Terri Wallace's Blog, page 4

Sons and Brothers and The Weaker Side in #Outlander

As I get older, I choose my friends more carefully (or at least I try to). Those closest to me have been there for quite some time. Some friends have been in my life since…well, since we were the age that my own children are now. So it is easy to see my children’s friendship through the eyes of a child as well as with the wisdom of years—not that my motherly wisdom necessarily accounts for much in their eyes, yet.

I stand back and try to let them learn their own lessons of friendship, if I can. I bite my tongue a lot. Some friendships I know will burn out fast and, sometimes, I am grateful for it. Other times I watch bonds being forged, strengthened, and fortified by time and shared experience, and I find myself hopeful that the bond will stay solid without becoming fetters.

These early experiences with friendships…these earliest relationships…can color what we expect from later relationships. And, to be honest, I want them to expect a lot from their friends and from themselves. People will make mistakes, of course, but how they address their mistakes shows a lot about their character. The ability to say “I’m sorry,” and “I was wrong,” and “of course, I forgive you,” give more insight into a person’s soul than if they never had need for forgiveness…whether to ask for it or to receive it.

In case you were wondering when I was going to bring this around to some Outlander reference…wait no more! {SPOILER ALERT}

So, as I am working through yet another re-re-re-reading of the Outlander books, I find myself calling my kids over to listen (yet again) to some of the snippets that tug at my heart. Lately, my son, especially, seems to be the getting the lion’s share of my fair attempts at Scottish-brogued recitations from the stories.

My son, youngest and brotherless, used to beg me for a little brother. So I was so glad when we moved and he found a family of boys down the street ranging in age from nearly new-born, to three, to just-his-age, and to just-one-year-older. Finally he had a band of brothers of the heart. I think it eased his own heart a bit, to feel less alone; in a house full of women, he and his father are woefully outnumbered. It reminded me of Jamie speaking Ian:

“I thought I’d have a new brother,” he’d said suddenly. “But I don’t. It’s just Jenny and me, still.” In the years since, he’d succeeded in forgetting that small pain, the loss of his hoped-for brother, the boy who might have given him back a little of his love for his older brother, Willie, dead of the smallpox. He’d cherished that pain for a little, a flimsy shield against the enormity of knowing his mother gone forever.

Ian had sat thinking for a bit, then reached into his sporran and got out the wee knife his father had given him on his last birthday.

“I’ll be your brother,” he’d said, matter-of-fact, and cut across his thumb, hissing a little through his teeth.

He’d handed the knife to Jamie, who’d cut himself, surprised that it hurt so much, and then they’d pressed their thumbs together and sworn to be brothers always. And had been.

(From AN ECHO IN THE BONE by Diana Gabaldon, chapter 81, “Purgatory II.”)

When I read that bit to my son, he blinked away some alleged allergen that suddenly seemed to make his eyes a bit watery. I must have suffered a similar affliction, because I suddenly needed a tissue, myself.

As my son gets older, I realize his need for a “brother”–for someone to stand with him, to “have his back” when things get tough. Apparently growing up male is a hazardous business. Hell, growing up at all is rough enough. So I shared this bit between Jenny and Claire with him:

“I remember, when they were young, auld John told Ian it was his job to stand to Jamie’s right, for he must guard his chief’s weaker side in a fight. And he did— they took it verra seriously, the two of them. And I suppose auld John was right, at that,” she added, snipping off the excess thread. “After a time, nobody would fight them, not even the MacNab lads. Jamie and Ian were both fair-sized, and bonny fighters, and when they stood shoulder to shoulder, there was no one could take the pair o’ them down, even if they were outnumbered.”

She laughed suddenly, and smoothed back a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Watch them sometime, when they’re walking the fields together. I dinna suppose they even realize they do it still, but they do. Jamie always moves to the left, so Ian can take up his place on the right, guardin’ the weak side.”

(Diana Gabaldon, From DRAGONFLY IN AMBER, chapter 33, “Thy Brother’s Keeper.”)

*grabs another Kleenex* Stupid allergies.

Perhaps just as important as having a brave brother to stand at your side, is to know that the loyalty is unending…to know that it is a loyalty that has need of asking.  It. Just. Is. Friendship like that transcends time. It even transcends death itself:

(Fair warning: grab your Kleenex now, and perhaps a wee dram to fortify yourself.)

After Ian’s death, Jamie and Jenny share a quiet moment of wonder (…and said moment may have resulted in some not-so-quiet ugly-crying at our house):

“Where d’ye think he is now?” Jenny said suddenly. “Ian, I mean.”

He glanced at the house, then at the new grave waiting, but of course that wasn’t Ian anymore. He was panicked for a moment, his earlier emptiness returning–but then it came to him, and, without surprise, he knew what it was Ian had said to him.

“On your right, man.” On his right. Guarding his weak side.

“He’s just here,” he said to Jenny, nodding to the spot between them. “Where he belongs.”

(From AN ECHO IN THE BONE by Diana Gabaldon, chapter 84, “The Right of It.”)

The thing about a true friend, though, is that they never really leave you. It can take a while to understand that. Certainly my ten year old self could never imagine having a friendship continue beyond the grave; but my 43 year old self finds great comfort in that.

I read my son the passage where Young Ian comes across Jamie preparing for battle:

“And what are ye doin’ out here in your sark, then?”

“Washing,” Jamie said, but in a tone indicating that that wasn’t all of it. “And…talkin’ to my ain dead.”

“Mmphm. Anyone in particular?”

