In Which Soaring Soprano Plans...

... to overcome her propensity for procrastination.

Yes, I know. To anyone who actually knows me, that statement will sound more like a joke. I can almost hear the barely restrained snorts of laughter now...

But, I'm serious. I need to whip myself into shape and try to beat my lazy streak. Albeit, I'm going to try in little bits at a time, establish little habits that will lead up to establishing a greater habit of industry and basically dying to myself. Honestly, that's what beating procrastination is all about-- Making yourself do something that you don't really feel like doing right at that moment.

However, let me divulge my plan before I wax philosophical on my poor audience.

So, the first step in my plan to overcome laziness is to do what I'm calling "AugBlogMo," which stands for August Blogging Month. It's my own invention, and basically I'm borrowing the basic concept from the good people over at http://www.nanowrimo.org, except that I'm not novelling in a month. My goal, which may be pretty obvious by now, is to blog everyday during the month of August.

I'm not going to have topics planned out, so it'll be pretty random I'm sure, and it may possibly even get boring in places, but this will help me on multiple levels. It'll (hopefully) get me into a steady routine of writing everyday, clearing my head of a bunch of thoughts, and get the ball rolling on stopping my tendencies towards procrastination.

I know it's a very small start, and Husband even rolled his eyes a bit when I told him about it, but I'm also supplementing by doing other, small, personal things on a daily basis as well. And if I'm open to grace and am willing to work with it, I have no doubts that the results will be good ones.

So, stay tuned! I have a feeling August may be a very interesting month!

In Which Soaring Soprano Was Bitten...

... by a plot bunny.

Okay, maybe not so much a plot bunny as it is one of those emoting things again. Technically speaking, a plot bunny is when you actually have an idea for a plot... and I most definitely do not have a plot.

But I don't really have an emotion either. It's more of a visual and about a paragraph's worth of text.

I was sitting in traffic when the image hit me. It was of a starry sky, but it was moving, like I was rapidly pulling away from the image. The stars grew smaller as I fell back, and wispy clouds passed by me at lightning speed, then darkened tree tops, and then my mind-camera stopped zooming out and I was looking at the most beautiful pair of brown eyes I'd ever seen. I could swear that the light of the stars was shining in the depths of those eyes. It was like all the light in the galaxy had coalesced there and it was so breathtakingly beautiful. And then I knew that I loved the owner of these eyes, and that she was the most perfect woman in the galaxy...

Bingo! Right off the bat I know that my character is male (*sigh* again). The strange thing is that his POV is in the second person. Initially, it really threw me for a loop because I couldn't figure out who I was exactly. And I had that scene in my head, and I just knew that it wasn't the beginning or the end of the vignette that would surely grow from it. That bit belonged somewhere in the middle. But I also knew that I couldn't write what I was seeing until I had written what led up to it.

And so, today that is my project. I have a feeling that it's going to take me awhile to get this one finished, but I don't think it'll be a problem this time around. The image is very vivid, but my character isn't as persistent about getting out of my head. He's a bit more restrained, and wants his reflections to be expressed perfectly and can appreciate that it may take some time for me to channel him properly.

Ah ha! A clue!

And whoever said blogging isn't helpful?!  

*goes off to write*

PS- Any tips about writing in second person would be greatly appreciated... I've never done this before, and it's quite tricky...

In Which Soaring Soprano Is Very...

...edified.

I had meant to share this a few days ago, when it was first brought to my attention, but I kept forgetting about it. All the same, I'm sharing it now, and I hope you all are as edified by the news as I have been. 

Spanish Soccer Player Promises to Make Pilgrimage

What's ironic about this for me is that I had been thinking about the piety of the Spanish soccer players while the World Cup was being played. It was during the Final match to be precise.While watching the Final, I took note of the fact that every time a Spanish player entered or left the field, they made the Sign of the Cross.

Alas, I must admit, however, that my initial reaction to this display of  religious sentiment was not a favorable one. I can hear my audience gasping even now as I type this, but to clarify, I wasn't thinking that it was bad to make Public Displays of Adoration of God. Rather, I was pulled into the trap that so many Traditional Catholics fall prey to, especially those of us that are cradle Traddies. I will hang my head and admit that I was attacked by a feeling of "Holier-Than-Thou."

