Process Notes--"The Holy Spirit Takes a Holiday"

I have been following the election of a new bishop at the ELCA Churchwide Assembly.  For more on those results, head on over to my theology blog and read today's post.

I've been following the election by way of social media posts, primarily on Facebook.  There's been lots of talk about the Holy Spirit.  In yesterday's post on this blog, I wrote:  "In a week of Churchwide Assembly considering the "filioque" and voting for bishop of the ELCA means there's lots of discussion of the Holy Spirit. I have been thinking of a poem or perhaps a work of theology that talks about the Holy Spirit as the one who wreaks havoc--it might be good havoc, but it's the kind of thing that can leave ruins in its wake, Holy Spirit as disruptor. We often think we would like that, but we often fail to consider how changed the landscape would be."

I got to work and spent the day capturing lines that became a poem about the Holy Spirit deciding she has had enough.  It's not the poem I was thinking I would write in the blog bit above.  In the poem I actually wrote, the Holy Spirit is decidedly female and so very tired of being in relationship (in relationship with the Creator, in relationship with the Son, in relationship with humans, and in relationship with angels and all the hosts of Heaven).

This stanza gives you an idea (and if it sparks an idea for you, feel free to run with it):

The Holy Spirit hides
in an unassuming house,
an old bungalow built
for a previous century,
cramped for a crowd,
comfortable for one.

In terms of title--I like "The Holy Spirit Takes a Holiday."  But in the poem, is she on holiday or permanent vacation?  Perhaps the ambiguity works.  

It's not a perfect poem, but it's closer than many I've written.  It's the time of summer when I'd be relieved to produce anything that makes me feel like my poet self--so to have a poem arrive close to fully formed is an unanticipated gift.

Churchwide Assemblies and Random Lines/Snippets

In later years, when I try to remember why I wasn't blogging quite as regularly in the summer of 2025, let me remember several things:  I had to be at the hospital, ready for morning huddle, at 8 a.m. each week day.  There were mornings I just ran out of time.  I was doing more writing in my offline journal.  There were more parts of my life that needed to be offline.

Let me capture a few bits this morning:

--Last week seemed one of those weeks of significant deaths:  Malcolm-Jamal Warner, Ozzy Ozbourne, Chuck Mangione, Hulk Hogan, and Tom Lehrer.  I'm not sure that I would have written a whole blog post about any one of them, even if I had more blogging time, but each one seemed significant as I heard it on the news on the way to and from work.

--This week I have been thinking about pneumonia.  Happily not my own case.  I always think of pneumonia as the disease that happens as something minor, like a cold, worsens.  Is that always the case?  Can pneumonia develop quickly?

--I am thinking back to high school when a student would get "walking pneumonia" and have to be on bed rest.  I remember being envious of being ordered home to rest.

--I have been paying attention to the Churchwide Assembly happening in Phoenix this week, with the election of presiding bishop, which is a bishop for the national church.  I think of myself as having several bishops.  I am a candidate for ordination through the Florida-Bahamas synod, I live in the North Carolina synod, and the church where I am a Synod Appointed Minister is in the Southeastern Synod.  Kevin Strickland, bishop of the Southeastern Synod, has made it through 2 rounds of elections for bishop.  Today, the top seven (which includes Bishop Strickland) make speeches and go through more voting.  I have known Bishop Strickland since the days when he was a pastor:  we are Create-in-Me retreat friends, and we went to the same undergraduate school, Newberry College, although we weren't there at the same time.

--Churchwide Assembly has been talking about the Nicene Creed and about the "filioque" which is a term obscure to non-church history folks.  I love church history and can scarcely understand why we're still talking about this.  But I do understand that it matters in terms of repairing schism.

--In a week of Churchwide Assembly considering the "filioque" and voting for bishop of the ELCA means there's lots of discussion of the Holy Spirit.  I have been thinking of a poem or perhaps a work of theology that talks about the Holy Spirit as the one who wreaks havoc--it might be good havoc, but it's the kind of thing that can leave ruins in its wake, Holy Spirit as disruptor.  We often think we would like that, but we often fail to consider how changed the landscape would be.

--In terms of the Holy Trinity, I've often thought of the Son/Redeemer in the role of disruptor, the one who goes his own way, the one the angels shake their heads over.

