Dear Ones,

Happy Spring! It’s hard to trust the feeling of hope and excitement that has been fluttering in my stomach and loosening the tightness in my throat, but I won’t deny it any longer, even if I know there will be disappointments and setbacks. It is ever thus, is it not?

I write to tell you that more of Madeleine’s library will be auctioned this month by New England Book Auctions. They did a test run with a small portion back in December, and raised nearly $10,000 distributed between PEN America’s Prison and Justice Writing Program, Smith College (The Madeleine L’Engle Travel Research Fellowships) and The L’Engle Initiative at Image Journal.

New England Book Auctions took on a difficult task. They moved more than 250 boxes of books, sight unseen and content and condition unknown that had been sitting in a (blessedly dry!) basement for more than a decade (more on the why of this later). They sorted and evaluated and inventoried the whole thing (I had queried other auction houses, but they all said they’d be happy to help once I made an inventory myself, which was beyond my power).

I visited last week to look at a few items, pull a few books that had particular sentimental value to our family, and collect several boxes of non-book material that had gotten mixed up in that basement with the other 250 boxes. Paul, the owner, had faithfully set aside photos and letters and even datebooks and manuscripts that were not intended to be part of the charity auction.

Some memorabilia will be part of the auction, including a photo album of Madeleine Barnett Camp and Charles Wadsworth Camp (her parents) in Europe and Egypt, perhaps on their 1908 honeymoon, but certainly before the First World War. They saw a production of Aida at the pyramids on that trip, can you imagine! There are also old Christmas cards that are hand painted (don’t worry, the full master set is at Smith) that will be offered at the auction.

The books will be sold in lots on April 8, 13, 20, 22, and 27, but bidding opens early. Lots will vary in size and value.

What took so long? 1) It is a daunting thing when a loved one dies to be responsible for the accumulations of a lifetime. 2) We’re book people! Letting go of books is painful. A bookcase is a record of time spent and history and books are harder to find good homes for than one might think. 3) Her particular status as beloved author made every decision weighted.

   

I am aware that other authors’ libraries and archives have been sold for very high amounts. Our family made a decision early on that we would not do this. Selling an archive to a library only takes money out of an institution you are trusting to keep something accessible forever, money that could be better used to support students. I think the time it has taken is not only a measure of the immense emotional task but also the time it took build the relationships with the three organizations that will benefit from this sale.

Also recovered from those 180 boxes  was a triple strand pearl choker that Madeleine kept in an empty book jacket on a shelf in her nyc bedroom. We had been wringing our hands over it, thinking we had somehow lost it. Though tall, Madeleine had a very slender neck and the necklace never fit anyone in the family except her. Reader, let me tell you: I am taking that choker to a jeweler and extending the clasp so I can wear it. The rest I am letting go.

The secrets of the atom are not unlike Pandora’s box, and what we must look for is not the destructive power but the vision of interrelatedness that is desperately needed on this fragmented planet. We are indeed part of a universe. We belong to each other; the fall of every sparrow is noted, every tear we shed is collected in the Creator’s bottle.

— Madeleine L’Engle, The Rock That is Higher: Story as Truth

by Jessica Kantrowitz

Dear Ones,

I’ve been finding it hard to find a rhythm for this season. The pandemic started last year around the Christian season of Lent, and now Lent has come back around again. In the meantime, all the other seasons, ecclesiastical and meteorological, have come and gone, and yet the days all seem the same. I have been trying to read through some of the daily prayers in Phyllis Tickle’s series, The Divine Hours, and, last fall, picked up Madeleine L’Engle’s book The Irrational Season during Advent, hoping to find there, as I often have in Madeleine’s work, meaning and resonance from her life that informs the present.

The title of that book comes from a poem Madeleine wrote entitled After Annunciation:

This is the irrational season
When love blooms bright and wild.
Had Mary been filled with reason
There’d have been no room for the child.

But besides finding it hard to find a rhythm for this season, I’ve also been finding it hard to read, to concentrate on themes and ideas, when the stress and fear and grief of this time grips my mind as well as my body. As I wrote here last year, I’ve been falling back on science fiction, fantasy, and young adult novels, that let me forget the harder parts of my life and the world, and inhabit another world for a time. But with non-fiction books, I keep picking them up, reading a page or two, then putting them down again.

So, last fall, I kept trying to get into an Advent-ish frame of mind, kept trying to read, but then it was Christmas, and then Epiphany, and I still hadn’t felt present for Advent. It was autumn, and then winter, and now it’s only a few weeks till spring, and I still haven’t felt fully present for the brilliance of New England’s fall foliage, now long fallen, trees stripped bare.

Still, I keep coming back to The Irrational Season, the book, the poem, and the phrase itself. I think Madeleine used it to mean that God’s ways are wild and different than ours. It was irrational of God to become incarnate in a young, unmarried, marginalized girl, and yet that is where the beauty and power of the incarnation lie. But I keep thinking that this season, this endless pandemic, this terrifying political moment in the United States, is a different kind of irrational season. Irrational as in meaningless. Irrational as in reckless, destructive. Irrational as in evil.

It is irrational that there are clear, simple ways to prevent the spread of a deadly pandemic and people refuse to do them. It is irrational that public health is a political issue at all, irrational for a government to have the resources to help its citizens and choose not to. It is irrational that the poor and starving are pitted against each other when it is the wealthy and powerful that hoard wealth and spend political capital to make themselves wealthier. It is irrational that we do not love each other, when love is the only thing that will save us.

I think of Sporos, the farandola in A Wind in the Door, who fought his deepening into community in favor of selfishness and a false freedom. Sporos ultimately realized that his own life was tied up with that of his neighbors’, and chose the path not only of self-fulfillment but of neighbor-love. Right now it feels like there are millions of Sporoses, making decisions that harm us all, including themselves. And, like Meg, I feel helpless to convince them that all our lives hang in the balance. In the book, Sporos finally understands, finally deepens. But that is fiction. I can escape there, but when I return to reality, to the present moment, what can I do in the face of such continued irrationality? I really don’t know.

I’ve been trying to find a rhythm to this irrational season, but maybe there isn’t one. Maybe it’s outside of the ecclesiastical seasons, outside of summer, winter, fall, and spring. Maybe these really are unprecedented times, and time itself has somehow lost its rhythm. Or maybe it’s something we will only be able to understand in hindsight. Maybe it is something that we have to live through first, and understand later.

In the meantime, dear ones, take care of yourselves, and take care of each other. Be gentle with yourselves, and be gentle with each other. We might not be able to convince others to save us, but we can love each other, as best we can. We can keep vigil for each other as best we can. We can stay present, for ourselves and each other, as best we can. And maybe we will find that we have created a new season, of love, of perseverance, of interrelatedness. A season of a better kind of irrationality than the one we were given.

Tesser well,
Jessica