A Whiff of the Air of Númenor

Of all the changes Peter Jackson made to the story of The Lord of the Rings when he crafted his brilliant trilogy of movies, the alteration of Faramir's character was and is the most grievous to me.  Sixteen years later, it still rankles, but especially so whenever I pick up the books to peruse them once more.

In the magnificent and elegant chapter "The Window on the West" (from The Two Towers), Tolkien paints us a picture of the man Faramir, a descendant of the High Men from Númenor of old.  Faramir is the younger brother of Boromir, a mighty warrior from Gondor who fell to the temptation of the One Ring at the end of the first book, when he tried to take "Isildur's Bane" from Frodo by force.
Yet, in this chapter, we see a man who possesses Boromir's good qualities and surpasses him in the resistance of temptation of evil.

J.R.R. Tolkien makes it quite clear that Faramir is of a different sort, through his words and subsequent actions that prove those words:

"If it were a thing that gave advantage in battle, I can well believe that Boromir, the proud and fearless, often rash, ever anxious for the victory of Minas Tirith (and his own glory therein), might desire such a thing and be allured by it..... "

"But fear no more!  I would not take this thing, if it lay by the highway.  Not were Minas Tirith falling in ruin and I alone could save her, so, using the weapon of the Dark Lord for her good and my glory.  No, I do not wish for such triumphs, Frodo son of Drogo"

Later that evening, when Sam drinks a bit too much wine (who would have thought a hobbit would overeat or over-drink?!?) and reveals the true nature of Frodo's burden, Faramir has them trapped, in a cave, surrounded by a whole troop of men... and yet, true to his word, he does not fall as his brother did:

'Now look here, sir!' He (Sam) turned, facing up to Faramir with all the courage that he could muster. 'Don't you go taking advantage of my master because his servant's no better than a fool.  You've spoken very handsome all along, put me off my guard, talking of Elves and all.  But handsome is as handsome does we say.  Now's a chance to show your quality.'

'So it seems,' said Faramir, slowly and very softly with a strange smile.  'So that is the answer to all the riddles!  The One Ring that was thought to have perished from the world.  And Boromir tried to take it by force?  And you escaped?  And ran all the way--to me!  And here in the wild I have you:  two halflings, and a host of men at my call, and the Ring of Rings.  A pretty stroke of fortune!  A chance for Faramir, Captain of Gondor to show his quality! Ha!'  He stood up, very tall and stern, his grey eyes glinting.

...But Faramir sat down again in his chair and began to laugh quietly, and then suddenly became grave again.
'Alas for Boromir! It was too sore a trial!' he said.  How you have increased my sorrow, you two strange wanderers from a far country, bearing the peril of Men!  But you are less judges of Men than I of Halflings.  We are truth-speakers, we men of Gondor.  We boast seldom, and then perform, or die in the attempt. Not if I found it on the highway would I take it I said. Even if I were such a man as to desire this thing, and even though I knew not clearly what this thing was when I spoke, still I should take these words as a vow, and be held by them.'
'But I am not such a man.  Or I am wise enough to know that there are some perils from which a man must flee. Sit at peace!'

 Now, I have heard some fans posit that the existence of that middle paragraph, where Faramir stands up with glinting eyes, is sufficient grounds for the liberties that Peter Jackson took with Faramir.  This line of thought, however, is flawed:  yes, Faramir must have this moment, just as Galadriel did in Lothlorien, Gandalf did in Bag End, and Boromir did at Parth Galen.  He must truly face the temptation, in full knowledge of what Isildur's Bane is, in order to stand the test.  Had Frodo and Sam simply passed from Faramir's company without that being revealed, then Faramir would never have been faced with the true choice that is one of the key leitmotifs of the book:  succumb to the desire for the Ring (re: a desire for absolute power), or resist that siren's song?

And yes, I realize that Faramir eventually makes that choice in the movie, but only after much time, distance, and a rousing speech by Samwise that was kit-bashed from other parts of the book.  In the movie, he succumbs to the temptation, if not for his own glory, then at the very least to try to win the approval of his father.  But he succumbs, in Peter Jackon's version of the tale, if only for a short while.

I have watched a documentary in which Jackson stated that he felt, given all the screen time and lines they had devoted to convincing the viewer that no Men could resist the lure of the Ring's power, that is was inconsistent to show a man who wouldn't fall to it.