--Another theological idea I want to capture:  last week I talked about seeing the world through God-shaped glasses, which is a way of talking about training ourselves to see the world as God does, to be drenched in love for the world, the way that God is.

--As I've been moving through the summer, I've been noticing interesting tattoos.  One man had bear paw prints (or was it a big cat of some sort?) across the back of one calf.  Another man has a very realistic depiction of a tomato plant on his upper arm.  I saw a woman with all sorts of anemone shells on her forearm.  Is there a poem in all these images?

--I have never gotten a tattoo for many reasons, mainly because of pain avoidance.  But also, I can't think of an image that I want to have on my body forever.

--I am thinking of my sketches, how a random collection of lines drawn one day can become trees or women dancing or mountains or test tubes bubbling the next day.  I'm wondering if that idea could become something for the classroom.  One collection of lines, drawn by me, and everyone gets the same sheet.  What do they create?  And how can we write about it?

Well, my morning writing time comes to an end, the way it always does.  Let me go for my walk.  A month ago, when I left the house at 6 a.m., it was already light enough to see.  Now it is not.  The season is shifting, for those awake to see.

Catching Up to Calendars and Beyond

I've been doing some early morning grading--it's the last week of my online classes, and grades are due early next week.  And then it will be on to the next term, which starts August 15; my onground classes start earlier, August 12.

As I was writing the last of my weekly e-mails that I send out to remind students of what work is due on which day, I thought about that day, which seems so distant now, when I chose these due dates for assignments.  For my online class that started in May, I chose the dates back in early March--and now, here I am, arriving at a future that I envisioned in the chilly days of spring.  It's as if that calendar has now caught up to this one, or perhaps the other way round.

For a moment, I thought back to March, when I was feeling a bit overwhelmed at all that I had to get done.  And I did get it all done--hurrah for me!  I was feeling a bit apprehensive at my ability to get my CPE training lined up for summer--and now, here I am at the last full week of CPE.

I do realize that it may not always be this way; life does not always move smoothly.  I am always aware of all that could disrupt my plans, primarily illness and death, but let us not forget geopolitical upheaval that might come our way, not to mention severe weather.  That knowledge has kept me focused, and perhaps trying to do too much.

Yesterday as we filled up our gas tanks using our Ingles fuel points, I head a Hootie and the Blowfish song.  I came back and looked up some YouTube videos.  The one for "Hold My Hand" took me back to the last time I heard a Hootie song on a grocery store sound system.  It was Publix, in either a pre-pandemic year or in the first pandemic year, and I came back to my office to look up the video for "Hold My Hand."  It made me homesick in such a visceral way and for so much:  grad school years, the University of South Carolina, old houses made into cheaper housing which grew more and more ramshackle through the years, various neighborhoods in South Carolina.  I remember feeling marooned in South Florida, so very stuck in place.

It boggles my mind, how much has changed.

Sketching in Hymnbooks

Yesterday I went to a neighborhood friend's house.  She has an art studio in her basement, and it was lovely to hide from the heat where we sat and caught up with each other and made art.  I worked on this sketch:

The hymn underneath my sketch is "Shall We Gather at the River."  The hymnbook is With One Voice.  I have mixed feelings about using old hymnbooks this way, or any book for that matter.  Several schools ago, I had a colleague friend who bought old books at thrift stores and turned them into collages.  I was deeply disapproving then.

Now I know that many of those books are destined for landfills.  Why not make them into art?

The Last Saturday in July: Saturday Snippets

How can it already be the last Saturday in July?

Soon it will be time to go to the farmer's market.  It will essentially be a repeat of last week:  tomatoes and other bits of summer bounty.  And more Mills River corn, but maybe not a dozen ears.  Even I was getting tired of them after the 3rd serving.

Soon it will be time to shift our collective attention to autumn.  This week began the shift, with my dean contacting me to rearrange my schedule--but it was a good phone call, the kind where I end up with a better schedule.  I have not always been that lucky, and I am grateful.

Soon it will be time to read something new--I got Alison Bechdel's latest book from the library last night.  But in some ways, it will be a return to the old.  Sure it's not officially the dykes to look out for who are all grown up now.  But I suspect it will be like visiting old college friends.

