A Birthday Tribute to Ninianne, My First Peer Mentor at the University of Illinois

EDITOR'S NOTE: This special blog post is dedicated to the memory of Ninianne, my first peer mentor at the University of Illinois. During the summer of 1987, between my freshling and sophomore years at Illinois, I was reading the Legends of Charlemagne volume of Bulfinch's Mythology, and it occurred to me that the good, wise wizard Melissa, depicted in the Italian Renaissance romances about Charlemagne and his knights, bore a strong resemblance to Ninianne, at least in my mind. Ninianne, two years my elder, took me under her wing, introduced me to her circle of friends, gave me sage advice about how to navigate campus life as a student with a disability, and showed me what philia (the love between friends) is all about.

Today would have been her 56th birthday, but her life was cut short by cancer a few years ago. This is my heartfelt tribute to Ninianne -- who was (and still is) truly the best friend of my undergraduate days at Illinois. Requiescat in potestate, amica mea. (Latin) = Rest in power, my friend.

In this illustration from a public-domain edition of Ariosto's Orlando Furioso, the good wizard Melissa (standing) imparts sage advice to the noble knight Bradamante (kneeling), a warrior woman who would later marry the Frankish paladin Rogero.

A Tribute to Ninianne on Her Birthday: November 15^th

Dedicated with Gratitude to My First Peer Mentor at the University of Illinois

Compiled by @RHCLambengolmo (2021)

 

“In that part of the book of my memory, before which little can be read, there is a heading, which says: ‘Incipit vita nova: Here begins the new life.’ Under that heading I find written the words that it is my intention to copy into this little book: and if not all, at least their essence.”

-- Dante (1265-1321): La Vita Nuova

 

“The Sack of the Gods”

By Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

Strangers drawn from the ends of the Earth, jeweled and plumed were we;

I was Lord of the Inca race, and she was Queen of the Sea.

Under the stars beyond our stars where the new-forged meteors glow,

Hotly we stormed Valhalla, a million years ago!

Ever 'neath high Valhalla Hall the well-tuned horns begin,

When the swords are out in the underworld, and the weary gods come in.

Ever through high Valhalla Gate the Patient Angel goes;

He opens the eyes that are blind with hate – he joins the hands of foes.

Dust of the stars was under our feet, glitter of stars above;

Wrecks of our wrath dropped reeling down as we fought, and we spurned, and we strove.

Worlds upon worlds we tossed aside, and scattered them to and fro,

The night that we stormed Valhalla, a million years ago!

They are forgiven as they forgive all those dark wounds and deep.

Their beds are made on the Lap of Time, and they lie down and sleep.

They are forgiven as they forgive all those old wounds that bleed.

They shut their eyes from their worshippers; they sleep till the world has need.

She with the star I had marked for my own – I with my set desire –

Lost in the loom of the Night of Nights – lighted by worlds afire –

Met in a war against the gods where the headlong meteors glow,

Hewing our way to Valhalla, a million years ago!

They will come back – come back again, as long as the red Earth rolls.

He never wasted a leaf or a tree. Do you think He would squander souls?

 

“Everything perishes except the world itself and its keepers. But while life lasts, everything on Earth has its use. The wise seek ways to be helpful to the world, for the helpful ones are sure to live again.”

-- L. Frank Baum (1856-1919): The Life and Adventures of Santa Claus

 

“Death, Be Not Proud” (Holy Sonnet #10)

By John Donne (1571-1631)

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow

Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,

Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well

And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

 

“From the unreal, lead us to the Real; from the darkness, lead us to the Light; from death, lead us to immortality.”

-- Brihadāraṇyaka Upanishad 1.3.28

 

“When Earth’s Last Picture Is Painted”

By Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

When Earth's last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried,

When the oldest colors have faded, and the youngest critic has died,

We shall rest, and faith, we shall need it – lie down for an aeon or two,

Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall put us to work anew.

And those that were good shall be happy: they shall sit in a golden chair;

They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comet's hair.

They shall find real saints to draw from – Magdalene, Peter, and Paul;

They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all!

And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame;

And no one will work for the money, and no one will work for the fame,

But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,

Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They are!

 

“That is not dead which can eternal lie,

And with strange aeons even death may die.”

-- H. P. Lovecraft (1890-1937)