When I was growing up, I gobbled up Roman & Greek mythology: there was something very fascinating about deities who were larger than life but were often as goofy and petty as human beings.
When I was in college, I took a C.S. Lewis elective: not surprisingly, my favourite book was Till We Have Faces: a Myth Retold. We revelled in all things Lewis. My guilty secret was that I couldn’t get through most of his non-fiction works (with the exception of A Grief Observed, which resonated with me as I was dealing with death issues at the time). His fiction was a different story: I devoured the The Chronicles of Narnia (ignoring the protest of classmates that they were children’s books), his Space Trilogy (because I loved all things Science Fiction), the Screwtape books (because I found his characters hilarious!), and of course, Till We Have Faces.
I have always been fascinated with rock faces – the mesmerising patterns, the secrets they reveal in a hill-side exposed. Many of the rock faces I see on my runs around the nature parks are part of old quarries. They do not show their faces through the gentle erosion of time, but through blasting, a necessarily violent process.
“I saw well why the gods do not speak to us openly, nor let us answer . . .
Why should they hear the babble that we think we mean?
How can they meet us face to face till we have faces?”
Will we be permitted to show our faces when we are ready, with time? or will necessity elicit something which we are not yet ready to give?
Photo taken at the Quarry in the Dairy Farm Nature Park