I am hoping that much of my autumn will feel like revisiting old literary friends from college days.  I spent part of this week trying to remember the name of a book that came out when I was last teaching this literature, a book about the women of the Wordsworth-Coleridge circle.  Yesterday it just popped into my head:  A Passionate Sisterhood.  And lo and behold, the public library has it!  I've requested it and should be able to get it before I need to teach the material.

I remember loving it so much that I bought my own copy back in the early days of this century and promptly never taught that literature of the early days of the British Romantic era much again.  Did I keep the book when we moved 3 years ago?  I can imagine thinking my days of teaching that literature had come and gone and getting rid of it.  I can also imagine that I kept it for sentimental reasons.

I am wondering if this fall will also feel like a time when I meet up with my old creative writing self.  Clearly I am not going to write a novel--or even take notes on a novel--this summer.  But maybe teaching a creative writing class will inspire me in new ways, or in old ways.  I'd be grateful for either.

Wearing Masks, Wearing Other People's Faces

This week, during an education time, we used May Sarton's poem, "Now I Become Myself," as a tool for self-discovery.  I'll post the whole poem below, but we focused on the first stanza:

Now I become myself. It's taken
Time, many years and places;
I have been dissolved and shaken,
Worn other people's faces,

We asked ourselves what masks we're wearing and how we are wearing other people's faces.  It led to such interesting conversation, I wanted to preserve the idea here.  I think it would work well for writing classes and in retreat settings.

I have a vision of doing some mask making, along with writing.  It wouldn't have to be complicated mask making--I've done fun things in the past with paper plates.  It might help people think about the concept in a different way and reach different levels.

Now I Am Become Myself

          by May Sarton

Now I become myself. It's taken
Time, many years and places;
I have been dissolved and shaken,
Worn other people's faces,
Run madly, as if Time were there,
Terribly old, crying a warning,
"Hurry, you will be dead before—"
(What? Before you reach the morning?
Or the end of the poem is clear?
Or love safe in the walled city?)

Now to stand still, to be here,
Feel my own weight and density!

The black shadow on the paper
Is my hand; the shadow of a word
As thought shapes the shaper
Falls heavy on the page, is heard.

All fuses now, falls into place
From wish to action, word to silence,
My work, my love, my time, my face
Gathered into one intense
Gesture of growing like a plant.

As slowly as the ripening fruit
Fertile, detached, and always spent,
Falls but does not exhaust the root,
So all the poem is, can give,
Grows in me to become the song,
Made so and rooted by love.

Now there is time and Time is young.

O, in this single hour I live
All of myself and do not move.
I, the pursued, who madly ran,
Stand still, stand still, and stop the sun!

Seasonal Shifts: Better Fall Teaching Schedules

Here's a seasonal shift that I didn't expect:  on Monday, I got a text from the dean of the school where I have my full-time teaching job asking me to check my e-mail because she needed to think about schedule changes.

One of many reasons I love my dean:  she stressed that she hoped I was still not monitoring e-mail, as faculty are urged to do each summer, and she told me that the e-mail was not bad news.

Those are two reasons, aren't they?

Long story short:  some adjuncts aren't able to teach what they planned to teach this fall (hopefully because of delightful reasons--I do know that it's not because of declining enrollment, not school generated reasons--hurrah!), and my dean was rethinking some faculty assignments.

While I liked my original fall schedule well enough, I now have a much better schedule.  I have had Creative Writing added to my schedule, and in return, someone else will teach my earliest class that met MWF at 9.  Now I don't report to campus until 10 on MWF and at 10:50 on TT.  On MWF, I'm done by 1:50 and on TT, I'm done by 2:55.  In terms of time, I think it's my Spring schedule, which usually worked very well for me.

I'm happy to add Creative Writing to my schedule.  It's a class that I've always enjoyed teaching.  I've only taught Creative Writing to students whose primary reason for taking the class is that it sounded like a better/easier elective than others they might take.  There's been the occasional English major here and there, but mostly students taking an elective.

I've never taught in an MFA program or in other settings where people are hoping for fame and fortune with their creative writing.  It means that I can focus on writing as process, not as product.  I don't have to care that students write a publishable piece of work.

Even if I taught in an MFA program, I would still try to help students find what is unique to them as writers, not what the market wants.  That's one of my teaching approaches regardless of subject.  

