Confidence and Humility

It's amazing how much garbage can float around in a person's brain, and they don't even know it's there.  I mean garbage in the form of flawed thinking and erroneous assumptions.  I'm speaking for myself, but I sincerely hope that you, Dear Reader, have at some time discovered that there's garbage floating around in your brain.  After all, misery loves company.

In a recent Bible study class, we were discussing confidence and humility and the importance of having both these qualities.  Immediately, one of those garbage cells in my brain said, "You can't be both confident and humble, you have to be one or the other," implying that that these two things are polar opposites.  "After all," the little garbage cell continued, "confident people aren't humble and humble people are not confident."  At this point I told the little garbage cell to shut up and let me think.

On the drive home I started to wonder if I knew the meaning of either of these words.  When I got home I went to the Merriam-Webster app on my iPad.  (I still have a dictionary, but I'm not sure where it is since I never use it anymore.  All this information is literally at my finger tips on the iPad.) I'll let you go to the dictionary or app of your choice for the full definitions of these two words, but Merriam-Webster gives these as synonyms for confident: trustworthy, dogmatic, contentious, presumptous.  In other words, a mixed bag.

When I looked up humility, Merriam-Webster directed me to humble.  Synonyms for humble include: insignificant, mean, base, unpretentious, meek, modest, lowly.  Wow!  Another mixed bag.

Based on these definitions and synonyms, it appears that our culture is not sure what either of these words mean.  I started to wonder if our ancestors were as confused about these words as we are, so I hauled out the modern reprint of the American Dictionary of the English Language, originally published in 1828.  (Remind me to see if this 6+ pound book is available on the iPad.)

In case you don't have a large, hefty 1828 dictionary, here's what it has to say:

Confidence:
1.  Having full belief; trusting; relying; fully assured
"It is better to trust in the Lord, than to put confidence in man."  Psalms 118
2.  Positive, dogmatical; as a confident talker
3.  Trusting; without suspicion
4.  Bold to a vice; having an excess of assurance

Humility:
1.  In ethics, freedom from pride and arrogance; humbleness of mind; a modest estimate of one's own worth.  In theology, a deep sense of one's unworthiness in the sight of God, self-abasement, penitence for sin, and submission to the Divine will. 
"Before honor is humility." Proverbs 15
2.  An act of submission

Are things clearer now?  I don't know.  I think our ancestors would agree with Merriam-Webster that confidence can be positive or negative.  But I think it's safe to say that our ancestors had a higher opinion of humility than Merriam-Webster does.  They didn't equate humility with mean, insignificant, and base.  By the way, our ancestors were such believers in God that they peppered their dictionary with excerpts from the Bible.  God bless them!

So.  How does one go about being both confident and humble?  This is a tall order.  If you are confident, it's hard to be humble when other people question what you're confident about.  Your ego kicks in and, if you're not careful, you end up going over to the dark side of confident.  In other words, you become contentious and presumptious.    But if you're too humble, the ungodly confident people are apt to run over you with a steam roller. 

I have a terrible cold.  As I hundled under the covers in my bed this morning, barely able to breathe, I had a long conversation with God about this dilemma.  How, Lord, can I be both confident and humble?  I don't claim to hear voices, but sometimes things are so strongly impressed on my mind that I have no choice but to think God is doing the impressing.  

My first impression was that God doesn't want me to expend a lot of energy trying to figure out how to do this.  He gave me the same answer he often gave the disciples when they asked him how something difficult could be possible.  He said, "With man it is impossible, but not with God.  For all things are possible with God."  (Mark 10:27)  In other words, I think God was saying, "Stop worrying about it.  I'm going to help you."

The second impression had to do with my struggle to define humility.  And here's the definition that was impressed on my mind - "To be humble is to see and acknowledge the truth even when the truth does not favor you.  To be humble is to be teachable.  Without humility, learning is not possible." 

