan that I love, including the one where she never really did turn away but is enacting a Plan that requires her to stay longer than the others. But in my head, Susan *did* turn away from Narnia (which, by the way, is not really that much like turning away from God. Comparable, I suppose, but not as huge), she did doubt and fall, and that's okay, because that's normal and it's good and it's healthy. So, yeah.
English Flavors by Laure-Anne Bosselaar
I love to lick English the way I licked the hard
round licorice sticks the Belgian nuns gave me for six
good conduct points on Sundays after mass.
Love it when ‘plethora’, ‘indolence’, ‘damask’,
or my new word: ‘lasciviousness,’ stain my tongue,
thicken my saliva, sweet as those sticks — black
and slick with every lick it took to make daggers
out of them: sticky spikes I brandished straight up
to the ebony crucifix in the dorm, with the pride
of a child more often punished than praised.
‘Amuck,’ ‘awkward,’ or ‘knuckles,’ have jaw-
breaker flavors; there’s honey in ‘hunter’s moon,’
hot pepper in ‘hunk,’ and ‘mellifluous’ has aromas
of almonds and milk . Those tastes of recompense
still bitter-sweet today as I roll, bend and shape
English in my mouth, repeating its syllables
like acts of contrition, then sticking out my new tongue —
flavored and sharp — to the ambiguities of meaning.
English Flavors by Laure-Anne Bosselaar
I love to lick English the way I licked the hard
round licorice sticks the Belgian nuns gave me for six
good conduct points on Sundays after mass.
Love it when ‘plethora’, ‘indolence’, ‘damask’,
or my new word: ‘lasciviousness,’ stain my tongue,
thicken my saliva, sweet as those sticks — black
and slick with every lick it took to make daggers
out of them: sticky spikes I brandished straight up
to the ebony crucifix in the dorm, with the pride
of a child more often punished than praised.
‘Amuck,’ ‘awkward,’ or ‘knuckles,’ have jaw-
breaker flavors; there’s honey in ‘hunter’s moon,’
hot pepper in ‘hunk,’ and ‘mellifluous’ has aromas
of almonds and milk . Those tastes of recompense
still bitter-sweet today as I roll, bend and shape
English in my mouth, repeating its syllables
like acts of contrition, then sticking out my new tongue —
flavored and sharp — to the ambiguities of meaning.