If I changed the word "writers" to "humans," it might be one of my core approaches to teaching any subject--and my approach to life.  What makes us unique?  What interests, delights, and passions are most important to us?  How can we put ourselves in situations where we'll be able to delve deeply into those things?

One of the gifts of aging for me has been feeling more comfortable in my own skin:  my teaching skin, my writing skin, my Christian skin, my creative skin, my relationship skin.  I care much less about what others think.

At the same time, I feel lucky and grateful to be at a school that encourages us to teach in that old-fashioned, liberal arts way, and to be surrounded by others who are similarly minded--at school, at church, across my group of friends.

I Am a Spirit, I Have a Body

Yesterday, because of a strange confluence of busyness, I consumed about 1000 calories.  I am adopting the Weight Watchers approach of not counting vegetable and fruit calories, so if I included the calories in the carrots and the cantaloupe chunks, I consumed slightly more.

There was a brief moment this morning where I started to calculate how much weight I might lose if I could stick to 1000 calories a day--and maybe even lower!  For a brief moment, I felt like my high school self, who could stick to diets of 600 to 1000 calories a day for about 2 weeks.  I recognized the adrenaline rush of thinking I could exert control over at least that small part of my life, the calories consumed, even if I had no control over other parts, like having to go to high school.

And now I am older, and I know that the body has the last word when one tries to restrict calories drastically.

As I look back on my years of gaining and losing weight, I have been most successful during the times when I was conscious of what I was eating.  I've done well tracking calories.  I've done well when I cut things out of my diet:  becoming/going back to vegetarian eating, getting rid of high-fat foods, cutting out most white flour products, saying no to alcohol.

I have lost a bit of weight this summer.  I've been tracking calories, trying to stay between 1200 and 1500 calories a day, while knowing that one or two days a week, I'm likely to be closer to 2000 calories.  I'm doing a walk in the morning before work and lots of walking during the day.  I feel like I should have lost more than the 6 pounds I've lost since May.

I am feeling healthier, which is another reason why I'm surprised that my weight loss is small.  I'm eating more veggies, fruits, legumes, and whole grains than I usually do in the summer.  Most summers I do a good enough job of eating enough veggies and fruits if I've been to the farmers market, but I also consume much less in the way of legumes and whole grains if I'm not going to an office.

I'm also drinking less, which makes me surprised at the slower weight loss.  But the health benefits of drinking less go way beyond weight loss, so I'm happy for my success in this area.  I started my alcohol abstinence on June 16.  This time next week, I'll hit the mark where I've been alcohol free for the longest consistent time since 2008 or so.

When I was at my annual physical in February, my doctor was direct:  "Someone with as much cancer in the family as you have should not be drinking alcohol at all."  It sounds blunt on the page, and it was, but she didn't say it in the negative way a doctor might, a shaming, blaming, you will die if you don't do this kind of way.  It was straightforward and informative.

My family also has a history of dementia, some severe, some mild, and I think we are only just beginning to understand how alcohol interferes with cognition beyond the immediate drunken state that comes from heavy drinking in one sitting.

In a family where alcoholism also lurks in the family tree, I know how lucky I am that I can give up drinking as easily as I have.

Mary and Martha and Me

I got more positive feedback on yesterday's sermon than on any I've preached at Faith Lutheran Church.  It's about Mary and Martha and the different ways we serve, while stressing that Martha is doing important work, diakonia, the work of the church.  Yet she is still distracted by many things, and Jesus invites her to be free of her worries and anxiety.  He offers that invitation to us too.

You can view it here.

If you'd like to read along, the manuscript version is in this blog post (but the end is slightly different--there are several extra sentences in the recording).

I was intrigued that it spoke to people in different ways--I'm always intrigued when that happens.  My hope, of course, is that God speaks to people through the sermon, that they come away with connections.

We had a special guest, although I didn't know who he was until the end of the service--it was the pastor that served as interim before the interim that was before me.  He stood up during announcement time and talked about what a treat it was for him to visit and get to hear marvelous preaching.  I don't think he was just being nice/polite.

The sanctuary was filled with a positive energy all morning, and that doesn't always happen.  Happily, it's rarely a negative energy, but I can often tell when people are tired or subdued.