And yet, Mr. Jackson, a certain Oxford professor felt no such inconsistency.  In fact, he went out of his way to portray Faramir as a good man, with much of the old goodness of Númenor pulsing in his veins, who faced the temptation of the One Ring just as his brother did, and passed the test.  If it was good enough for J.R.R., then it should have been good enough for Jackson's script.

     Sam hesitated for a moemnt, then bowed very low:  'Good night, Captain, my lord,' he said.  'You took the chance, sir.'
     'Did I so?' said Faramir.
     'Yes, sir, and showed your quality:  the very highest.'
     Faramir smiled.  'A pert servant, Master Samwise.  But nay:  the praise of the praiseworthy is above all rewards.  Yet there was naught in this to praise.  I had no lure or desire to do other than I have done.'
     'Ah well, sir,' said Sam, 'you said my master had an elvish air; and that was good and true.  But I can say this:  you have an air too, sir that reminds me of, of--well, Gandalf, of wizards.'
     'Maybe,' said Faramir.  'Maybe you discern from far away the air of Númemor.  Good night!'

In the character of Faramir, Professor Tolkien gave us an example to aspire to... a steward of the line of Mardil, a true man of Númemor, who faced the ultimate temptation and chose to do the right thing.  It is no accident that Faramir was portrayed as such.  On the backs of such men (and women!), and with the aid of Providence and a loving God, does the human race carry on in a fallen world rife with temptations.

 

 

 

Downpours on the Downside

Here we go!

 A little over a week ago, camp reached the apex that is Parent's weekend and began the hair-raising ride down the final grade to the annual conclusion of "Our Summer Place", and the sudden collision of silence and emptiness that is a summer camp after the kids have departed.

WetCon 1,2,5
I don't see a sandbar,
do you?

The zenith of camp was marked by an unusual spate of rainy days.  It rains a lot here in Western Maine, to the point where over the years I have developed my own system for judging the amount of rainfall.  WetCon One is where I have to look at the tennis area to even see if it is raining... if there are scattered drops or a silky sheen on the courts.  WetCon Two is if puddles start to form in the low points of the rough road that runs in front of our cabin.  Further levels are determined by the river:  if the water reaches the "No Trespassing" signs camp has on the sandbar opposite my cabin; if the water reaches the tree line; and if the warning sign disappears altogether. 

So, we are used to rain here...but from the 7 years of data that I have, I tend to expect the rainy days to be more toward the beginning of camp.  Showers in June, not the end of July.   But old mother earth decided to throw us a curveball, and sent several days of solid rain that interfered with Parent's Day and 95th reunion activities, and also quashed hours of normal camp activities.  Since said activities are what the boys enjoy most, a long string of wet days can lead to the feeling that Maine has somehow let us down.

However, I would posit that rainy days are crucial to us, both in camp and in life.  Rain is nature's way of resetting itself, of calling a mandatory timeout to refresh the earth, and to give it showers that sustain life.  Here at camp, foul weather provides the boys and their minders with a respite that is desperately needed, even as it chafes the young and energetic who are confined to quarters.  (Although many love the late breakfasts that also accompany rain, since the majority of folks are those bizarre creatures that will sleep late if allowed.)

In Robert Ludlum's novel The Bourne Supremacy, the main character says at several key points in the tale that "rest is a weapon."    That phrase has always stuck with me...as a writer, I love the tight, compacted impact that it has-- the juxtaposition of something many would consider passive with one of the most aggressive things we know.  But it is true.  Rest is a much needed arrow in your quiver.  Without it, all the other things you try to do suffer, no matter how many Red Bulls you drink, or how much money you are personally shifting to Starbucks's coffers.

In modern society, we seem to have forgotten how to allot some true downtime for ourselves.  We are like Montag's wife, enraptured with our Parlor Walls and wanting yet another, spinning from screen to screen with our bellies coated in electronic remoras.  Artificial light has shortened the night to the point where whole cities are deemed to "never sleep."  And yet this frenzied state of connectedness and activity facilitates a slow but insidious erosion on the soul and the psyche.

We need downtime.

I am not a disciple of the Eastern religions, but I do believe that some of the concepts of those faith systems are real things, based on very astute observations of this world and the human condition.  The concept of balance is one.  The universe, both the real and hidden realms, are studies in balance.  I won't hit you with a list of clichés... make your own list if you want.  But the universe has balance, and needs balance--it was created that way.

We must work, and we must sleep.

We must play, and we must chill.

We need balance.