“My uncle Dougal, and Murtagh, him who was my godfather. They’re the two I’d most want with me, in battle.” Jamie made a small restless movement. “If I can, I make a wee moment to be alone, before a fight. To wash, ken, and pray a bit, and then…just ask if they’ll bide with me as I go.”

Ian thought this interesting; he hadn’t known either man himself; they’d both died at Culloden, but he’d heard stories.

“Bonnie fighters,” he said. “Did ye ask my Da, too? To go with ye, I mean. Perhaps that’s why he’s about.”

Jamie turned his head sharply toward Ian, surprised. Then relaxed, shaking his head.

“I never had to ask Ian Mòr,” he said softly. “He was always…just with me.” He gestured briefly to the darkness on his right.

(Diana Gabaldon. From WRITTEN IN MY OWN HEART’S BLOOD.)

So, yes, THIS is the friendship I want for my children. THIS is the kind of bond I hope they forge with their friends…their family…their future spouse. I wish for them the kind of love that is constant, and unflinching, and loyal, and without fail. Because the world is hard enough…and knowing that someone is guarding your weak side can make all the difference.

Comparisons, #Outlander, and All-That-I-Am-Not

My hands are neither graceful nor fine boned. And, unlike so many others, I cannot seem to find the time or inclination to tend to my cuticles or shape my nails into careful squares, or ovals, or whatever-it-is-that-is-fashionable-right-now…let along actually paint them. I am glad merely to keep them washed and reasonably free of dirt from the garden.

There are days, though, when I am painfully aware of my ragged cuticles. Days when I am self-conscious of the short haircut (self-cut in exasperation at 11:00 p.m., likely with whining kids outside the door…which also explains the strangle tuft that sticks up in the back, both too long and too short to behave).

I am neither blonde nor tan. I am not young. I am not well-endowed. I. Am. Not.

On the I Am Not Days, every comparison is a failure. I am not lovely, or engaging, or wealthy, or privileged. I am not brilliant. I am not the person I thought I would be when I was younger. I’m just not.

I cannot compare myself to others and find much of anything that adds up to the person I want to be, because who I am meant to be has absolutely nothing to do with them and everything to do with me.

My nails are kept purposefully short, because short nails are more practical. And gardeners are nothing if not practical. I would rather dig in the dirt than fret over a manicure because, in my life, having herbs enough to get us through another year trumps fancy fingers. A yard full of flowers and food is far more enticing than those nail wrap things that everyone but me seems to have.

My hair is kept short, because I resent spending time curling, or straightening, or blow drying…and my not-quite-curly-but-certainly-wavy-but-not-in-that-easy-to-manage-way hair would require significant maintenance if kept at a longer length.   I would rather spend my morning writing than fighting the unending war on misbehaving waves.

I am forty three years old. And I own each of those years. I earned them all. Each wrinkle and crease is well-deserved. I spend no time trying to conceal them; I do well to remember to wash my face put on some sort of lotion at night. I’d rather climb in bed with my husband than waste time on creams and potions to preserve some illusion of youth. After all, he is perfectly aware exactly how old I am. It’s not like I am fooling him.

(If you are concerned about Outlander spoilers, stop reading now.)

As I re-re-re-read the Outlander books, I find that I identify so much more with Older Claire. Much more no-nonsense than her younger counterpart, Older Claire has made peace with her graying hair, the broken vein behind her ankle, and the faded stretch marks on her stomach*—in part, of course, because of Jamie’s acceptance and appreciation of these parts of her. Just as he loved her legs—no, not smooth and waxed (exotic though it must have seemed in that place and time), but the unaltered, and downy haired leg that God gave her—Jamie even loved the wee hair that sprouted from her areola.** He loved all of her.

Certainly it is easier to find peace with yourself when you surround yourself with those that love and accept you are you are. Perhaps that is part of the wisdom that comes with age: knowing who to keep close and who to let go. Sometimes it’s hard to know on which side of the divide people fall. Maybe the easiest way to find out is to see how you are reflected in their heart. When I am with those closest to me, I feel funnier, more capable, and more comfortable. When I am with them, I don’t find myself trying to live up to others’ expectations. With them, there are no comparisons.

With them, I am simply Myself.

My decidedly not graceful hand.

* I adore the part where Claire is concerned about her stretch marks and Jamie reveals his own scarred thigh and asks her if the sight of it repulses her. When she says it does not, and he says something like “if your body bears the scars of your own battles” why would it bother him, it is all I can do not to swoon then and there.

** (I recently reread this bit and it still made me smile. It also reminded me of something which Amanda Palmer wrote wherein she describes such stray hairs as “nip-lashes.” Henceforth all references to stray nipple hairs shall be referred to as such. Thank you, Amanda Palmer for providing me with a word I didn’t even know I needed!)