Yesterday was not one of those lower energy days, and I returned home happy that all had gone well and that people are still happy to have me as their minister, two years and two months into this adventure.

Restorative Saturday

I did get to the Mills River Farmers Market yesterday and made a stop on the way back at the feed and seed spot where I buy Mills River corn.  It is so fabulous, particularly on the day I buy it, which is the same day it's picked.

I made the mistake I make every year--I bought 12 ears, even though there are only 2 of us.  At $7.00, it's a heck of a deal.  I also bought a lot of produce at the Farmer's Market:  yellow crookneck squash, okra, tomatoes, baby delicata squash, blueberries, and a cantaloupe.  I'm hoping it encourages me to eat more vegetables this week.

Each time I go to the Mills River Farmers Market, I try to support one young entrepreneur.  Sometimes, it's something edible:  a dozen eggs, some muffins or cookies.  Often it's crafts, like a potholder.  Yesterday, I bought these earrings:

My Saturday was restorative in so many ways:  food, friends (by way of Zoom), family (by way of telephone), relaxing by watching episodes of Freaks and Geeks, which is still holding our attention halfway through the series.

Now it is time to get ready to go across the mountain to preach and preside at Faith Lutheran in Bristol, TN.  It's Mary and Martha Sunday, and my sermon will be somewhat different (to read it, see this post on my theology blog).

Mid-July Saturday Snippets

It's been another week of ups and downs.  I do feel lucky that the downs are not as dreadful as they could be, just the normal "I am exhausted, and I must keep going" kind of downs.  Let me record a few snippets before I go to the farmer's market.  

--I am hoping I can get some Mills River corn on the cob, but I'm not sure of the timing of the corn season, given how wet it's been.  I'm planning a repeat of the delicious squash casserole I made a week ago.  I still have the enormous zucchini in the fridge, but I hope to also get some yellow squash.

--I weighed myself for the first time since July 4.  I have lost 1-2 pounds, which is great, considering that July has been the month of overeating and splurging on indulgences.

--Since June 16, I have not been drinking, so I've had some room for indulgence.  

--Yesterday's lunch was not an indulgence.  I grabbed the wrong Tupperware container out of the refrigerator, so I ate the leftover jasmine rice for lunch.  It was lovely as a side dish, a bit boring for lunch, but tasty.  Not much in the way of nourishment I imagine.  Happily, we had nutrient-packed enchiladas for dinner.

--This week had some different assignments that had me going back and forth to the veteran's cemetery in Black Mountain.  What a gorgeous site with a beautiful and well-designed chapel.

--The drive there took me through Swannanoa, which has many sobering reminders of the power of a raging flood, like a carved-out hill that shows the water came far above a human head. 

--I think back to days in June where I thought I might write a novel during down moments in the day.  That is not happening.  I'm recording some lines that may become poems later.  Or I may read them in the cool days of autumn and wonder what on earth I had in mind.

--We decided to buy the series Back to the Frontier.  But instead of getting the whole series, we are getting it as the episodes air.  At first I was annoyed, but it takes me back to the days of non-streaming, where one had to wait for the next installment--and one had something to look forward to.

--So far, I'm really enjoying the show, although I am astonished at how much these people did not seem to understand about life in the 1880's before signing up for this adventure.

--We also started to watch Freaks and Geeks, which I have never seen before--I thoroughly enjoyed the first few episodes.  And of course, it's weird to think about how long ago this show aired--and about a time period that was so long ago but feels just like yesterday.

Walking Humbly

My sister got me this Michael Podesta print for a graduation gift:

I love this Bible verse, and I loved it before it became so popular.  I first heard it at a worship service at a gathering of Lutheran college students, back in the days when we called campus ministry Lutheran Student Movement (LSM).  My college boyfriend loved it along with me, and we used it as one of our wedding verses.

I put the print on our fireplace mantel, where it sits beside the TV, the extra lightbulbs, and the fresh batteries.  It seems like some sort of visual poem.  Or maybe it just speaks to a lack of storage solutions.

The longer view also presents a visual poem, or maybe just a visual record.  I am struck by the Podesta print on the middle shelf, the print that I got as a graduation present--graduation from undergraduate school, back in 1987.  The quote is by Emerson:  "Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail."

