GUEST POST FROM:

http://branemrys.blogspot.com/2008/10/angel-in-house.html

The Angel in the House

Virginia Woolf famously said, "Killing the Angel in the House was part of the occupation of a woman writer." But this has, I think, often been misunderstood. I have often seen the phrase "The Angel in the House" interpreted to mean something about submission, but this is not a plausible gloss. For one thing, in the original poem by Coventry Patmore, whose title Woolf is adapting, submission plays virtually no role: the word and its cognates only arises twice in the poem, and in both cases is used merely as a secondary image for the headlong character of being in love, and Patmore also makes use of the common lover's trope that the beloved woman is to be served, so the image moves both ways. For another, this is not at all the point Woolf actually draws out:

You who come of a younger and happier generation may not have heard of her—you may not know what I mean by the Angel in the House. I will describe her as shortly as I can. She was intensely sympathetic. She was immensely charming. She was utterly unselfish. She excelled in the difficult arts of family life. She sacrificed herself daily. If there was chicken, she took the leg; if there was a draught she sat in it—in short she was so constituted that she never had a mind or a wish of her own, but preferred to sympathize always with the minds and wishes of others. Above all—I need not say it—–she was pure. Her purity was supposed to be her chief beauty—her blushes, her great grace. In those days—the last of Queen Victoria—every house had its Angel.


Woolf goes on to describe the experience of a woman writing a review of a book by a man. She takes up the pen to be critical, and the Angel slips in behind her and whispers, "As a woman you should be sympathetic, tender, tactful, gentle, etc.; you should be pure, not saying what you think but always saying what you ought." It's not submission but this ethereal, unreal purity that is the reason the Angel in the House must be killed by the woman writer; it is an image of woman that is inhuman and threatens to rip out the heart from any woman's writing. It's an image of woman so unreal that, if taken as a standard, it is dishonest:

For, as I found, directly I put pen to paper, you cannot review even a novel without having a mind of your own, without expressing what you think to be the truth about human relations, morality, sex. And all these questions, according to the Angel of the House, cannot be dealt with freely and openly by women; they must charm, they must conciliate, they must—to put it bluntly—tell lies if they are to succeed. Thus, whenever I felt the shadow of her wing or the radiance of her halo upon my page, I took up the inkpot and flung it at her. She died hard. Her fictitious nature was of great assistance to her. It is far harder to kill a phantom than a reality.


And this is why 'Angel in the House' is a good label for what Woolf is trying to describe. There really isn't anything dishonest about Patmore's poetry, but the image of woman presented in The Angel in the House is simultaneously real and mythological. It is Patmore's wife, but it is Patmore's wife pitched to cosmic significance, used as a model for a goddess:

But when I look on her and hope
To tell with joy what I admire,
My thoughts lie cramp'd in narrow scope,
Or in the feeble birth expire;
No mystery of well-woven speech,
No simplest phrase of tenderest fall,
No liken'd excellence can reach
Her, thee most excellent of all,
The best half of creation's best,
Its heart to feel, its eye to see,
The crown and complex of the rest,
Its aim and its epitome.
Nay, might I utter my conceit,
'Twere after all a vulgar song,
For she's so simply, subtly sweet,
My deepest rapture does her wrong.
Yet is it now my chosen task
To sing her worth as Maid and Wife;
Nor happier post than this I ask,
To live her laureate all my life.


There is in a sense nothing wrong with this in itself, or, at least, nothing that Woolf herself would have thought wrong with this: this is literary depiction and trope. The problem arises not with the image, but with an image like this becoming a standard to which women are expected to hold themselves to (and, more than this, a standard to which they hold themselves). For it is a lover's fantasy, a romantic myth, a pretty painting by a man who wants to laud the excellences of his wife; it is not a woman, and it is something no woman can actually be. It's all the difference between serving as a model for a painting of Aphrodite and expecting yourself to be Aphrodite. But Woolf notes that something like this image, not perhaps Patmore's own but something closely analogous, is taken not merely as a picture for which a woman can be a model, but as the standard for what a woman should be. It becomes not merely art that they can inspire but the state to which they are expected to aspire. And no one can hold themselves to such a standard without dissimulation. You should be pure -- more pure by far than any woman can be; and if that's the standard of what a woman is to be, well, what option is there but lies and deceit? It will tear the honest heart out of what you do.

So the woman writer must kill the Angel in the House, this standard of purity whispering in her ear, and be -- what? Woolf doesn't think the answer is easy at all. We'd naturally say that she should just be a human woman. But Woolf thinks this a superficial answer:

I mean, what is a woman? I assure you, I do not know. I do not believe that you know. I do not believe that anybody can know until she has expressed herself in all the arts and professions open to human skill.