The Best Boyfriends are a Work of Fiction

When it comes to boyfriends, real men can’t compete with the fictional variety. In the real world, whatever romantic instincts that Real World Guy may have once had is summarily quashed by the Testosterone Trapping Trifecta of carpool duty, lawn chores, and unpaid bills. The Bad Boys (and some Not-So-Bad-But-Still-Really-Hot-Guys) who lurk between the pages of a book, however…well, they could teach a guy a thing or two about wooing women. Here are five Literary Lovers who should be required reading for men:

Jamie Fraser (from the Outlander series) . It doesn’t matter if he has just brawled with a dragoon of redcoats, James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser is never too busy to say soft things in Gaelic to a certain wild-haired nurse who fell through time and ended up in his plaid swathed lap. Equal parts boyish charm and, ahem, “unflagging enthusiasm,” Jamie is handsome, funny, smart, and strong. Seriously strong. Strong enough to want a equally strong woman. Even those who would never, under normal circumstances, dare deface a book by dog-earring pages or (gasp!) highlighting text may find themselves surreptitiously marking The Wedding Night scene and leaving it somewhere their husband might stumble upon it…say, perhaps, the bathroom? (In case you were wondering, that sound you just heard was that of some twenty million Outlander fans flipping through their battered books to re-re-re-read *that* scene.)
Four/Tobias Eaton (from the Divergent trilogy). Another Book Boyfriend who could teach the men of the world a thing or two about romance is the strong, quiet Four of Divergent. Like Jamie Fraser, Four likes his women strong; but where Jamie is playful, Four is dark and brooding–perfect for those who want a bit of a Bad Boy but without the lying, cheating, or other drama that too often accompanies the “real life” version.
Josh Bennett (from The Sea of Tranquility) . If you haven’t read The Sea of Tranquility by Katja Millay, you are missing out on some prime Book Boyfriend material. Although tragic, Josh is not pitiful. His painful past has provided him with a profound strength and the desire to protect others. Achingly sweet and undeniably awkward, he is the tortured soul from high school that we all wanted to save but never could.
Ron Weasley (from the Harry Potter series). I know what you’re thinking, “What? That ginger kid from Harry Potter?!” But think about it…Hermione is incredibly smart, right? So she likely gave it some thought before picking Ronald Weasley. In fact, it’s entirely possible that there were lists and charts and perhaps some algorithms involved in her decision. Let’s see…well, he has that “ginger thing” going for him. And, despite the fact that it couldn’t have been easy being known primarily as “Harry Potter’s BFF,” or as “The Youngest Weasley Boy After, You Know, All the Really Cool Ones,” or as “That Painfully Mediocre Quidditch Player,” Ron manages to conduct himself with a surprising amount of grace. He frequently uses humor as a way to navigate the awkward spells (*snort* sorry, couldn’t resist). To his credit, he not only endures Insufferable-Know-It-Alls, but he also seems to have a bit of a soft spot for them (*cough* Hermione). But perhaps one of the best selling-points for having Ron Weasley as a Book Boyfriend is his family. Take a moment to consider your mother-in-law. Now consider Mrs. Weasley. Your mother-in-law. Mrs. Weasley. Need I say more?
Severus Snape (Yes, more Harry Potter characters) . At the risk of alienating everyone who has read this far, I am including on this list one of the most under-rated romantics of all…Severus Snape. Yes, I know that he might not have the dashing good looks of say, Gilderoy Lockhart, but Snape can be depended on to keep a secret, to be true to his self, and to be true to those he really loves. Always…. He is even willing to put his life at risk in order to protect the son of the woman he loves. (The son she had by another man, mind you.) If that doesn’t say a something about devotion, I don’t know what does!

I won’t lie, there is a reason that Jamie is #1 on the list. Fortunately, Hubs has taken a few cues from Himself: he has been known to speak with an impressive Scottish accent when he wants to charm me; he does own a kilt and isn’t afraid to use it; and he has, on occasion, called me Sassanach (always to glorious effect).

Of course, the fact that I can’t seem to shut up about Outlander may have something to do with it….  (Still, if it gets Hubs in a kilt, it can’t be all bad, right?)

Characters, Emotional Short-Hand, and #Outlander

Change comes, whether we want it or not. This year has proven that. Health scares do not ask whether it is convenient. Medical bills pile up, unopened, on the kitchen counter. I try to remind myself that sometimes the unexpected can yield glorious results. I dip my toe into the river of change and wonder “What if…” I live in stories, both the story of my life and the stories that I read to escape my life for a little while.

For those who know me well, this has resulted in a kind of emotional short hand. I can quickly explain a state of mind…of being…with a certain book character at a certain point in a story.

Tired, lonely, frustrated, I have confided in a fellow book-obsessed friend that I felt very “Harry Book Five.” Harry Potter–alone over the summer, with only vague messages from his friends while he endured the hell that was Number Four Privet Drive, feeling excluded and forgotten—perfectly captures the days when I scramble get by, so hurried by life that I go days before I realize that I never even spoke with anyone at all but have been stuck in my head with only my problems for company.

Other days, I feel very Outlander Claire…out of my element, trying to make things work out, chasing after some seemingly impossible goal. Occasionally, I find a kind word or a friendly face—my Mrs. Fitz. If I am lucky, she might bring me a drink and tell me to get some rest in her firm, not fussy, way. And, like Claire, for once I might just listen.

On the days of desperation, I feel a bit like MOBY Claire of the Sunken Ship. Alone. Going through the motions. Reminding myself that I have to endure. Waiting for the dawn just for the relief of having escaped another long night. I am not proud of those nights. But truth and courage don’t always come as a matched pair. Sometimes they are patch-worked together, and the seams that hold them are the scars that Life leaves us with.

Sometimes, I find a wee bit of Jamie lurking in my soul. More nights than I care to count I have watched my husband sleep and counted his breaths. I have offered up countless days of my own life to be added to his days, tried to bargain with God, and promised more than I have to give for more time. Please God, give me more time with mo cridhe. Because when you find the Blood of your Blood, Soul of your Soul, the last thing you want is for them to slip back through the stones.