HTT is a very dangerous feeling regardless of whether you're a Trid or not, but it's most fatal to those of us that adhere steadfastly to the "outdated" traditions of the Church. For us, HTT should be viewed as the Black Plague of all Black Plagues, for that is exactly what it is. It is a blight upon the soul of an otherwise clean and shiny Catholic. It is Pride at it's worst... *cue scary music*

From experience, let me just say that the disease of HTT makes any well-meaning, pious person become nothing more than a nagging, judgmental basket-case. Of course, when we've got HTT we don't think of ourselves that way, but that's how we come across to others. It doesn't help people; it turns people away.

"Ugh," they say. "Why would I want to be a Catholic (or a Traddie, or even a Christian)? Look at how she's behaving! I don't want to be like that!"

Okay, well maybe they won't consciously think that, but that's the internal dialogue that takes place between their brain and the little demon on their shoulder. That little demon on their shoulder is being a good Screwtape and is finding any excuse for them to not listen to the truth. And guess what? Those of us that allow ourselves to be infected with HTT are only helping that blasted demon!!!

Anyway, I need to stop preaching and get on with my story...

So, my first thought upon seeing the Spanish soccer players bless themselves was to wonder how many of them were just doing it as a superstitious practice. My own personal Screwtape was whispering into my ear, "How many of them actually pray on a daily basis, I wonder? I'll bet they only pray when it's convenient (i.e. when they need something)..."

Thankfully, two things stopped the beginning stages of HTT in its tracks. First, my Guardian Angel was being very helpful, as is usual, and for which I am incredibly grateful. She promptly shoved Screwtape off my shoulder, told him to get lost and then reminded me to think nice thoughts.

I was very glad for that, because it reminded me that I had company for whom I had to be on my best behaviour. I was watching the soccer match with one of my best friends, and he's an Anglican considering becoming a Catholic. My Guardian Angel's nudge made me promptly (with the help of grace, of course) discard all those nasty thoughts, and I immediately thought of lots of positive things. I then mentioned to my friend how edifying it was to see them make the Sign of the Cross on international television, to help reinforce those positive sentiments. Honestly, superstitious or not, it takes a great deal of Fortitude to make the Sign of the Cross in public like that, especially when the whole world is watching.

Then, to reward my positive thinking and to drive home my lesson in humility, I come across the news article which deals with the very subject that I'd been wondering about... the piety of the Spanish soccer players. When I read it... well, then I was honestly, truly edified... the first time around.

Faith is, indeed, a beautiful treasure. And it is one that deserves to be put on display for all to see. Not, however, for our own glorification, because then we'd be infested with HTT. Rather, it should be seen as a light, a small candle among many others, each helping to light the path to Christ, so that others may find the way too.

In Which Soaring Soprano Has Been...

... moody.

I can't really explain why I've been moody... or rather, I can't fully explain why, partially because I don't think it's something that can be articulated... or at least, not by me. But, I suppose that since this is a blog, and therefore a space in which to write random thoughts and try to hash out how my psyche works, I should probably make an attempt.

Honestly, it all has to do with writing... or at least, the way I write.

I'm an... emotional writer. This may sound crazy, but when I'm writing a character, I almost become the character. I see what they see, think what they think, feel what they feel. It's to the point that my poor Husband never knows what to find when he walks into our study. Sometimes I wonder if he thinks I've lost my mind, what with all the times he's found me weeping over the keyboard, or shouting unintelligible things at no one in particular, or bursting out laughing at a conversation taking place in my head. Really, I'm surprised he hasn't committed me yet...

But anyway, to get back on track...

I hardly ever think of my stories in terms of 'scenes.' Rather, a certain character will get me emoting, and the emotions simmer and build up pressure until I sit down to write. During the simmering process I may try to sound the depths of the emotion, seek out an image or a line of dialogue that seems to fit in with what I'm feeling. Sometimes I uncover a lot of information, sometimes I get almost nothing at all.

For instance, I just wrote a short vignette about Han Solo dying. I didn't intend on it being a piece about Han dying. To start out I only had a feeling- melancholy, in this instance- and the image of Jaina Solo standing out on a porch watching the sunset, her hands wrapped around a mug of hot coffee. In my mind's eye, her posture is upright but there's a slope to her shoulders that suggests sorrow. And her hands are gripping the steaming mug like it's her only lifeline. "Ah," I say. "Something huge is troubling her, but it's not her emotion I'm feeling. It's not quite that poignant. And I can see her as if I'm watching her."