After all, we are talking about a standard for what a woman should be. The Angel in the House can't be that standard. But merely take that away and you don't have a woman who is as she should be. You either have a woman who doesn't know what it is to which she can aspire, or who finds herself faced with yet another unreal phantom standard which must yet again be slain:

These were two of the adventures of my professional life. The first—killing the Angel in the House—I think I solved. She died. But the second, telling the truth about my own experiences as a body, I do not think I solved. I doubt that any woman has solved it yet. The obstacles against her are still immensely powerful—and yet they are very difficult to define. Outwardly, what is simpler than to write books? Outwardly, what obstacles are there for a woman rather than for a man? Inwardly, I think, the case is very different; she has still many ghosts to fight, many prejudices to overcome. Indeed it will be a long time still, I think, before a woman can sit down to write a book without finding a phantom to be slain, a rock to be dashed against.

Posted by Brandon at 12:43 PM

SUN TV's SUN ZEN and a Trini Pothound

Excerpt from Meaningful Books post:

 

...I believe there is a palpable shortsighted and greedy resource possession in our market that perpetuates much dysfunction in our nation.

Far better to consciously sow seeds of genuine Creativity. 

But Creativity must first be understood and healed of the wounds inflicted by this thriving ignorance...http://meaningfulbooks.blogspot.com/2012/05/sun-tvs-sunzen-and-trini-pothound.html

Have you played today?

From the mouth's of babes:

While chatting with my nine year old today, the context seemed appropriate for me to ask, "Am I boring, or what?"

Pausing to consider, he was expertly kind and gentle in his response.

Photo of Winston the British Bulldog under cover: by "Mr. Poppy" Justin

"No, you are not boring at all....you just need to play more."

Laughter erupted from me spontaneously.

Who could argue with that?

"I agree, but how can I learn to do that? Maybe I'm too old now?"

"Not at all," he quipped confidently,"the only way to learn  is - you just need to play and each time  it's like you're unlocking deeper levels of play inside you."

Love After Love Derek Walcott

Love After Love

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored for another, who knows you by heart.

Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.


Derek Walcott (1930-)

The Day Our Flower Pot Fell...

That Day Our Flower Pot Fell, You Broke (Open) my Heart.

I was angry you took the phone off the hook.

I didn’t realise you were just putting the receiver  on the lower shelf,

because it was easier for you to reach, so you could practice saying "hello".

I was angry you left the cover off your brand new markers,

and they dried up.

Such waste! I fretted.

Later, I noticed how difficult they were for even Know-It-All fingers.

I was angry when I slipped in the water you spilled all over the floor.

I never thanked you for watering the plants.

You were not here, but I was angry,

the day I  found  the  hanging clay pot broken -

our sunny bougainvillea on the floor.

When I brought you home from Granny's you said, “Broke!” with all the sadness in the world.

Did I make a toddler  care so much, for nothing much ?

And, as though you had broken it,

As though you were responsible

for gravity itself,

all soldier-like,

you marched in with that little toy broom,

which had swept our yellow lily pad,

and the little plastic bucket,

that toted our Maracas sand

you toddled and took charge,

would not allow me to  bend.

You picked it all up

from start to finish,

resisting Mummy's involvement

except as Witness, and Company Keeper.

We were  sad when the flower pot broke my son,

 heavy from the weight of the  great growth it contained.

Now I am  happy, the old clay cracked,

For the Son's shine.

A note:
Living Metaphors are lived. It feels to me like a divinely authored moment bridging my outer life to a profound inner reality and vice versa.  In this way, what is unseen  manifests meaning into the world of senses that we call reality; more  consciously known and  directly experienced.  Witnessing these seemingly infinite and always meaningful connections through the senses, awakens an awareness in me revealing that  life itself is  Guru,  every situation Holy Ground, and each person without exception, an instrument of the Beloved.

Reading Under the Covers

Light, like a sheet.

I am under the sheet,

with a small light of my own.

I am reading.

It is not a book, nor is there any device.

I am reading the light.

Reading my light in relation to the sheath which envelopes me.

Differences manifest, a crevice, a cranny, a nook and a tuck.

It is no bother at all, to be different here.

Do Opposites Attract, Really?

The other day, my eight-year-old son asked if he could strum the acoustic guitar that has been hanging untouched in our book nook, since he was born. Delighted over his interest in the instrument as itself, and not just as wall décor, I dusted it off and handed it to him. It came as no surprise that the strings were grossly out of tune.