On my best—my happiest days–I am more Claire at Fraser Ridge. I am at home, at peace, and surrounded by those I love. I have my garden and my wee herbs. I tend my children and my chickens and, as the sun slips behind the black shadowed branches of the maple and ash, I feel my Jamie slip up behind me and pull me against him.

Sometimes you can feel Change. It might be a soft summer breeze or the cutting bite of a winter wind. But you feel it, and you try to brace for it, and you pray…

I can feel Change coming.

Early Mornings, Outlander, and Perfect Peace

Due to some shifting of responsibilities and the impending school year, I was (quite reluctantly) up at 4:45 a.m. this morning.  My husband can attest that I am one of those Annoying Morning People…but this seemed a bit excessive, even for me.  But in order to do All The Mom Things, I had to rearrange Life.

So there I was, watering the herbs and flowers in the still-dark-of-nightness.  The moon cast an otherworldly glow about the yard, and the scent of rosemary was thick in the still, heavy summer air.  The insect filled sounds of night had not yet given way to the early morning buzz of activity.  The only sound was the gentle lapping of water onto parched earth.

As I moved about the yard, pitch black gave way to shadows.  I wound my way from the mint patch to the bergamot, and the moon travelled with me.  Then as the misty silver orb edged its way towards one horizon, the slightest golden glow started to burn on the edges of the other.

Strange how the dawn sneaks up on you.  Like children aging and hearts mending, all seems static and timeless until you turn around only to find that you baby is going off to college or that the Thing You Could Never Forgive is now water under the bridge.

It made me think of what Jamie tells Claire in Drums in Autumn:

“It’s only a moment, but ye feel as though it will last forever.  Strange, is it no?” he said thoughtfully.  “Ye can almost see the light go as ye watch–and yet there’s no time ye can look and say ‘Now! Now it’s night.”

So many things are like that…only identifiable by the presence of its opposite.  We don’t know how bad we felt until we feel better.  We don’t appreciate what we have until we lose it.

By the time I made my way to the back garden to let the chickens out to sing their Morning Greeting Song, the dawn was breaking through the treeline and chasing away the shadows.

In a week full of health scares, and work drama, and tire blow outs, and money worries, and more Back To Schoolness than I can handle, it was a moment of perfect peace.  For just a moment, there were no bills, no deadlines, no morning commute.

There was nothing but me, in a still moment of joy, as evening gave way to day.

A Thighearna, dèan tròcair oirnn.

The Moments in Between

It took me nearly forty-three years to realize that forgiveness is a choice. A choice that is made, and remade, each day. (And, yes, it is something that I learned in a book. And yes, that book was one of the Outlander books. And, yes, there will be spoilery bits sprinkled throughout this post, so consider yourself warned.)

One cannot make it to the age of forty-three without having a few things to forgive along the way. Sometimes they are little things…someone forgot to put gas in the car, or left a mess for me to clean up. Nothing that requires an Act of Contrition…just simple, human mistakes or omissions. Forgiveness comes easy and quickly.

Sometimes forgiveness comes with a bit more reluctance. A snarky comment, wounded pride, a thoughtless act, or a selfish moment can leave a certain rawness. Hurt must be soothed before forgiveness is offered, but it is offered nonetheless.

There are moments, though, that sear the soul. These moments shape us, and how we react to those wrongs helps to define who we are…and who we want to be.

On November 13, 1998, my aunt went to her job at Connor’s Correctional Center in Hominy, Oklahoma, where she worked in the kitchen.

She never came home.

She was brutally stabbed sixteen times by an inmate. Her aorta was severed. (The case can be found here and I have written more about that day here.)

Things like that, well, they take a bit more work to forgive. Wrongs like that require a continuous and conscious effort for forgiveness to take root. So, when I read the part in Outlander where Jamie is talking to Brianna about forgiving the man who raped her, I read it very, very carefully looking for anything that might help me with my own battle for forgiveness. Because forgiveness can be a struggle…and books have always helped me with my struggles. (I really do need to create a shirt that says: BOOKS ARE MY THERAPY!)

Jamie* talked about forgiveness being a decision that is consciously made each and every day. Today, I forgive you for the wrongs you have done to me. It is a decision born of necessity—not because my forgiveness matters to the offender (since sometimes it really doesn’t), but because forgiveness matters to me.

I don’t want to fill myself with hatred. I don’t want to spend my days crafting mental scenarios of imagined comeuppance. I’d rather free up that space in my soul for writing, and taking care of my family, and feeding my chickens, and reading, and talking to some of the amazing people I’ve met on Twitter. And joy. I really want to make room for joy.

I recently found out that the man who murdered my aunt is scheduled for execution this October and, honestly, I don’t know how I feel about that. While there is certainly no doubt of his guilt, I wonder, after all of these years, just what it will accomplish. It cannot possibly settle any “score.” It cannot set anything right. It brings me no peace. It is just the next step in a fifteen year “process” of justice…or what passes for it.

Perhaps the only thing that would give me peace would be the thought of some sort of possible redemption. Maybe he changed. Maybe that day haunted him. Maybe in the years since he killed her he did some small act of good to weigh against the bad….

We don’t always know why things happen. They just do. I don’t know why my aunt died on that autumn day. I don’t know what drove a man to stab her. Whatever Grand Plan there may be, I am not privy to its workings.

I read once about some of the individuals who were almost at Ground Zero when the World Trade Center was bombed…people who should have been there but who, for some strange twist of fate, weren’t. Some had called in sick. Others were simply running late. And one man, as I recall, bent to tie his shoe and the lace broke…so he stopped at a store on his way to work to buy a new set of shoelaces. A broken shoelace saved his life.