One of the reasons I love coming to Maine is that somehow the magic of this place makes me feel more rested, even though I still do my job with an array of computers and screens in my cabin.  In general, I don't watch TV and I don't stream very much.  I read.  I do art.  I enjoy the beauty of Maine when my job and duties allow.  All of this is a much needed restorative to my spirit.

But why don't I make sure that happens back in Texas?  That's on me.

Wherever you are, whatever your lot... in this frenzied modern world... find some downtime for yourself.  Accept the rainy days in your life and reset.  Let the balance come back in your life.

Let it rain.

Beauty Begets Beauty

In my writings, I have often espoused the beauty of Maine, and for good reason...there is an incredible display of beauty here, sculpted by our Creator for our enjoyment; but I have yet to discuss the beauty that Maine, and indeed much of New England, inspires in human beings, and the special way it fosters the creative process.

Literature, music, and art are the expressions of the soul of a culture, the ethos of a people.  While hard work and capitalism advances the race and pays the bills, it is this triumvirate of creativity that tells all of eternity who we are, where we feel we came from, and what we see in this world and how it affects us.  We were made by God in his image... He is a creator, and thus so are we.

We are born to create, and we were given an incredible world to inspire us to do so.

Art gallery on
Vinalhaven Island.
Both Vinalhaven and Moneghan
Islands are known for their
artistic communities.

Maine has always been a haven for artists.  You won't find a Costco anywhere in this state, but you can't turn around up here without bumping into pottery studio, or a painting class, or an artists' commune.  And, having perused only a minute portion of the artistic works created by these everyday folks living here, I can tell you most of it is right smart stuff.  There are examples everywhere of artists creating the most breath-taking works not only with traditional methods, but often with new innovations that spring from their fertile minds: the crystalline glazes invented by the potters of Edgecomb Pottery and the photography of Cole Scott, which he chemically transfers to metal sheets to create stunning images, spring to mind.

Portland storefront... the crystalline
glazes make for stunning pieces of pottery.
Get yourself one!

The synergy of this gorgeous country and the creative mind makes for a frisson of expression that can lead even the part-time artist, the hobbyist, or even a downright bungling meddler, to capture that special essence of artistic beauty in paint, or clay, or watercolor, or pen, or digital image. 

Ormo's art, when he's not snapping
kissy-face campers...
Photo courtesy Rich Ormanowski
Check out his gallery!

Our camp photographer, Rich Ormanowski, spends most of his days taking pictures of the various activities around camp (and more than a few preening and glamming campers)-- it is hard work, and he is very good at it, but most of the pictures he takes to record the life of camp do not flex his artistic muscles.   But when he allows himself some time off, and heads out into this special place?  The results are often stunning.  (If you would like to see more of Rich's artistic endeavors, please visit his gallery)

I definitely fall in the "bungling meddler" category when it comes to art, and yet Maine has even managed to inspire art through me.  Up here I got my first taste of pottery, learned to do Zentangle, and this year I am dabbling with watercolors for the first time.  Oh, the writing thing... yeah that.   After years of not having written anything on a regular basis, my summers up here have led me back to writing.

This one by yours truly.  With a cell phone.
(No, really!)  My goal is to someday paint this
in watercolor from my photo.

So, if you get to come to Maine someday, make some time in your vacation plans to visit some galleries or shops.  Relish in the created beauty and maybe buy a piece or two to support an artist that particularly touches your soul.

But if the creative spark exists in you, or you feel it once did...bring your pen.. or your charcoals... or your paints... or your journal... or even just a good quality point & shoot camera.  Let yourself get caught up in the maelstrom of creativity here.  If it's been years since you've done "X", let go and try it again.  The results just might stun you... and inspire you.

Beauty fosters beauty.

Beauty inspires beauty.

Let Maine bring out the beauty in you.

The root of summer iniquity

I wish I could tell you this was
from some archive....
well, it isn't

This post comes in the middle of a rather unusual occurrence here in Maine--a heat wave.  The large red splotch covering the national weather maps has reached its hot little fingers into Paradise and driven the temps into the mid-high 90's. 

So, you are saying... "What's the big deal?  You come from Texas!  Those temps are NOTHING!"  And you would be right, but in Texas we combat such things with this technological marvel known as air conditioning.

And so...as we swelter in the cabin and the mess hall, and look longingly at the Saco River during the work day... the heat has forced me to a confession.

The (normally) delightful climate in Maine turns me into a bit of a boogerhead.

