Life/Spiritual Lessons at the Dermatologist's Office

Yesterday, I went to the dermatologist.  I came home and made this Facebook post:  "The intense heat and sun of today takes me back to a high school time, similar weather, when high school Kristin said, "Hey, if I start now, maybe I'll have a good tan by the time we go back to school" -- which is why later life Kristin had to have another spot biopsied today. Happily, it's on my shoulder, not my face, so even if it needs more cutting, it's bearable."

I am supposed to go to the dermatologist every 3 months because of my melanoma diagnosis in December.  Because of that diagnosis, because we missed the significance of that spot for 18 months when we thought it was a weird bug bite, my dermatologist PA now biopsies more than she might otherwise, a mindset that I encourage.

She's a very kind PA.  I apologized for being sweaty.  She told me about the people who ride their bikes to the dermatologist and thus, are more sweaty than I will ever be.  I apologized for being fat, and she said, "You're in great shape," while the MA nodded enthusiastically.  I do realize that plenty of people are fatter than I am, but it still feels strange to have enough flesh in places that the very professional PA needs to move aside to inspect.

Well, that's likely too much information for the multitudes  one or two people still reading this blog.

But I also want to add that she also said I have great skin.  In some ways, she's correct--for a woman who is about to be 61, I do have great skin.  For a woman who has spent a lot of time in the sun with no protection of any kind, I do have great skin.

I am working on feeling the same thing about my extra weight--some days are easier than others.  When I'm out every day, walking and eating berries and appreciating the world in other ways, I feel fine about my body.  When I don't compare my current body to past years, I'm better than when I think about how many miles I could once run/jog.

As a wise yoga teacher once said to me:  "Quit comparing yourself to everyone else.  It won't help."  It's not solely yoga teachers who know this, of course.  Most world religions contain this wisdom somewhere.

It's a life lesson I'll continue to say to myself, probably on a daily basis.

Fixer-Upper Report

My brain has been ping-ponging all over the place.  I wish I could say that I have seized summer, that I have put together a new book length volume of poetry--or even that I've written lots of new poems.  I wish I could say that I've written some short memoir-ish/short story pieces.  I have not done any of these things.  

In the next month, I will need to write a paper for my Paul class, and finish a huge writing project for the next phase of candidacy in the process to becoming ordained.  My hope has shifted to having time for Creative Writing in the fall.

In the meantime . . . 

We are trying to get ready for guests next week for Music Week at Lutheridge, while at the same time, doing some stuff that the fixer-upper house in Spartanburg requires.  My spouse is on his way there so that the inspection of the electrical rough-in can happen (I have to stay here because I have a dermatologist appointment in my every 3 months after a melanoma schedule).  We went down there yesterday and came back with a shopping list.

We stopped at our local Lowe's in Arden, which is always fairly deserted, compared to similar stores in South Florida.  We chose ceiling fans, a light for the kitchen with a track with 4 lights, lights for over 2 bathroom vanities, and a small light for the fall.  We also chose a hood for over the range, which costs far more than I wanted it to cost.

When we bought the house, I was not thinking we would replace the ceiling fans.  On the contrary, I was happy that the house had so many ceiling fans.  But they're very old, working to varying degrees.  The electricians will install them if we bought new ones, so we went ahead and replaced most of them.

When we looked at the house, back before we bought it, I thought that we could paint the walls, refinish the hardwood floors, and move in.  And we could have done that.  But even though the house has solar panels, the wiring inside the house hasn't been updated:  most of the wall plugs are 2 prong.  We could have used adjuster plugs in every spot, but it would mean that the house wasn't grounded--not the safest for humans or for fire risk.

When it's time to sell the house, these improvements may pay off.  We're not living in a part of the country where old houses are bulldozed for new building to happen, so future buyers are likely to be happy about the house having been rewired with a new HVAC system put in.

And in the meantime, these improvements will make the house better for us to live in too, during the 4-5 days a week that we're there during the school year.

Snippets in a Mid-Summer Tone

Summer has arrived, but not necessarily in a good way.  It's hot and humid across most of the nation, and yesterday was one of the first days up here in the mountains where I thought that maybe I should limit my outdoor activity in the middle of the day.  Let me record some snippets.

--This morning I heard a car alarm, which made me think about how seldom I hear car alarms these days.  This morning's car alarm kept sounding for over 10 minutes, which made me think about how an alarm that doesn't stop just becomes background noise that's easier to tune out.  

--Could I make that car alarm a symbol in a poem that stayed away from the obvious?  A blaring car alarm that wasn't a signal of the end of democracy?  A blaring car alarm that wasn't pain from the body?