I haven't been in full trail blazing mode since then, but I have been on less-traveled paths, and I feel mostly fortunate.

Unplugged Summer

It's been an interesting summer of being unconnected and unplugged.  I don't use the computer at work for anything other than work, and using my phone to go online shows me all the disadvantages of using the phone--I have no patience for the small screen and the glitchiness.  I'm already hauling enough stuff to my office each day; I don't want to bring a laptop.

It's been interesting, this experiment.  I'm not completely unconnected.  I listen to NPR on the way to and from work, so I keep up with the big news stories.  But the intricacies escape me.  I often go online to social media sites and wonder what people are talking about.  It's not like in the past when I've wondered why people are getting so worked up or why they aren't more bothered.  No--I genuinely have no idea what on earth they are talking about.

I must say, I don't particularly care.  Once I would have thought I should be more informed.  Once it would have been easier.  Once it might have felt more important.

I wish I could say that I'm filling the empty space with writing, with reading.  But no, on the week days, I go to work, I come home, and I'm asleep not much later.  That, too, is an interesting experience.  I check my phone once or twice a day to see if there's a message.  But it's like I've fallen into a distant time, when an emergency would have to wait for my off-duty time before I got the message.

I'm also using a DOS based system to enter chart notes.  It reminds me of the earliest days of Microsoft Word, using spell check and grammar check.  In some ways, I prefer it.  Let me write, and then give me corrections.  So far, the corrections are correct, unlike 2025 versions of the software.  Sigh.

I'm trying to remember when I last used a DOS based system on a daily basis:  maybe 1992 or so?  Probably before Microsoft Windows came out in 1995 or so.  I am feeling my age.

But it also feels like those days in other, more delightful ways.  I feel like I have several future paths that may open up at any moment, if I can just keep juggling.  It feels very last days of grad school lately.  And in some ways, it is.

Trinity Test Site, in History, Film, and Poetry

On this day in 1945, the United States exploded the first atomic bomb at the Trinity test site in New Mexico.

Robert Oppenheimer named the site, and when asked if he had named it as a name common to rivers and mountains in the west, he replied, "I did suggest it, but not on that ground... Why I chose the name is not clear, but I know what thoughts were in my mind. There is a poem of John Donne, written just before his death, which I know and love. From it a quotation: 'As West and East / In all flatt Maps—and I am one—are one, / So death doth touch the Resurrection.' That still does not make a Trinity, but in another, better known devotional poem Donne opens, 'Batter my heart, three person'd God;—.'"

I love a scientist who loves John Donne. Metaphysical poetry and atomic weapons: they do seem to go together in intriguing ways.

I think of Oppenheimer watching that explosion. In one book I read, the author states that these scientists were fairly sure what would happen, but not certain. There was some fear that they might somehow ignite the earth's atmosphere and destroy the planet. But they proceeded anyway.

Oppenheimer says that he watched the explosion and thought about The Bhagavad Gita: "I am become Death, the shatterer of worlds." Once we had a crew of guys come to cut down a tree. The leader with the shaved head took off his shirt and tattooed across his back was the same line; it was a big tattoo--I could read it from inside the house. On that same day, from the gay guys' apartment complex on the next street, I could hear disco music, The Village People and Donna Summer, in an endless loop, interrupted by the buzzing chain saws from the tree crew. Some day I'll use these details in a poem or a short story. Or maybe having recorded them in my blog, I won't feel the need to use the details elsewhere.

I thought with the film Oppenheimer, more people might know the history, but the significance of this day can get a bit lost.  I hadn't remembered until doing some digging this morning that the explosion was scheduled for this date because Truman had an important meeting with Allied leaders in Potsdam on July 17. Bomb as savior?

Oh, so many poetry possibilities! There's the desert aspect, the prophets that so often emerge from wilderness areas. There's the fact that this part of the country has become a detonation point for various immigration fights through the last four (or more) decades.

Those of you who have been reading this blog and/or my poems for awhile now will be saying, "Haven't you already explored this poetic terrain?"

Indeed, I have. Yet I think there may be more to do.

But for today, let's look back.

This poem was first published in The Ledge in the early part of this century:


Ash Wednesday at the Trinity Test Site


I didn’t develop a taste for locusts until later.
Instead I craved libraries, those crusted containers of all knowledge,
honey to fill the combs of my brain.

