The Birth of Mary
(The Life of the Virgin Mary, 1912)

How must the angels have struggled
not to erupt in praises, like one might erupt in tears,
the minute they knew that tonight would be born
the mother, who’d soon bear the son.

Wind a-flapping they held their tongues pointing the direction
to where the only house was that of Joachim’s;
o, how they could feel in the air the purest complexion,
but none was allowed to stoop down to him.

For the couple were already upset enough.
A neighbor had come to share what she barely knew,
and the old man had silenced a cow that mooed
as a precaution–and all seemed new.

–Rainer Maria Rilke

[From The Beauty of Mary, edited by Rosemary Vaccari Mysel, et al. (Pauline, 2008).]

Last winter, Sarah Palin “had this penchant for really beautiful scarves,” recalls the woman who works down the hall in Anchorage. She was beginning her third trimester, and artfully concealing it from her colleagues and constituents. Maternity clothes can be cute, but Sarah didn’t want to compromise her political responsibilities or worry the Alaskan public. She might be mom-times-five, but she was also their governor.

A month before giving birth, she announced her pregnancy. Three days after giving birth, she was back in the office. Womanly strength and determination, to an exceptional degree. Then came the announcement that the Palin baby had Down syndrome, and Sarah’s moral leadership didn’t falter: “Many people will express sympathy, but you don’t want or need that, because Trig will be a joy,” Sarah wrote. “Children are the most precious and promising ingredient in this mixed-up world you live in down there on Earth. Trig is no different, except he has one extra chromosome.”

Now on the national stage, media commentators—uncharacteristically concerned about the domestic significance of stay-at-home moms–have been wondering how one balances maternity and the media, home and the Hill. No one says it will be easy, but judging from this NY Times article, Gov. Palin’s motherhood shows her competence and commitment—to both of her vocations:

Ms. Palin’s three-day maternity leave has now become legend among mothers. But aides say she eased back into work, first stopping by her office in Anchorage for a meeting, bringing not only the baby but also her husband to look after him. [A travel crib and baby swing adorn one corner of the office.]

Many high-powered parents separate work and children; Ms. Palin takes a wholly different approach. “She’s the mom and the governor, and they’re not separate,” Ms. Cole said. Around the governor’s offices, it was not uncommon to get on the elevator and discover Piper, smothering her puppy with kisses.

“She’ll be with Piper or Trig, then she’s got a press conference or negotiations about the natural gas pipeline or a bill to sign, and it’s all business,” Ms. Burney, who works across the hall, said. “She just says, ‘Mommy’s got to do this press conference.’ ”

Before Hillary Clinton’s defeat, there was much talk about the significance of having a woman in a presidential race. But to have a woman who hasn’t sacrificed any of her femininity, a woman as a woman–now that’s a real milestone.

You gotta love the Times of London. Here’s the lede for their recent article on the hometown of the Republicans’ vice-presidential candidate:

At the age of 10, Sarah Palin got her very own bunny rabbit. Which means to say that she crouched down in the grass outside her family home, aimed her shotgun and blew its furry little head off.

Blew its furry little head off. Blew its furry little head off. Not to paint a picture, or anything. And can I say how unlikely it is that she was using a shotgun to hunt rabbits? At her age, we used .22 rifles.

I lost two friends from home in a car accident over the weekend. I played baseball with one and graduated with the other. They were a part of my childhood. They were a part of my memories growing up in a small town in Missouri.

My first reaction to the news was one of anger and confusion. Here I am, a long way from the cornfields and ball fields of my youth, and for the second time in three years I receive news that home won’t be the same the next time I visit. “This isn’t part of the deal,” I thought, “I can go away, I can change, but my small town, my home can’t.”

I was wrong. My town has changed. It’s now missing two people who made it what it was.

In a certain way, however, I know that my town today isn’t any different than the one I grew up in. I’m sure that its citizens had their share of heartbreak and tragedy when I was a kid. I was simply too young and too innocent to realize it.

Paul says that we are one bread, one body. As a child, I thought that simply meant we all rejoice together, we all succeed together. Now I see we all suffer, we all mourn together, as well. This week, Plattsburg, Missouri, that town I hold so dear, is doing just that.

The Economist says that, after decades of dominance left-wing parties are in serious trouble all over Europe.

If you have ever worried that Europe may fall into an abyss of bureaucratic socialism, this may seem like straightforward good news. But I’m not so sure about that. The article points out that the European right (most notably in Britain and France) has, arguably, regained political viability by simply stealing the “themes” of the left.

True, European conservatives are still fairly keen on free markets (and Britain’s Tories are even toying with a little social conservatism), but it seems that their resurgence happened only because they cast off the load of distinctive principles.

Though I am sure I stand convicted of intolerable stupidity on wholly independent grounds, I must protest Amanda’s characterization of my view of Austen.

I yield to no one in my esteem for her wit or social perceptiveness . . . and I said as much. To the extent that I can read her as a sociologist, a moralist, or a humorist I am rapt. But the desire to see what happens next does not propel me eagerly through the book as it would have done ten years ago. And it’s still tiring to keep the characters’ various relationships straight in my head. Which, I admit, is a fault I’m working on.

Anyway, I’ll take the advice with the abuse and buy Master and Commander this afternoon. Who knows, it may replace The Way of the Lord Jesus, Volume Two as my preferred bed-time reading.

Probably not, though.

In response to Keith in response to Stefan, on the rational moral efficacy of novel-reading, particularly in reference to men:

“But you never read novels, I dare say?” [said Catherine]

“Why not?” [replied Mr. Tilney]

“Because they are not clever enough for you–gentlemen read better books.”

“The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.”

—Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen (1803)

Which, Stefan, is not a rebuke for your Janeite laxity, nor for your insensitivity to the delight of Austenesque plots, nor for your failure to appreciate the choreography of Regency society . . . not even for even your inexcusable indifference to Anne Eliot. It is merely a way of seconding Keith’s proposal (excepting step 1)–Go out and read the Patrick O’Brian novels! I’m sure Austen would approve:

“‘And what are you reading, Miss—?’ ‘Oh! It is only a novel!’ replies the young lady, while she lays down her book with affected indifference, or momentary shame. . . . In short, only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humor, are conveyed to the world in the best-chosen language.”

1. Take those Austen novels and pack ‘em away.

2. Drop what you’re doing and head off of to the nearest book store.

3. Buy the complete set of Patrick O’Brian’s Aubrey-Maturin novels.

4. Read all twenty volumes sequentially starting with Master and Commander.

5. No need to thank me until you’ve finished them all.

“Come, sir, cannot I prevail upon you to go to sea? A man-of-war is the very thing for a philosopher, above all in the Mediterranean: there are the birds, the fishes–I could promise you some monstrous strange fishes–the natural phenomena, the meteors, the chance of prize-money. For even Aristotle would have been moved by prize-money. . . .”

“A ship must be a most instructive theatre for an inquiring mind. . . .”

“Prodigiously instructive, I do assure you, Doctor.”

–Jack Aubrey of the Royal Navy convincing Stephen Maturin, natural philosopher, to join him at sea (Patrick O’Brian, Master and Commander)

I grew up in a small town in Missouri, so stories like this makes my Midwestern heart swell up with pride.

The New Liturgical Movement has the exercise for those of us who are less athletic, but enjoy Gregorian chant.