My iniquitous behavior comes in the form of blog entries, social media entries, and sometimes direct messages to certain folks back in Texas, hooting about how nice the weather is here in our summer place.  It all started with one particular friend, a person very dear to me (you know who you are), but, like most well-directed missiles, the collateral damage amassed as time went on....
Most of the time, I really do try to be a nice guy.  (I probably don't succeed as much as I would like, and I'm sure there are those who might confirm that.)  But in this matter, I'm guilty as sin.

And now I am being hung with my own hot rope.

But...as I thought about all this, I also realized something.  As booger-headed as my actions might be to those dear friends back home, at the root of it is something else.

I really, really wish they could be here.

Please board the plane
you-know-who-you-are

If I ever found myself with untold riches, one of the first things I would do is charter private jets to bring some special people in my life up here for an all-expenses-paid trip to see my second home.

Beneath all the teasing, my heart longs to share this place with you.

One of the reasons I decided to write again here from Maine was so I could make this (very) meager attempt to impart to you the magnificence of this place with my words, and a few chosen photos.  Added to this are pictures, videos and posts that Allison and I share via Facebook or Instagram.

The part by the arrow.
That's all you get.  Sorry

But it is just a taste... like licking the mixing bowl for chocolate chip cookie dough, after a particularly thorough mother has scraped it all out with a spatula.
So, my friends, forgive me the teasing.  Trust that I wish with all my being that I could float the Saco River with you, or hike up to Emerald Pool, or sail in Casco Bay, or kayak in Sebago Lake...

But let's wait until Friday, when this heat wave breaks, hmmmm?

A day of drizzling perfection

"Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain..."

-- The Cascades

Funny guy... you should listen
to his stuff sometime.

The Maine comedian Tim Sample has a bit where he talks about the "Five Perfect Summer Days" in Maine...the idea being that vacationers like myself come up here during the summer, experience one of those five days, and become so enamored of Maine to wish to move there permanently.  They then discover the joys of the long hard winters, the May O' Mud, and other non-summer trials that the locals can tell you all about.

The hidden side of the joke is that Mr. Sample says specifically five days.  He knows, as does anyone who spends a long period of time here during the summer, that even the months of June, July, and August can present some mercurial weather.   The biggest culprit in this, especially in the western half of Maine in the shadow of the White Mountains, is rain.

A soggy camp

Rain is the "forced reset" mechanism at our camp.  Camp changes when the day is entirely marked by rain... there are no boys playing sports on the upper fields... the tennis courts are deserted until the water goes away and the surfaces have been jet-blown and squeegeed.  If the administration knows (with as much assurance as anyone can have about weather forecasts) that the day will be rainy, they might even announce "late breakfast," which also means everyone can sleep in another hour.  As I write this post, my lovely bride is taking full advantage of that extra hour.  Almost everyone loves it when late breakfast rears its head.

I say almost, because I am an early riser, and I like to eat a hearty breakfast; and, unless the said rainy day occurs on the weekend, I have to start my normal job somewhat on time, no matter what time the mess hall opens.  So I combat the elements with an umbrella, a quick trip to the gym (to workout indoors!), and then I jaunt up to Lovell, ME, to a lovely little store & diner called Rosie's.   I get a great breakfast, Rosie gets some of my money, and there is even a 0.0005% chance I might see Stephen King having breakfast there as well--it has been known to happen.

But back at my desk in the cabin, I sat and listened to the rain...and I realized that this day is no less perfect than any sunny day I get here in paradise.  True, it's not as much fun, or even advisable, to go out and shoot archery or kayak or hike, but there is an inordinate amount of peace you can get just sitting in this cabin and watching the rain, listening to it, savoring the sounds and smells and sights of the Earth refreshing itself.

I realized that I can hear the rain in this cabin far better than I could in a house.  There is no insulation to interfere, and the lack of an interior ceiling makes the muted drops on the roof quite audible to one who listens for it.

Rainy days are vital to Nature;  today I realized they are vital to us as well... we all need time to contemplate, and to meditate.  Yes, it is uplifting to the soul to spend time in God's creation, floating down the lovely Saco River or paddling Moose Pond.  But...if you can see the opportunities that a rainy day presents... a chance to read, maybe peruse some poetry, or do a crossword puzzle, write a blog entry.. or a poem!...or to just sit and think... and to do all that to the soft serenade that whispers all around you... you realize that maybe this day is a perfect Maine summer day as well.

A Whisper of Creation

"All creation had a language,

words to say what must be said.