--Another possible symbol:  a carrot cake that doesn't taste of carrots or spice or cream cheese frosting.  I bought treats yesterday when I went to the Fletcher Village Bakery for day old bread. The lemon raspberry swirl cheesecake was a win.  The carrot cake was not.  Happily, it didn't have raisins.  It also did not appear to have many carrots or a traditional cheesecake frosting.  We could taste the toasted coconut and the walnuts, so it wasn't unpleasant--but it wasn't carrot cake.

--Last night we watched The Last Showgirl, in part because my spouse hadn't really heard about the reinvention of Pamela Anderson.  I was mildly interested, much more so in Jamie Lee Curtis and this role for her, not as much for Pamela Anderson.

--The movie could have been so much more of an exploration of creativity.  There was a bit of that, which I didn't expect, which made me want more.

--On Sunday night, we watched a much older show, some sort of compilation of clips from all the Comic Relief shows.  For younger folks, Comic Relief was a show done in the age of shows and concerts that raised money for some specific cause.  It was fascinating to see so many comics from a different age, most of whom I vaguely recognized but couldn't name.  Some of that material didn't age well, but since it was a show on a major network in the days of network censoring and a much more powerful FCC, it wasn't really transgressive.

--A week ago, I'd have been just starting the car to drive west to Indianapolis.  This morning, I'm headed out for my walk and a bit of breakfast berries--both wild blackberries and the blueberry bushes a neighbor can't harvest while she's at the beach.

A Week Ago, Getting Ready for TEEM

A week ago, I was thinking about how I might be feeling in one week, when I was back from travel, back from my first time at a TEEM intensive.  I am feeling the way I hoped I would be feeling.  I am feeling relieved and hopeful--and not too exhausted.

A week ago, I was getting ready to pack.  One of the benefits of driving is that I can overpack.  I ended up with three extra tops and sweaters/overshirts, which was fine with me.  I decided not to bring long pants or skirts; I assumed we'd be in a casual mode, and happily, I was right.  The tops I brought were dressier, so if I had gambled wrong in either direction, I wouldn't have felt too out of place.  Including me, we had 6 females, and none of us wore dresses or skirts; only 3 of us wore shorts, and I was the only one who wore long shorts each day.

Why do these sartorial choices still seem so important?  Because they are, in so many ways.  Why did I spend so much time planning?  Because I was going to be far away from home, and I have the type of body where I can't just go to Target and find clothes that will fit me.

I felt comfortable in my own skin, and that doesn't always happen for me, even at this relatively late age of almost 61 years old.  We were a wide variety of people from a wide variety of backgrounds--that also helped.  It was so different from some of my seminary classes, especially the in person classes that happened during the day, where I was the oldest student and often the only one who had already had a career.

I was the only one with a PhD, but I'm O.K. with that--it's always been my situation in many different phases and parts of my life.  I did try to be conscious of how much I was talking--I wanted to give everyone a chance.  I think I was successful.  Late in the day, one of my fellow students said, "I'm really glad you were part of this week.  You've added a lot to the class discussion."

I was especially grateful for that comment, because earlier in the day, after a discussion of procreative sex (the only kind of male-female sex valued by the ancient world) and the texts that have been read as anti-gay, I said, "Paul thought that we'd all be better off celibate.  I'm not taking relationship advice from any of these people."

It was a good week, and I'm glad I went.  It puts me that much closer to ordination.  But it also gave me new experiences and new friends and some new information about Paul (see this blog post).  As I age, I want to keep doing things that move me out of my comfort zone--nothing crazy, like sky diving, but experiences that keep my brain working in new ways.

Harrowing Drive Home

I feel lucky to be here, writing at the desk that came to me from my grandparents, safe in my mountain home.  It was a harrowing drive home yesterday.

At first it was lovely.  I put gas in the car and was on the road by 7 a.m., which was 45 minutes later than I wanted, but finding a luggage cart and checking out of the hotel took more time than I anticipated.  Still, it's summer, plenty of daylight, so I wasn't too worried (I try to avoid driving in the mountains in the darkest part of the night).  I thought I might even stop along the way, maybe have lunch in Berea, Kentucky, see if I could discover some places where I might support local artisans.

I was in that part of Kentucky by lunch time, but I was in the beginnings of the torrential rain that would leave much of Kentucky flooded.  My phone sounded an emergency alert:  flash flood warning until 1 p.m., do not drive, seek shelter.  The last time my phone alerted me about a flash flood warning, I was driving home from Spartanburg the evening before Hurricane Helene.  I said to myself,  "Flood?  I'm in the mountains!  I'm on an interstate!"  Twenty-four hours later, that part of the interstate was indeed under water.

Yesterday I decided that the safest option was to keep driving.  Mind you, it didn't feel safe:  so much water both on the interstate and falling from the sky, such reduced visibility.  But I knew that if I left the interstate, I might drive to some place less safe.  So I kept going at 45 mph on I 75, thankful that everyone else was driving slowly too.  And I did drive out of the weather.  At my next gas/rest stop, I checked the radar to make sure there weren't additional weather surprises ahead.