At that point, I put my fingers to the keyboard and took a deep breath. I didn't know what was going to happen or  even who I was, but I knew I was going to find out. And so, I began to write.

He found her out on the balcony, away from the bustle inside, a cup of caf cradled in her hands as she stared out at the sunset. He didn't say anything as he approached, knowing that she wouldn't want him to.

Okay, so I realised I'm a guy, and there's a crowd of people around that she's trying to get away from... why?  A few lines later I find out the people are there to offer condolences on Han's death, which is why my character is there. But he's also a good friend of the family, which is why he's taking the trouble to see if Jaina's okay, which she's not:

"Sometimes I still expect him to be there... bickering with Mom in the kitchen, playing with Amelia, sitting in the cockpit of the Falcon... Sometimes I think that if I just listen heard enough, I'll still be able to hear his voice." She shivered, and more tears slipped from beneath her eyelids.

"He wasn't supposed to die. The famous Solo luck was supposed to make him invincible," she rambled, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Kriff those blasted Imperials!" she sobbed, her knuckles white as she gripped the mug tightly.

And it's not until a few lines later that I find out who I even am.

"Shh," he said, pulling the mug from her grasp and setting it down. He wrapped his arms around her, and she buried her face in his robes, crying quietly. He rubbed her back gently and she sighed.

"I'm going to miss him, Kyp," she whispered.

Yay! Score! I have a name! And then I write a few more paragraphs and the piece is complete!

Easy, right?

Nope. Not when the images don't come, and all you've got is this very displaced, very strong emotion, and you know who it belongs to, and you don't know why it belongs to them. Then the words and images finally start coming, but they come in drips and drabs and things don't line up just so, so it gets annoying and frustrating on top of the emotional storm you're already feeling.

And that's what has been making me moody... my inability to get these feelings out of my head properly. The story is nearly finished, but the ending is just evading me. Ugh. But it'll come, and I've got to try to keep working on other things... it's too tempting to just focus on one piece when stuff like this happens, which is just bad because then I get so fed up and grouchy.

Yeah, not good.

But I'm working on it. The fact that I'm blogging instead of banging my head against a wall is proof of my efforts. ;)

And that's all for today!

---
For those who are interested, the full version of the Han Solo piece can be found here: Random Drabbles. It's on the second page, about half way down. It's marked 'Week Seven.'

In Which Soaring Soprano Is Having...

...tea.

Yes, despite the lateness of the hour, I am having a cup of tea. Ironically, it's English Breakfast. But I suppose that can't be helped, being that it's the only kind of tea I like, currently.

Honestly, I'd have a coffee if I wasn't trying to kill my coffee addiction. Tea is much better for my singing voice. I've been pretty successful so far, too. I've been coffee free for 2 weeks.

But, yeah. It's late... and I'm drinking tea... and Blogging... and eating pizza.

Why?

I don't know, to tell you the truth. I've got so many thoughts zipping around in my brain right now, and I'm not quite sure how to settle them properly. I know I should deal with them one at a time, but if I had to line my thoughts up in a queue, I wouldn't quite know which one should come first...

It's just been one of those days.

I mean, it was a good day by all accounts. God made the day so it had to be good. I had a lovely chat with a friend over a cup of tea in the morning. I had another lovely chat with a different friend over lunch. I found two new shirts and a skirt on sale at the mall (all three of which are pink... Girly much? Och). I had a nice swim in the afternoon, and Mom made a fantastic dinner. I had another long chat with two friends after dinner, which was good. I got home to find that the two books I had ordered had arrived, and now I've got another nice cup of tea to close the day. Oh, and I discovered that one of my stories has been nominated for a writing award. So, yes, it's been a good day.

Maybe it's all the chatting that's got my mind racing... I don't know... I suppose it's something to lay at the foot of the Cross tomorrow morning. I'll let Our Lord help me sort out my thoughts, because Heaven knows I can't right now.

If there's anything that I have to say right at this moment that has any kind of meaning, it's this: Cherish and treasure the friends that God has given you, because true friends are rare and precious blessings, and be sure never to take them for granted.

That is all.

*goes off to finish her tea*

In Which Soaring Soprano Meditates...

... on the martyrs of the French Revolution.