You wake up meaning to call you aunt…and go to bed that night with the realization that you can never call her again. Perhaps all I know for sure is that you can wake up in one world and go to bed in quite a different one. So, rather than hate, I think I’ll try to make the most of the moments in between.

 

* And in MOBY, Claire runs into one of her surviving rapists and tried to decide how to cope with knowing that he is still out there, and she struggles with how to forgive. (Full disclosure: Jamie quickly relieves her of that burden but, to Claire’s credit, she really did try.)

Do-Overs

The older I get, the more childlike I feel. Perhaps it is realizing that, like Jon Snow, I know nothing. Or maybe it is just the fact that, knowing that I know nothing, I am eager to change that.

Fortunately, life (like the seasons) often circles back upon itself. It provides time for do-overs. We can learn again the things we have learned before and long since forgotten. Thank God for do-overs. Hopefully, I am getting it right this time around.

As a child, I knew that it felt good to kick of my shoes and feel the cool earth beneath my feet. As a young adult, I wore stylish shoes, too high heels, and footwear that would never be mistaken for as “sensible.” Now, I can go days without wearing shoes, and I make sure to plant my heels firmly on the grass each day and to feel the earth under foot.

As I child, I lost entire days between the pages of books. Pale and hungry I’d emerge from my room just long enough to find sustenance before returning to find out just what happened to Laura Ingalls this time. As a young adult, I read for a diploma but rarely for pleasure. Then, with diploma in hand, I went to work. Metaphors and similes were replaced with legalese. Page after page of words that cost a lot…but which said very little. Now I have stumbled back between the pages, and I have written some pages myself. And I have rediscovered the beauty and value of words on a page.

As a child, I snuck home a stray kitten and hid them in my closet. I snuck them food and water, made a makeshift litter box out of a shoebox and, when soon discovered, begged and pleaded with my parents to be able to keep her. As a young adult, I stifled my love of animals. With animals came responsibilities, and expense, and inconvenient attachments. While I avoided such attachments, I also missed out on the unconditional love and joy they bring. Now I have three cats, a dog, and four chickens. (And a very tolerant husband who does not bemoan the investment of time or money for their care.) Chickens may be “verra poor company,” but they are a very sweet distraction. And, in case I haven’t mentioned it…EGGS!

As I child, I knew that I was well cared for. I never fretted about it. I just knew. As a young adult, I wanted to prove that I needed no one, that I was capable and competent and that everything was under control. Life laughed a lot and quickly showed me who was boss. (Hint: It wasn’t me!) As an adult, I realize that very little is in my control. But I feel cared for anyway. I am surrounded by people who care. I am surrounded by more kindness and generosity than I could ever imagine.

As a child, I never thought about what I looked like or how much I weighed. I was just me. And that was enough. As a young adult, I tried unhealthy things to obtain what I believed to be a “healthy” look. I dyed my hair black. I permed it. I straightened it. I wore colored contacts. If I looked at myself in a mirror too long the faults were magnified and would ruin my entire day. I took cover behind make-up like a warrior behind his shield. Now, I rarely wear makeup. My “hair style” is whatever I hack off late at night when I realize it is getting unruly. I have traded contacts for glasses, and I can go days without looking at a mirror. I hike and run–not for what it does to my waist line, but for what it does for my soul.

This is forty-three.

Finally, at 43 I am comfortable in my own skin. I don’t know quite how we will manage all the medical issues, and the medical bills, and the fifteen year old van that is on its last leg, and…well, all of those “real life” things. But we will. Somehow, we will.

I know nothing.

But I know that.

Fragments of Faith and Ian Murray (Religion in #Outlander, Part III)

Balance. It’s all about balance.  At least that’s what I tell myself when Life goes all Black Jack Randall on me. When there are too many bills and responsibilities and too little money and laughter and sleep.  And it’s my birthday later this week, and I despise birthdays.  Long story.  Anyway….

Balance. Yep. And faith. Lots of faith. And perseverance. So. Much. Perserverance.

(And since my husband assures me that I can relate ANYTHING to Outlander…)

SPOILERS FOLLOW.  YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.  NO SERIOUSLY, THERE ARE LOTS OF SPOILERS.

The past week has required quite a bit of faith and perseverance. It’s been enough to make a woman feel a bit like Job…or maybe some other man I’ve read quite a lot about lately who, likewise, seems to have more than his fair share of troubles, namely: Young Ian James Fitzgibbons Fraser Murray (a/k/a Okwaho’kenha, or “Wolf’s Brother”).

Let me start by saying that I adore Young Ian. Adore him. He may be young, but he has an old soul, and Lord knows he has lived more in his young life that many an older man, and his spiritual journey reflects this.

Young Ian first finds blood on his hands in Voyager, not long after Claire and Jamie’s reunion (excuse me while I grab a wee dram…and some Kleenex…plenty of Kleenex). He seeks solace in the pleasures of the flesh as well as the Catholic Sacrament of Reconciliation. (Not at the same time, of course.) This seems an early hint at the back and forth, the push and pull, that seems to color the wee lad’s life.

In Drums of Autumn, Young Ian is ordered to leave behind his old ways…to him himself behind.*

“They say that after that I will be Indian, and I must not speak any tongue but the Kahnyen’kehaka; I canna speak again in English, or the Gaelic.”

