I have been up since just before 2 a.m. (I went to bed at 8, so it's not as bad as it sounds). While I wouldn't want to do this every morning, there are times when I like getting up that early. I get a lot done.
I woke up thinking about the accreditation update, but I can't write that here. So, I graded the two items that had just come due in my online class--it's an intense class, with students turning in 4-9 pieces that need grading each week.
I prepared a poetry submission for the Beloit Poetry Journal, only to find out that submissions aren't being accepted until June 1--which isn't very far away. I wrote a bit on a short story. And then, a poem came to me.
We are at the 4 year anniversary of buying our house; we are at the one year anniversary of finding out that our cottage resident would be moving to Utah.
I do not feel buyer's remorse, but every year, as insurance bills start arriving in the mail, I do wonder how long we can afford to live here. This morning, I wondered if God ever has buyer's remorse. I thought about our planet as a house in need of constant repair. I wrote a poem.
I envision God as having irritation at being able to see the potential in a place, but not being able to quite pull off the transformations that should be possible. I look at my temporary kitchen and think about ways that the permanent kitchen might be better. We have the money set aside. All I need is the time to get some estimates--and to move into the cottage for the reconstruction period. And before that can happen, we'll need to get the space ready . . . and the floors fixed . . . . And then the largeness of the task overwhelms me. I imagine God feeling the same way.
If I carry this metaphor onward, does that mean that humans are God's contractors? I could make that work. Some contractors know what they are doing. Others will take the money and vanish.
My poem ends at the end of the day with God having a glass of wine on the front porch as the sun sets.
I also experimented with a different poem. I have spent much of my work week filling forms with information that's on other forms that can't talk to each other. Yesterday, I said, "In my next career, I don't want to have to deal with Excel. When I run away to my goat farm, I will keep a ledger the old fashioned way, on paper, written in pen." I then spun out a fantasy of goats and soap and upscale markets and old trucks.
"When I run away to my goat farm" has become the same kind of shorthand that I once expressed as "When I run away to theology school." That phrase about theology school made a good poem--I'm still not quite there with the goat farm.
Well, I will let it percolate a bit--now I must head off to school. But first, spin class--Future Kristin would want me to go.
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