Yesterday was July 14th... Bastille Day.

It's a great day of celebration in France and in other places around the world; even Philadelphia has a huge celebration every year to commemorate the holiday. Philly's celebration is even complete with an actress dressed as Marie Antoinette tossing pastries to the crowds, in remembrance of that famous line, "Let them eat cake." It's actually horribly and ignorantly inaccurate, considering that it was Louis XIV's wife, Marie-Therese, who uttered those infamous words.

Like so much about the French Revolution, fiction has become fact, the true history is diluted, the atrocities of the Reign of Terror are forgotten or ignored, and instead we're called upon to praise the standard of "Liberty, Equality, Fraternity."

Somehow, the cheers and the songs and the celebration are supposed to make us forget how much was lost, and instead make us glorify the empty promises of socialism and nationalism.

We're supposed to forget that the storming of the Bastille in Paris, France on July the Fourteenth, 1789 effectively marked the beginning of the French Revolution and the Reign of Terror. We're supposed to forget that it marked the end of the Catholic monarchy in France, and sounded the death knell for thousands of Catholics who revolted against the anti-Catholic government that took it's place. We're supposed to forget that in the name of "Liberty, Equality and Fraternity," priests, monks and nuns, husbands and wives, women and children were massacred by 'Madame Guillotine.' We're supposed to forget that monasteries, convents and churches were plundered and priceless relics were lost or destroyed. We're supposed to forget about the brave peasants from the Vendée who were martyred horrifically by the new Republican government, because they weren't buying the new regime and fought back for "God and King."

Sadly, it's worked. Many have forgotten. Some intentionally ignore it. My own husband, a very well-read and devout Catholic, had no idea what Bastille day even was. Granted, in the United States, it's not such a big deal. But to some one who was educated solely in the Catholic school system it should have been a big deal. I mean, even the liberal media in the States knows what Bastille Day really stands for.

Last year, as part of the celebrations in San Francisco, the French consulate hosted a Mass for Bastille Day. I don't know if it was someone's disgusting idea of a joke, or if maybe even the French have forgotten what they've lost, but a local news agency caught the glaring incongruity. Joe Eskenazi, who writes a blog for 'San Francisco Weekly' had this to say:

Finally, the unbelievable: The consulate mentions the "messe officielle du 14 juillet" -- the official mass of Bastille Day, which was held on Sunday at Notre Dame des Victoires on Bush Street. Truly, this is an astounding notion: The Catholic celebration of the event that triggered the systematic dismantling of the Catholic church in France, and led to a great many priests and other religious figures being guillotined or chased from the nation with their possessions in tow. Needless to say, you don't have official Bastille Day masses in France today -- it'd be like McDonald's offering a commemorative burger giveaway on the date of a violent vegetarian uprising.  (Full article here)

It makes me cringe.

Why have we allowed ourselves to forget? Why have the Catholic schools stopped teaching the truth about this pivotal part of the history of 'The Oldest Daughter of the Church'?

I'm not a historian, nor do I pretend to be, but I can see the importance, and the tragedy, of remembering the death, the martyrdom and persecution of the Catholic Church in France.

On Bastille Day, I will commemorate, but not by tossing pastries or by parades and fireworks. I will remember the Saints that the French Revolution gave to the ranks of the Church Triumphant. I will ask for their intercession and pray that I may be granted the Fortitude that they so willingly displayed.

And I will listen to Poulenc's opera 'Les dialogues des carmélites' which recounts the story of the Carmelite nuns of Compiegne, who were martyred at the guillotine when they refused to disband their order and continued to practice the religious life. The final scene is heartbreakingly beautiful, and brings me to tears every time I see it.

Poulenc was a Frenchman who did not forget, and neither should you or I.

Final Scene of 'Les dialogues des carmélites'

In Which Soaring Soprano is...

...doing it again.

A week has now gone by without a post, and I found myself already slipping into my bad habit of saying, "I don't have anything cool to write about." And I wondered if I wasn't just making an excuse for myself?

I mean, I am a chronic procrastinator, and I put things off until the last minute or even indefinitely... I have so many half-started and unfinished projects laying around it's not funny. 

Ugh.