I didn’t see this university as a desert.
How could it be, with its cornucopia of classes,
colleagues who never tired of spirited conversations,
no point too arcane for hours of dissection.
I never foresaw that I might consume too many ideas,
that they might stick in the craw.

I never dreamed a day would come when I preferred
true deserts, far away from intellectual centers.
No young minds to be midwifed,
no hungry mouths draining my most vital juices,
no books with their reproachful, sad sighs, sitting
in the library, that daycare center of the intellect.

The desert doesn’t drown the voice
the way a city does. No drone
of machinery, no cacophony of crowing
scholars to consume my own creativity.
In the desert, the demand is to be still, to conserve
our strength for the trials that are to come.

Here, the earth, scorched by the fissile
testing of the greatest intellects of the last century, reminds
us of the ultimate futility of attempting to understand.
The desert dares us to drop our defenses.
In this place, scoured of all temptations, all distractions,
the sand demands we face our destiny.

Low Key Birthdays, Low Energy Tuesdays

Ah, Tuesday.  For some working folks, Monday is the hardest day.  For me, it's Tuesday.  On Tuesday, the week feels endless, and not in a good way, not in a full of possibilities way.  Let me record some bits and pieces, which is all I feel capable of doing this morning.

--My actual birthday was very low key, but that was O.K., because we did some celebrating on Sunday.  It would have been O.K. even if we hadn't celebrated on Sunday.

--We often have low key birthdays at our house.  The wide variety of ways that people celebrate birthdays for grown ups intrigues me.

--I woke up thinking about the trip to France that I took with my parents during the summer I turned 40.  I have been so glad that I did that.  It was great to travel with them and hear stories of our first days together.  I was born on an Air Force Base in France, and I would never have been able to find that base, had I been travelling alone.

--I tend to assume that I'll always have time to travel at some later point, whether by myself or with others.  It's been sobering to think on the last 10 years, how much has changed, how my travelling days may be coming to an end in the not-too-distant future.

--But my walking days aren't over--let me lace up my shoes and see what I can do.

Big Decade Birthday

Today we have another chance to celebrate the human thirst for liberty and to ponder who gets to enjoy equality and who does not. It's Bastille Day, the French equivalent (sort of ) of our Independence Day. I see this historical event as one of many that launched us on the road to equality. It's an uneven success to be sure. More of us in the first world enjoy more liberty than those in developing nations. But that thirst for freedom and equality found some expression in the French Revolution, and I could argue that much liberation theology has some rootedness in that soil (yes, it would be a problematic argument, I know).

Today is also my birthday.  This one is a big one:  I am 60 years old today.  I remember when others in my life have had this milestone birthday, and in my younger years, I remember thinking, Sixty--what must that feel like?

My spouse turned 60 last year, so yesterday morning, I asked him, and he said, "It just felt strange."  His birthday, September 26, was the day Hurricane Helene came to Appalachia, so his landmark birthday was strange indeed.

I have my usual birthday strangeness--oh yeah, it's my birthday.  It's a work day for me, which is fine.  I have never taken my birthday off.  If there's been celebrating, we've done it around work, and I'm fine with that.

I don't have special plans today.  My parents were in town for Music Week, so yesterday they came with us to Bristol for church, and then we all went for brunch at the restaurant of the hotel by the Birthplace of Country Music Museum.  It was lovely.  It was enough.

Turning 60 does make me think about how few turning of the decade birthdays are likely left.  I'm not at midlife anymore.  I don't know anyone who has lived to be 120.  But I certainly don't feel like old age has begun, and I realize how lucky I am not to feel my sixty years in every bone and fiber of my being.

Let me get ready for my walk.  Perhaps the birds have left me some birthday black raspberries.

Flour from an Old-Fashioned Mill

Later today, I will be baking bread.  I've made a starter and left it to bubble.  I'll leave it uncovered--maybe it will capture some wild yeast. 

My starter has buckwheat flour in it, flour that was milled in Pickens, SC, at Hagood Mill.  The flour looked more finely milled than most flour I've worked with--wow!  As the website says, I'm experiencing the power of water and stone.  