He is, in effect, being told to shed his identity.**  Also, of course, he would have been expected to leave behind the religion that had defined him since birth. How could he possibly make such a sacrifice, to turn his back everything that made him who he was? It’s unthinkable. But the wise and selfless soul finds the words for us….

“Ye said to me once, that my life wasna meant to be wasted,” he said. “It won’t be.” He held out his arms. “I willna forget you, either, Uncle Jamie.”

(Please ignore that noise…it is just the sound of my heart breaking.)

Of course, Young Ian doesn’t forget Jamie. Nor does he forget his religion. It does, however, change over time.

Young Ian struggles with reconciling his Catholic religion and Highland heritage with the things he learned and experienced while living with the Mohawk tribe. We get a glimpse at this struggle when he confides in Brianna at the Mammoth site.

At one point, he mutters under his breath.

“What did you say?” She paused, a half- hulled nut in her fingers.

“Oh, it’s no but a— ” He’d struck once more and caught a spark, glowing like a tiny star on the square of char. Hastily, he touched a wisp of dry grass to it, then another, and as a tendril of smoke rose up, added a bark chip, more grass, a handful of chips, and finally a careful crisscross of pine twigs.

“No but a fire charm,” he finished, grinning at her over the infant blaze that had sprung up before him.

Ian confides in Brianna that he has been thinking about God. She seems taken aback.

“What I am thinking,” he said after a moment, his voice much too controlled, “is this. Was it me?”

“Ian! You mean your fault that the baby died? How could it be?”

“I left,” he said simply, straightening up. “Turned away. Stopped being a Christian, being Scots. They took me to the stream, scrubbed me wi’ sand to take away the white blood. They gave me my name— Okwaho’kenha— and said I was Mohawk. But I wasna, not really.”

* * *

“But I wasna what I had been, either,” he went on, sounding almost matter- of- fact. “I tried to be what they wanted, ken? So I left off praying to God or the Virgin Mother, or Saint Bride. I listened to what Emily said, when she’d tell me about her gods, the spirits that dwell in the trees and all. And when I went to the sweat lodge wi’ the men, or sat by the hearth and heard the stories … they seemed as real to me as Christ and His saints ever had.” He turned his head and looked up at her suddenly, half- bewildered, half- defiant.

“I am the Lord thy God,” he said. “Thou shalt have no other gods before me. But I did, no? That’s mortal sin, is it not?”

Over time, bits of beliefs and fragments of faith war for dominance, become intertwined, and finally weave themselves in a tapestry of faith. Like his Uncle Jamie, Ian is faith is complicated and hard-won.

His faith is shaped by this sense of duty and obligation. And, at times, by guilt and forgiveness. Sometimes he is the one to forgive and, other times, well, he is mere flesh and blood (okay, okay, he is fictional, I know)…and, as such, sometimes he is the one desperate for forgiveness. Like when he unknowingly takes the life of Mrs. Bug in An Echo in the Bone:

“It wasn’t your fault,” I said gently.

“I know,” he said, and swallowed. “But I dinna see how I can live.”

He wasn’t dramatic about it at all; his voice was simply bewildered. Rollo licked his hand, and his fingers sank into the dog’s ruff, as though for support.

“What can I do, Auntie?” He looked at me, helpless. “There’s nothing, is there? I canna take it back, or undo it. And yet I keep looking for some way that I can. Something I can do to make things right. But there’s … nothing.”

I sat down in the hay next to him and put an arm round his shoulder, pressing his head toward me. He came, reluctantly, though I felt small constant shudders of exhaustion and grief running through him like a chill.

“I loved her,” he said, so low I could barely hear him. “She was like my grandmother. And I— ”

“She loved you,” I whispered. “She wouldn’t blame you.” I had been holding on to my own emotions like grim death, in order to do what had to be done. But now … Ian was right. There was nothing, and in sheer helplessness, tears began to roll down my face. I wasn’t crying. Grief and shock simply overflowed; I could not contain them. Whether he felt the tears on his skin or only the vibrations of my grief, I couldn’t tell, but quite suddenly Ian gave way as well, and he wept in my arms, shaking.

The thing about actually believing in something, really believing, is that it marks you. Ian’s soul has long been marked by his faith, his heritage, his values…and when he unknowingly violates the code by which he lives, it weighs mightily on him.

At the funeral, he faces Arch Bug with to offer compensation, just as his did before when he offered himself to the Mohawks in place of Roger.

“It was by my hand that this”— Ian swallowed— “that this woman of great worth has died. I didna take her life by malice, or of purpose, and it is sorrow to me. But she died by my hand.”

Rollo whined softly by Ian’s side, feeling his master’s distress, but Ian laid a hand on his head, and he stilled. Ian drew the knife from his belt and laid it on the coffin in front of Arch Bug, then straightened and looked him in the eye.

“Ye swore once to my uncle, in a time of great wrong, and offered life for life, for this woman. I swear by my iron, and I offer the same.” His lips pressed together for an instant, and his throat moved, his eyes dark and sober. “I think ye maybe didna mean it, sir— but I do.”

I found that I was holding my breath, and forced myself to breathe. Was this Jamie’s plan? I wondered. Ian plainly meant what he said. Still, the chances of Arch accepting that offer on the spot and cutting Ian’s throat in front of a dozen witnesses were slim, no matter how exigent his feelings. But if he publicly declined the offer— then the possibility of a more formal and less bloody recompense was opened, yet young Ian would be relieved of at least a measure of his guilt. Bloody Highlander, I thought, glancing up at Jamie— not without a certain admiration.