Even though I checked, I knew I was traveling through a very unstable weather pattern so I kept going.  As I got close to the Virginia/Tennessee line, the phone wanted to take me on US 70, so I pulled over, just to check before I proceeded.  I wanted to make sure the phone wasn't taking me back to I 40, which I wanted to avoid, if the weather turned bad.  I knew that US 70 would be twisty, but I decided it would get me home faster than other routes.

It was indeed twisty.  A storm had already been through; at one point, I had to stop, wait for oncoming traffic to clear, and then drive around a downed tree.

I pulled into the driveway just before 4, almost weeping in gratitude.  We were expecting heavy weather in Arden, so we unloaded the car, watched a bit of TV, and collapsed into bed.  I made this Facebook post late in the day, and it seems as good a way to end as any other:

"I am safe at home in Arden, having taken many scenic routes on my way back from Indianapolis. Whenever I feel fretful about the state of the nation or our place in the world (either me individually or some collective we), I should take a drive through some part of the Appalachian mountain range to get some perspective."

Kristin in Indianapolis, Paul in Spain

In another hour or so, I'll put the last of my stuff in the car and head back to the mountains of North Carolina.  I've been in Indianapolis, taking a class on Paul, another task done on the path to ordination in the Lutheran church (ELCA, the more progressive expression of Lutheranism in North America).  

It has been a great class, full of deep dives into Greek words and church history and Paul's theology, which can be summarized as Proclaim Christ Crucified.  We even had a fun digression into what we would proclaim--I find it problematic to proclaim Christ Crucified.  Christ incarnate, yes.  Christ risen from the dead, yes.  But crucified?  That's the most important thing?

The cross means something very different for Paul than it does for me.  The cross as a symbol/shortcut does something very different for Paul.  I get that. 

We talked about not knowing how Paul died, not for sure.  Church custom/tradition posits that it's likely that he died in Rome, executed by Emperor Nero.  But it's also possible that he left Rome and continued onward to Spain.

A random thought floated through my brain on Thursday:  that would make a good poem, Paul in Spain, late in life.  By yesterday morning, I decided to jot down some lines, and voila!  A poem emerged, mostly formed.

Here's how it begins:

Paul slices citrus for sangria, 

oranges and lemons plucked

from trees in the lingering light

of a late October evening.

Who would have dreamed or demanded

such a soft landing?

This morning I thought, oh dead, when does citrus ripen in Spain?  I chose "late October evening" because Paul is in the late autumn of his life.  Happily, a quick search this morning shows the detail can work--and even had I discovered that it didn't, I'd have probably kept it.

The poem ends this way:

Safe for now, he pours the sangria

and waits for the sun to set.

I do worry that the poem is cliched, and I also worry that it won't be interesting to non-Christian readers.  But we all age, and this poem looks at aging.  By using Paul as the vehicle, maybe it does say something new.

I'll put it away and look at it again later this week.  But I am happy to have created a poem the way I once did:  an idea comes and within 24 hours, I'm attempting a poem and seeing it to completion.  Hurrah!

Rethinking Paul

Yesterday was our first TEEM class on Paul.  It was riveting.  I'm still not much interested in preaching using Paul's letters, but because Paul has been so influential and so misused, it's good to find out what's really there.

The most interesting way of thinking about Paul that was new to me is to see him as a Jew framed by apocalyptic thinking, the apocalypse being when God comes to earth to judge the living and the dead, an event which will begin with the dead rising up from their graves as they come back to life to be judged.

So when Paul meets Jesus on the Damascus Road, a man who has been dead brought back to life and speaking to him, he assumes that judgment day is under way.  Being a good Pharisee, he would assume that Jews will be O.K. on Judgment Day--as people of the Covenant, God has chosen them.  But Gentiles are in danger.  Thus, off he goes to tell them how to be saved.

I asked the question that some of you might be asking.  Did Paul see a human Jesus on the Damascus Road?  I have always thought of that event as the heavens splitting open and the voice of Jesus speaking to him, not as an encounter with Jesus in his human body.  My professor talked about the different depictions of that event, including recountings of that event that we find in Acts and the letters of Paul.  In some of them, the encounter does sound disembodied, the voice from the heavens.  In others, we could interpret it as an encounter between Paul and a human-appearing Jesus. 

I still maintain my long-standing approach to Paul.  He wrote letters to specific churches/communities with specific problems.  Taking those letters and applying them to twenty-first century life makes very little sense--unless we're experiencing similar problems.  We had an interesting session looking at 1 Corinthians, the passage where Paul excoriates the Church for eating the good food before the whole community arrives and connecting this behavior with Communion.  How do our own Communion practices exclude or include in similar ways?

I still can't see myself preaching on Paul or even having the kind of Bible study that would interest most people.  But I'm very glad to have had this educational opportunity.