All day long the heavens whispered,

signing words in scarlet red."

-- 'Anthem for Christmas', Michael W. Smith

The cozier, snugg-lier girls camp

 This morning, I had the opportunity to eat breakfast over at Forest Acres, which is the girls' camp in our community.  This camp is a couple of miles down the road back toward Fryeburg, and there are a lot more trees surrounding the main living areas.  This is not to say that Indian Acres doesn't have trees, for it has them in multitudes, but Forest Acres has a cozy, "nestled" feel to it... unless you go down to what FA calls the "lower field", you really do feel more like you are living in... for lack of a better term...a forest.

Although we now make berth at IA each summer, Forest Acres has a special place in my heart...  Allison and I spent our first summer here living in a cabin at FA, and I got to know the staff there well... they are good folks.  And you could not ask for prettier surroundings... it truly is a beautiful camp.

Only half the road
I walked

But back to this morning.. as I was leaving the dining hall, and walking back down the long road to the parking area, I was surrounded by the gauntlet of trees.  It was rather breezy this morning, and the sussurration of the wind in the treetops was an incredibly gorgeous and spine-tingling melody.   Bach, Beethoven, Haydn, Mozart, James Taylor, Bob Dylan... none of them has ever written a line of notes that came close to matching that sound on this fine morning.

I was Enya-videoed
the whole way....

And the pine needles!   They were being carried around on the breeze, floating gently past me as I strolled down the lane.  No king or prince of Zamunda has ever had rose petals trailed in front of him that could match the honor done to me this morning by the pine trees of Forest Acres.  It was like walking through an Enya video, although even that cannot do it justice.



On a morning like this... if you listen to the whispers in the trees.. if you read the messages shown by the pine needles as they flit by... and if you feel the hope of another Maine summer day.... it is not so hard to believe that there is a creator, a Master Artist who painted and sculpted this world, and did so in order that we might enjoy this beauty, and know that we are loved.

On the advice of cousins, apocryphal Albert stories, and Maine time to contemplate...

He looks like *he* has
something to say...

I have a confession to make:  I don't write in this blog as often as I should.  It says right there in the title bar, that "like Alfred, I only show up here when I have something to say"... but that is not the whole truth.    That line is based upon a story (which unfortunately I cannot accurately source) in which Albert Einstein was supposedly invited to give the keynote speech at a college commencement ceremony.  After he was introduced, Albert got up, headed to the podium, and stated "Ladies and Gentlemen, I have absolutely nothing to say.  I will return to speak to you when I do."   And he left!  Some time later, he contacted the college and said he had something interesting to say, and so they gathered, and the great physicist returned to share what he had.

I put that line in the title bar as a way of warning the handful of people who might actually stumble across my blog that it would not be updated on a regular basis... given that I don't really try to increase my readership or anything like that, I figured it wasn't much of a loss if I was not "pushing enough content."

And so my writing here comes in spurts.  I have been told that folks enjoy reading my updates from our summers in Maine, so some summers I decided that I am "going to blog about Maine again this year"... last summer I began to do just that, and then I felt like I ran out of ideas for fresh comments on Maine, and the writing dwindled to a stop after a few entries.

Then, just a few days ago, a very dear cousin reached out through a text, bonked me upside the head, and told me (in effect):  "You are too good of a writer.  You should write more, whether in a blog or not."

You know what?  She's right.  Thanks, cuz, for making me think.

The problem is that I'm trying to find a subject about Maine to write about.  What I should be doing is writing... if I happen to be in Maine, then the topics covered might happen to brush up on that.   I should write wherever I am.  Sometimes the writing may make it into this very public (yet dusty and unused) corner of the cortex, and sometimes it may stay hidden safely in my Evernote notebooks.

Maine gives you time to
contemplate the important
things... like your toes.

But my cousin is right... I need to write.

There is one thing about being up here at camp, nestled among the tall pine trees--the pace of life is different.  Even though I work my normal job here, my life is a lot less hectic and "go! go! go!"...  there's no regular TV to serve as a distraction, and there's more time to just think about things.

So, when my cousin prodded me, I was on fertile ground for the idea to take hold, and for a revelation of sorts.









The hurly burly of life will take care of itself, or fade away into non-significance.  Writing feeds my soul, and I shall write.

Time to use these more!

My thanks to the lovely, idyllic and pastoral State O' Maine.   And my thanks to you as well, my lovely and impertinent cousin.