Anyway, I'm starting to think that this need of mine to have something "important" to say isn't just an ego thing. I think it's more of an excuse not to post, to put off until tomorrow what I could do today. It's not like I have any lack of time, either. I'm a secretary, and at my job many hours are spent with nothing to do, just waiting for the phone to ring. Which means I have plenty of time to write a blog post everyday... even just a short one.

I really need to take to heart something a priest- very fittingly nicknamed Father Boots, because he always wore black cowboy boots with his cassock- told me once about procrastination.

I had been crying to him about my propensity for procrastination, and all the troubles it was causing (I lived at home at the time and my Mom was very tired of having to remind me fifty times to get something done).

Father Boots nodded and looked at me very solemnly. "Well," he said, in his deep voice (which I always thought was how God's voice would sound). "Do you know what to do the next time you are tempted to procrastinate?"

I bit my lip and shook my head, prepared to be chastised.

"Just tell yourself, 'I'll procrastinate later,'" he said. "It's as simple as that."

My poor teenaged female brain mulled that over for a second and I nodded, still silent. Whenever Father Boots said something solemnly, I couldn't help but to become mute and very seriously puzzle over his pronouncements.

This time a little twinkle came into his eyes and he smiled at me.

Then a light bulb went on in my head and I started to laugh. (I was still a bit slow about catching onto sarcasm at that age.)

Despite the humour, there is a great truth hidden there. And it has served me well... when I've happened to remember it.

In Which Soaring Soprano Reflects...

...on the beauty of the Catholic Faith.

 This past weekend has been filled with many beautiful signal graces, thanks to Our Lord's Goodness.

On Sunday, our parish had the extraordinary blessing of having Mass said by a visiting priest. What was so extraordinary was that this young Scottish priest (whom we've already dubbed Father Braveheart) has only been ordained for about a month, and to me there is nothing more beautiful than a freshly-minted priest saying Mass.

He gave us a fantastic homily on the reception of Our Lord in the Blessed Sacrament. It was straightforward and simple, but full of quiet zeal and humble devotion. Father poignantly reminded us of Our Lord's words : "He that eateth my flesh, and drinketh my blood, abideth in me, and I in him." (John 6:57)  "What closer union can there be between God and man?" Father asked, before going on to quote St. Paul. "For he that eateth and drinketh unworthily, eateth and drinketh judgement to himself, not discerning the body of the Lord." (1 Corinthians 11:29) Father then exhorted us to make sure that we "sounded the depths of our soul" before approaching the Communion rail and reminded us that we should receive Our Lord with humility and reverence. I've heard all this before, of course, but there was just something about the way he said it...

Alter Christus, indeed.

After Mass, Father Braveheart gave First Blessings, which are a rare treat. A priest can only give his First Blessing to you once (of course) and only for the first year of being ordained. There is a plenary indulgence attached (with the proper conditions being met, as usual. Confession, Communion, prayers for the Holy Father, and freedom from attachment to sin). The whole parish (or at least the 150 or so people at the 10:15 Mass) stood in line to receive Father's blessing, despite the heat and humidity that permeated our un-air conditioned church.

I was struck by how lovely it was to see whole families waiting in line for Father's blessing. Little children danced with anticipation (or impatience, I suppose) to approach the rail, and my youngest sister was a joy to watch as Father moved down the line of kneeling faithful. Being the tiny little slip of a girl that she is, Dolly stood at the communion rail next to Mommy, her curls bouncing and a bright grin on her face. She was so excited to be able to "get something" at the rail with everyone else for a change, being too young to receive yet. When Father got to her, however, she went perfectly still, a solemn expression on her little face as Father placed his hands on her curly mop and then blessed her. Without being told, she kissed each of his hands reverently, and took the proffered ordination card joyfully, gazing at it like it was the most valuable treasure as she tried not to skip back to the pew.

I think it was watching her kiss Father's hands that really got me. There was just something divine about watching the innocent solemnity of my four-year-old sister kiss the hands of a newly ordained priest. The expression on her face was enough to tell me that she understood why she was kissing them. Granted, she may not intellectually comprehend everything about it, but on a fundamental level she does. She knows it's because "Father touched Jesus," and she understands the feeling of respect and reverence... it's just the faith of the 'little children.'

It was a reminder of how my faith should be... unwavering, unquestioning and with complete trust in God's grace.

"Come, O Jesus, come and take possession of my heart; it shall belong entirely to Thee; come and visit me, and strengthen me in Thy grace, O Lord."