Because I can play an iPod better than any musical instrument, does not mean I should shy away from the accidental music of this unknown territory. I remembered enough to show him something I had learned along the way about fine-tuning the strings. Once in tune, each string will resonate when the same note is played on an adjacent string. I played the ‘A’ note on the fifth fret of the ‘E’ string, and the adjacent ‘A’ string, knowing itself, vibrated in empathy.

In wonder, my son observed the manifestation of this natural law over and over. I watched the strings intently as he plucked and strummed, deliberately creating these vibrations. Again and again, I felt instructed in relationship; in the ways we attract and create both conflict and harmony in our lives.

We may accept cliches like “Opposites attract!” but even though the blue-eyed Caucasian lover may delight in the chocolate skin of her beloved, or the bohemian artist may find comfort and security in the conservative banker, we can come to see that these, superficial characteristics are seldom the stuff of enduring attraction.

The variety of contrasts with which our lives may be richly spiced, are soon pointers to the conflicts that manifest. The couple, once deeply in love, is no longer a romantic balance of ying and yang. The harsh notes of competition, blame, irritation, get struck and the tune of bliss changes to one of melancholy, even tragedy. Soon both parties are either hurling or repressing and masking insults about the very characteristics that once enriched their togetherness. In the pain of impending separation, there are claims of irreconcilable differences. Both are aching, they say, for more compatibility. 

So, do opposites really attract?

The living metaphor of those resonant guitar strings point me to a more homeopathic concept of “similar suffering”, and “like cures like”.

We keenly embrace the idea of likeness between the self and the beloved when we are all aglow with honeymoon compliments. Yet, we ignore the reality when the attraction, once for better, works also for the worse aspects within us too. Dirt attracts dirt. Only maturity would lead us to consider that our negative traits are usually also well matched and somehow complementary; providing the perfect circumstances for soul growth and real inner transformation. This truth, precedes true love.

Knowing this need not be off-putting. It can be encouraging. 

Truthful recognition invites us to sincerely uncover mistaken ideas, outmoded habits and false judgments. The relationship, in its entirety, provides opportunities to seek wholeness within our selves, and ultimately, union with the beloved; provided both partners are willing and capable of the pre-requisite maturity.

The challenge is, how can we come to know, what we do not know in the moment? 

The degree to which we feel even the slightest loss of interest, or anything that resembles pain or dis-ease, is the measure of "unconsciousness", aspects of self that are denied or cut off. Feelings of discomfort, resistance and judgment come to the surface and we can choose to accept their teachings. At a soul level these are invitations to pay attention to aspects of self and life we habitually prefer to ignore. These so- called negative situations and people are actually prodding us into awareness.

When apparent differences stir things awry, there may be more feeling of repulsion than overt attraction. By paying attention to the subtler inner response and discomfort around the conflict, it becomes possible to detect a kind of inner dissonance and in time, what grows is an awareness along with it, of  a more true being that is in resonance with something greater than the personalities at play. Really tuning in, and naming with specific clarity the vibration of feeling in these moments, can assist in uncovering the truth of our connection with our selves and others. 

We discern differences because of our relative status in juxtaposition with, something or someone that is “more” or “less” than we are. Perceiving through duality, there is ample evidence that opposites co-exist; are even inter-dependent. Night gives way to day. The dryness of a desert season never obliterates, only intensifies our longing for the balancing relief of watery wet. Through Nature’s neutrality we can understand the blessing and beauty of differences but less so through the clouded lens of unconscious emotions.

Hearts left hanging, no strings attached, tugging at my heartstrings, stringing me along - When we don’t tune in to the instrument of the heart for a season, or a lifetime, and are left heavy-hearted or with a heart attack; our lives become grossly discordant. 

Increasing unification is a natural, spontaneous consequence of the self-understanding that integrates emotional compartments we constructed  earlier on in life as a coping mechanism. The attraction equation that builds healthy, working relationships has much to do with fine-tuning the self. The more we resonate purely with self-respect and authentic love, the more likely our music will draw to us another, who is willing to sustain and amplify our own natural efforts; or stimulate from within that old, dusty mate, more harmonic and unifying chords.

Just as one guitar string vibrates as evidence that it is 'in tune with' another, this demonstrates the inner reality of the experiences and relationships in our daily lives. The way we resonate with something or someone reflected outside us, points the way through layers of mask selves, so that true inner Being may be explored. 

In every life situation, without exception, there is a lesson to be earned. The good news is, once we accept responsibility for it, we have the choice to transform over time, so as to vibrate the very qualities that will, in actuality, (not illusory fantasy), nurture a lifetime of healthy self-love and attraction.

Living Metaphors  - Do Opposites Really Attract?

© 2011 Joanne Gail Johnson

SHE CARIBBEAN Summer2011