Wrong made right. Making things square, as best as one can. Reconciliation.  Balance. Yes, perhaps that’s it. Balance. Equal parts Catholic and superstitious Highlander and Mohawk…all in perfect balance.

So, yes, it has been a rough week…but I haven’t had to take another’s life, or offer my own as compensation for a wrong, nor have I accidentally killed someone (*knock on wood* the week’s not over yet, and there’s no need to tempt Fate) so, all things considered, I suppose my week could have been worse.

Yes, balance.

Lesson learned, Young Ian.  Lesson learned.

* “He will never come to his house again / his place will know him no more.”  Job 7:10.

** Yep. Shed his identity.  Never fear, though, he manages to forge a new kick-ass self out of all that suffering.  May we all fare so well.

The Conversion of Claire Fraser (or Religion in #Outlander Part II)

If Jamie Fraser has the faith I wish I had (the unwavering faith that I strive to have), then perhaps Claire’s faith is a bit closer to my religious reality.  Like Jamie, Claire was also a “cradle Catholic.”  But when we first meet Claire she was (and had never been) a practicing Catholic.  (That isn’t to say that she didn’t have some core beliefs tucked away under the foul mouth and headstrong ways that we all know and love.  That’s just to say that, well, Claire changes over the story.  And her religious beliefs are one of the things that change…or at least deepen and evolve.)

Claire’s initial brush with organized religion might have tainted a lesser person… Certainly her run in with the local priest, circa. 1743, wasn’t an event likely to make her feel welcomed into the proverbial fold and, when later faced with an abundance of Highland superstitions, a visit to Auld Nick’s kirkyard, and charges of witchcraft, one might be able to see her, ahem, disinclination.

But Life (even Fictional Book Life) has a way of making you have to rethink things, and often results in the need to eat your words, totally change alliances, or otherwise transform yourself.  (*Ahem* Not that I’m speaking from experience here).  Yep.  Claire has one of Those Moments.

After saving Jamie from the Wentworth, and their subsequent escape to France and to the abbey, Claire finds a kind of spiritual advisor in Father Anselm.  (And yes, this was one of the scenes that I really, really wish had been on the show.  Feel free to lament the loss with me.)

When Father Anselm and Claire discuss her religion, she tells him that she isn’t Protestant, but she isn’t really Catholic, either.  She isn’t much of anything.  But he explains to her that if she was baptized Catholic, then the mark is still on her.  (You know, kinda like that “J” scar that we all secretly…or not so secretly…wish we had on the base of our hand. *swoon*)

It’s Father Anselm who introduces Claire to the ritual of Perpetual Adoration (and it’s a ritual that Claire takes comfort in more than once in the books).  This time spent in quiet contemplation, alone and yet so very NOT alone, marks the turning point in Claire’s religious metamorphosis.  (And, yes, I do see the change in Claire as being exactly that pronounced.)

Of course, falling through time, having everything you know ripped away from you, and finding yourself in constant danger are certainly enough to make one call out for the help of someone, or something, greater to intervene on your behalf.  Except Claire didn’t.  Or rather, those things weren’t what finally pushed Claire to examine her beliefs.  Those things weren’t what finally formed a prayer on Claire’s lips.

Nope.

Old time, old life, old world be damned.  It was the thought of losing Jamie that made her reach for something, anything, to save him.  It was Jamie that finally evoked a prayer from Claire’s lips.

It was always Jamie.

When situations warranted, the Claire of the later books makes the sign of the cross without hesitation.  The Claire of the later books also routinely blesses Jamie before battle, and she is clearly moved when Jamie invokes the same blessing on her behalf when she goes to deliver a child.  She often utters prayers to saints over the course of the later books.  (Something that Book 1 Claire was not likely to do!)

However, her Catholicism is colored by Jamie’s own and, like his, there is a certain spirituality rooted in Jamie’s Celtic homeland that permeates her beliefs as well.  While not quite as superstitious as her Highlander husband, she finds great comfort in the fact that Jamie knows just the right saint for every occasion, and that he knows that salt keeps the spirits from walking.

Her perfectly rational 20th century certainty definitely took a blow once she went through the stones.  When science and reason can’t find explanation, one must look elsewhere for answers.  Is it any wonder that the things that finally give her grounding, are things based on faith…religion, love, the hope for a future?

Not bad things to build a life around, if you ask me.*

*  Of course, having a strapping Highlander husband around to share that life doesn’t hurt, either. Speaking of which, I’m very grateful for my own Scottish-blooded husband.  (See, honey, I don’t just talk about Jamie.)

NOTE:  For those who might wonder about the use of “conversion” in the title, since Claire did not initially identify as “Catholic,” or anything for that matter, it seems to me that by adopting any form of religious identity she actually did undergo a religious conversion.  (Plus, I’ll be honest, I really like alliteration.)

The Duality of Jamie Fraser (or Religion in #Outlander, Part I)

The best stories keep you thinking long after you read them.  They hang around and whisper to you…they nudge and prod you…they force you to consider (or reconsider) what you believe.  These are the stories I read, and the stories I try to write.

So, of course, that make me think about Outlander (feel free to go grab a cup of tea—or some whisky, I won’t judge).

 Ok, now that we have that out of the way…

One of the things that I love about Outlander is the spirituality it encompasses.  I mean, obviously Jamie is Catholic.  The books have an amazing number of prayers, in an impressive array of languages (English! French! Gaelic!)*  And, of course, it makes me feel guilty because I do well to mutter a few prayers in my one language, whereas Jamie seems to have about a million prayers—really long prayers–memorized…but I digress.