So - what can I say?  There it is.  I know this definition is not in the modern Merriam-Webster or in the 1828 dictionary of our ancestors, but I think it's a pretty good definition of humility. 

The Coffee Shoppe vs. The Public Library

Like a lot of other people who like to write, I can't seem to write at home.  There's too much to distract me - dishes to wash, beds to make, bills to pay.  In other words - everyday life.  The solution seems simple - get all these things done before you begin to write.  But the trouble is that there's no end to these things.  The more you do, the more you see to do.  My only option is to leave home.

Our little town doesn't have a coffee shoppe.  I wish it did.  The nearest coffee shoppe is in Baton Rouge.  I wouldn't mind making the drive if I knew coffee shoppe conditions would be conducive to writing.  But I can't count on that being the case.  Sometimes the music is too loud.  Sometimes the music is of a genre that I can't stand, and it numbs my brain.  But then if the music is the kind I really like, it distracts me too much.  I want to sing along instead of write.

Coffee shoppes are social places, and I don't mind that.  In fact, taking a break from writing to eavesdrop on the nearest conversation is a pleasant diversion.    But occasionally, there are loud people.  Most of the time I think they're just having so much fun with their friends that they don't realize how loud they are; but occasionally there's a pompous jerk who really believes everybody present wants to hear his opinions.  I have to stifle the urge to tell him he's mistaken.

In spite of these potential problems, it is possible to have the perfect coffee shoppe experience - not too many people, but enough people to keep loneliness at bay - low volume music that's good, but not too good.  And of course, your choice of a variety of coffee, tea, and pastries.  But twenty-five miles is a long drive when you have no guarantee that the experience will be perfect or even acceptable.

 

The alternative is the local public library.  That's where I am today.  Our town is blessed with a very good library.  I'm sitting at a round oak table in a comfortable chair, connected to the library's free wireless internet.  It's quiet.  If you speak at all here, it's in hushed tones.  It's not a social place.  There is no music.  It's a serious get-down-to-business kind of place.  And there's a lot to be said for this atmosphere.  I can usually get quite a bit accomplished here in an hour or two.  But there's one big drawback - no food or drink is allowed.  Oh, what I'd give right about now for my favorite hot drink!  A skinny peppermint mocha latte with half the chocolate syrup and no whipped cream - and biscotti to go with it!

Back in the Groove

Entrance to The Myrtles Plantation

I think I timed my knee surgery just right.  It's been a little more than two months since I came home from the hospital, and I'm back to doing most of my normal activities just at the arrival of my favorite season - glorious autumn! 

Last weekend Jerry and I took a day trip to St. Francisville, one of my favorite little towns.  We ate lunch on the screened porch of Magnolia Cafe.  We cruised around town, enjoying the fall decorations.  We rode out to the old ferry landing and got a glimpse of the new bridge over the Mississippi which makes it a short trip to New Roads on the west side of the river.



The Myrtles Plantation

We've been to St. Francisville several times, but had never toured The Myrtles Plantation, said to be "the most haunted house in America."  We looked around in the gift shop and bought our tickets for the 3:00 p.m. tour.  Since we had a few minutes to wait, we sat in the rocking chairs on the big back porch until time for our tour.  We didn't see any ghosts, but we did learn about all the tragedies that happened over the years at The Myrtles.  I can see why ghosts might find it an attractive place.  After standing up throughout the 30 minute tour, my right knee was reminding me that it's not quite well.  Even so, we had a pleasant outing.

A Backlog of Correspondence

My letter rack filled up while I was recovering from surgery, and I'm still trying to catch up.  I don't have time to write leisurely letters with my slow left hand, so I'm making use of the computer.  I can type so much faster than my left hand can write.  I've been exploring all the fonts that look like handwriting - and there are a bunch of them!  I like script fonts almost as much as I like fountain pens and ink.