Jamie is a highlander, and the superstitions of his time are as much a part of his life as his Catholicism is.  He knows the patron saint for every occasion, just as he knows how to keep a spirit from leaving its grave (salt!).  He takes blood oaths, and he recites the Act of Contrition in French.  He carries a dried mole foot in his sporran to ward of rheumatism, and he prays nearly unceasingly for Claire and their unborn child after he is forced to send them back through the stones.  (If you have not read “The Scottish Prisoner,” yet, why the heck not!!  Seriously.  Also, I am normally not an audio book person, but it was amazing.)

There are entire books and blogs and discussion boards that happily deconstruct the symbolism and superstition in Outlander.  But what really interests me is Jamie’s duality—the way that his Catholicism and the pagan traditions of that time and that place are inextricably woven together.

One bit, in particular, comes to mind.*** It is from Echo in the Bone (so, if you didn’t heed my spoiler warning, consider this your last chance)…

…that particular spring always had the air of being remote from everything.  It lay in the center of a small grove of white ash and hemlock, and was shielded on the east by a jagged out-cropping of lichen-covered rock.  All water has a sense of life about it, and a mountain spring carries a particular sense of quiet joy, rising pure from the heart of the earth.  The White Spring, so called for the big pale boulder that stood guardian over its pool, had something more—a sense of inviolate peace.

The closer I came to it, the surer I was that that was where I’d find Jamie.

‘There’s something there that listens,’ he told Brianna once, quite casually.  ‘Ye see such pools in the Highlands; they’re called saints’ pools—folk say the saint lives by the pool and listens to their prayers.’

‘And what saint lives by the White Spring?’ she’d asked, cynical.  ‘Saint Killian?’

‘Why him?’

‘Patron saint of gout, rheumatism, and whitewashers.’

He’d laughed at that, shaking his head.

‘Whatever it is that lives in such water is older than the notion of saints,’ he’d assured her.  ‘But it listens.’

I walked softly, approaching the spring.  The jays had fallen silent now.

He was there, sitting on a rock by the water, wearing only his shirt.  I saw why the jays had gone about their  business—he was still as the white boulder itself, his eyes closed, hands turned upward on his knees, loosely cupped, inviting grace.

I stopped at once when I saw him.  I had seen him pray here once before—when he’d asked Dougal MacKenzie for help in battle.  I didn’t know who he was talking to just now, but it wasn’t a conversation I wished to intrude on.

It was there that Jamie uttered the prayer that defines his life, his love, and his heart:  Let me be enough.

Despite the many long litanies that Jamie had memorized over the years, in his times of greatest need, his prayers were always simple, direct, and heartfelt.

Let me be enough. 

And for those that have read “The Scottish Prisoner”…

Lord, that she might be safe.  She and the bairn.

When there is nothing else he can rely on (not his strength, or determination, or sheer willpower), Jamie takes his fear and desperation and quietly “offers it up.”

When I read “The Scottish Prisoner,” I thought about how overwhelming it must have been for Jamie.  To simply not know if someone was alive and safe.  No wonder that Jamie considered it his own purgatory on earth.  I imagine the desperation nearly suffocating him, and the only way to keep the panic at bay was to repeat the words and to hold onto them like a lifeline.

Lord, that she might be safe.  She and the bairn.

No answers, no certainly, no closure.  The only possible path to peace is through acceptance.

I always thought in the first two books Jamie is rather like a shield.  He is happy to put himself between Claire and danger.  He doesn’t flinch from taking whatever pain or suffering is directed at her.

But in the later books, Jamie is more like a stone.  Yes, he can still be a barrier, but age and wisdom made him more than that; he is also a foundation…and Claire (as well as the rest of their family) builds her life upon him.

Jamie’s spirituality, his Catholicism, and his deep and abiding faith also influence those around him.  I was amazed by the changes in Claire, of course, but I was also intrigued by the changes in Young Ian (have I mentioned how much I adore him?).  [And, for the record, I am planning to do additional blogs to talk about religion/spirituality as it relates to Claire and Young Ian.]

And, honestly, the books have changed me…they made me want to be a better Catholic.  I have highlighted huge sections of the prayers on my Kindle, and I have tracked down quite a few old prayer books and books on the saints.  I have also picked up a book on Highland superstitions.  It has a lot about plants and blessing to say when you plant and harvest certain wee herbs.  (With my gardening skills, a few prayers certainly wouldn’t be amiss!)

I have found that I find a great deal of peace while puttering around the garden and feeling the wind in my hair and the cool grass underfoot.  And the chickens help, too.  Perhaps it is the sense that you are responsibly for something other than yourself.****

But then Jamie already knew that.  Claire was right, he was too quick by half.

 * I keep promising myself that I will collect all of the prayers** in one place where I can refer back to them.

 ** This would be much easier if the publishers would, someday, offer the full collection of novels (and novellas), in order, as one digital file, so that I could use the search function for this purpose.  Please, please do this someday, book publishing people, because I would throw money at you to be able to have this!

 ***Yes, I know there are tons more.  So let’s talk about them!  Leave a comment with your favorite snippet or scene that shows Jamie’s spirituality.

 ****No, for those wondering, I did not name any of them Laoghaire…or Claire or Jamie, for that matter.  Although, in the interest of full disclosure, they are all named after Scottish clans: Seton, Maxwell, and *ahem*…MacKenzie and Fraser.