Speaking of ink - I ordered a bottle of J. Herbin's "Orange Indien" ink, thinking it would be the perfect ink color for fall.  I filled my new TWSBI fine-nibbed fountain pen with this orangey color and tried it out on some scrap paper.  What a disappointment - it was entirely too pale!  After a few days of wondering what to do with a whole bottle of ink that's not to my liking, I decided to try it in a different pen.  I cleaned up my Cross Townsend, which has an oblique medium nib, and loaded it with Orange Indien.  What a difference!  This medium nib puts down more ink than a fine nib and gives lots of nice shading.  This is what makes a fountain pen hobby so interesting.  There are endless pen-ink-paper combinations that produce widely differing results. 

It's tea time so I'm off to put the kettle on.  A cup of Earl Grey with some toast and strawberry jam will hit the spot.  Wish you could join me!

The Secret Life of a Fountain Pen Aficionado - Conclusion

 As my mother's only child, I inherited several boxes filled with papers and objects relating to her literary interests.  After more than one diligent search, I have to report that her Esterbrook desk pen is not among these things.  In flights of fancy I imagine that it may have accompanied her to heaven.  I sincerely hope so.  I picture her, seated at a gilded desk, her health restored, putting pen and peacock blue ink to heavenly paper that neither feathers nor bleeds.

A year or two after my mother's death, I ran across an Esterbrook desk pen listed on E-Bay.  The description said, "needs to be reconditioned."  My husband, knowing my passion for fountain pens in general and Esterbrook desk pens in particular, ordered it for me.  It occupied a place in my mother's secretary desk for quite a while before I discovered where to send it for reconditioning.  It has now been returned to me in good working order.  I located a bottle of peacock blue ink among my mother's things, and of course that's what flows from my Esterbrook.

I must confess that there have been long periods of time when I haven't touched a fountain pen.  Then this obsession of mine, having been in a dormant state, whispers to me like some long lost lover.  I find myself searching in long forgotten storage places for every fountain pen I ever owned.  For weeks or months I revel in the life of a fountain pen aficionado.  Then my passion would be put to the test and finally squelched by my old nemesis - inferior paper.

In 2006 there was a revival of my fountain pen inclination that has remained constant thanks to the Fountain Pen Network, a community of forums dedicated to fountain pens, paper, and writing paraphernalia.  I had no idea there were so many fountain pen enthusiasts all over the world!  Through FPN I learned where to find quality paper that is reasonably priced and works with fountain pens - Clairfontaine Triomphe stationery, classic laid stationery by G. Lalo, Rhodia tablets, and Moleskine notebooks.  Gliding a fountain pen over any of these papers is pure joy!

This leads me to an obvious question.  If quality paper can be produced at a reasonable price, why are we plagued by inferior paper?  The answer came to me before I had finished typing the question - because we have been launched onto the swirling water of a fast-paced computerized world where - if pens are used at all - they are ball point pens and any old paper will do.

Like the rest of the world, I too have a love affair with the computer.  My husband is quick to remind me that he and our daughters had to pry my blue fingernails from our old typewriter and forcefully seat me in front of a computer.  I have finally adjusted to the computerized age.  However, that doesn't mean I've lost the ability to savor life in the alternate dimension of fountain pens where the tempo is slower, ink flows freely, and the quality of paper matters.

 

Time Out

I'll be having right knee replacement surgery this week.  I had my left knee done last year with very satisfactory results.  But, I must say, I'm glad I'm not a centipede!  I've been reminiscing about my last surgery by reading this old post: Me, My Knee, and Feline Therapy. 

As soon as I'm able, I'll post the conclusion to "The Secret Life of a Fountain Pen Aficionado."  I thought I'd get it posted before surgery, but I've had entirely too much to do to get ready for this little hospital visit.  Anyway - I'll be back soon.

The Secret Life of a Fountain Pen Aficionado - Part Two

                                                        The pen of preference for me and my college friends was Sheaffer's inexpensive cartridge fountain pen.  This was a capped pen - not a desk pen - and it went everywhere with me.  Cartridge pens were a new innovation, popular for their convenience.  But note-taking students could go through a box of cartridges in a short period of time, and this could be a drain on the purse.

A fellow classmate introduced me to the practice of refilling cartridges with a needle and syringe.  A fairly inexpensive bottle of Sheaffer ink would refill countless cartridges.  After four or five refills, a cartridge had to be discarded because the opening that fit on the pen nib would become enlarged which could mean a leaky pen.  Even so, this method stretched our cartridge allowance.  Of course, we could have alleviated our ink budget problems considerably by using cheap ball point pens.  But, as fountain pen devotees, we couldn't bring ourselves do descend to the level of an uninspired ball point.

Lots of things have improved over the years, but it seems to me that the quality of common, everyday paper declined during the 1950s and 60s.  No longer could you use your fountain pen on a lot of dime store tablets without having the ink feather or bleed.  "Feathering" is when the ink travels to places it shouldn't go, producing a broad, blurry line instead of a fine, distinct one.  "Bleeding" is when the ink goes through to the other side of the paper.

Due to this decline in the quality of ordinary paper, fountain pen lovers had to choose to either retire their fountain pens or go to specialty shops to buy better, more expensive paper.  Those who could afford it, sprung for the expensive paper for letters of importance; but they still had to resort to the common ball point for such mundane tasks as making out the grocery list. 

to be continued . . .

The Secret Life of a Fountain Pen Aficionado - Part One

Few of my friends and acquaintances know about my penchant for fountain pens.  I don't bore them with the knowledge since most people today have no interest in fountain pens.  Young people don't know what they are.  But my memories of fountain pens go way back.

According to the dictionary, "a man of letters" is one who is devoted to literary  activities.  By this definition, my mother was definitely "a woman of letters."  She was an avid reader and always preferred big, thick novels about families and old houses.  She had a beautiful handwriting and was a gifted writer.  She kept a journal all of her life until a stroke took away her ability to write.  She persisted for a while after the stroke, but eventually stopped.  Her last poignant journal entry is an unrecognizable scrawl that trails off in mid-sentence, never to be resumed.  My mother died eleven years ago, and I still can't look at that last journal entry without weeping.

When I was a child, my parents' gift to most high school graduates who sent them an announcement was an Esterbrook desk fountain pen exactly like the one Mama used.  I was usually with her when she made her annual trip to the office supply in downtown Panama City, Florida, to purchase these gifts.  The pen base was formed in a rounded shape.  It was heavy and shiny black.  The pen was black except for the end opposite the writing nib.  This end was tapered to a point and made of clear plastic.  It looked like crystal, or so I thought at the time.

An Esterbrook desk pen symbolized adulthood to me.  I understood perfectly that children did not use fountain pens.  My mother firmly believed that one person should not use another person's fountain pen.  She thought that in time, a fountain pen adjusts itself to the angle at which the writer holds it.  A different writer, holding the pen at a different angle, might spoil the pen for its owner.  Mama thought it was bad manners to ask to borrow someone's fountain pen.

Mama's desk pen always held Sheaffer's "Peacock Blue" ink.  It was her trademark.  It's a turquoise blue, or maybe "aqua" describes it better.  It may have reminded Mama of the gorgeous aqua color of the Gulf of Mexico - an appropriate ink color for the many letters dispatched from Panama City to relatives in the mountains of West Virginia.

By the time I was a teenager, the annual pilgrimages to the office supply had stopped.  I didn't think much about it at the time.  Like most teenagers, my attention was focused on my own affairs, and I had ceased to accompany my mother on her errands.  I have learned since that Esterbrook stopped making fountain pens sometime during the 1950s.  And that, of course, explains why I did not receive an Esterbrook desk pen when I graduated from high school in 1964.

to be continued . . .