At some point, I'd like to go to the mill to see it for myself.  The flour I'm baking with today came courtesy of our Music Week houseguests.  My Florida pastor went off to see waterfalls and came back with amazing pictures--and flour from the mill.

I'm happy that I know how to make bread from the simplest ingredients.  I'm happy to have flour milled in the ways of the past.  But I'm also glad that I don't have to rely on this older technology, that it can be supplemented with more modern technology.

Yesterday I discovered Back to the Frontier, yet another reality series that will take modern people to the prairie and see how they adapt to pioneer life.  I haven't watched it yet;  I have very little in the way of streaming services and even less time.  When I say I discovered it, I really mean I watched the trailer.

I'm adding it to the ever growing list of things to watch if I have time.  Amazon seems to say that I can buy the whole season for just $14.99, which is less than it would cost for two of us to go to the movie theater these days.  

But today is busy.  Let me get dressed and get ready to drive across the mountain to preach and preside at Faith Lutheran in Bristol, Tennessee.

Saturday Snippets: the Spontaneity Edition

Here we are, practically at mid-July.  Let me capture a few snippets that I want to be sure to remember:

--Last night, we had some folks over for dinner, some Music Week friends and family.  I offered invitations on Thursday, and the ability to be spontaneous made me happy.  I was also happy that my spouse was able and willing to take care of the important details, like buying the grillables, while I was at work.

--My spouse bought pork chops and country ribs because they were on sale.  Happily, all our friends and family eat pork.  But even if they didn't, we'd have had enough.  I finally made squash casserole, and we had watermelon too.  We had a pan of roasted potato pieces and a big salad.  One friend brought a bowl of peach chunks, which went so beautifully with pork and also worked for dessert with the chocolate chip oatmeal cookies I made earlier in the week.  

--We had seven people around the dinner table, which is about all we can fit comfortably.  It's a small table for our small space.  I'm glad we were able to make it work.  I'm grateful for friends who understand the challenges of a small space.

--I'm also grateful for a dishwasher, which made clean up so much easier.

--One early morning over oatmeal, I was talking about my dream coffee maker.  It would have several parts.  One would be a single serving, pod-like, machine.  One would be a traditional 10 cup coffee brewing contraption.  It would also make espresso and steam/froth milk (and the steamer needs to be detachable and dishwasher safe).

--Of course, such a machine would take up too much valuable counter-top real estate, even if I could bring myself to afford what a company would charge for such a contraption.  But it is the one counter-top appliance that I use every day.

--This morning I'm finishing my sermon on the Good Samaritan.  Earlier this week I said I was writing a sermon on the Prodigal Samaritan, and I have mused about what that parable might be.

--I have a lot to say about the Good Samaritan.  It's rare to have a Gospel reading that could go in multiple directions.  I often feel like I can barely eke out one sermon.  I'm grateful that this sermon came together easily, because it's been a jam-packed week.

--It's been a wonderful week.  I am not sure I could keep going at this pace, but I'm glad to know that I can hang in there for at least one jam-packed week.

A Look Back at Music Week

What a week it has been!  Today is the last day of Music Week at Lutheridge.  The pastor of my South Florida church and his wife have stayed with us.  She participates in Music Week, while he goes off to photograph waterfalls.  My mom and dad have stayed at Lutheridge lodging, but we've seen them every day, often for the evening meal.  My spouse has also participated in Music Week.  I have still been deep in C.P.E., but I have done evening activities:  worship service on Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, and the hymnfest last night at the gorgeous St. James Episcopal church in nearby Hendersonville.

The week has zoomed by.  Each morning, I've gone for a walk with my pastor's wife, who is a dear friend.  

We've left the house at 6 a.m., take our walk, had heart-to-heart conversations during our walk, and then returned for oatmeal.  Then I've gone off for chaplaincy training.

One morning on our walk, we noticed a car up the road that had stopped.  As we approached, the car pulled forward and told us to be careful, as there was a mother bear and 4 cubs down the driveway.

I couldn't get a shot of all of the bears, but I am sure that there were 4 cubs.  That made me so happy.  Various neighbors have seen a mother bear with two cubs, which made us wonder about the other cubs.  Now it seems we might have multiple bears in the neighborhood.  I'm glad to see that they've survived.

We are at the midway point of chaplaincy training.  I've spent part of the week writing a document about what I've learned so far and what I hope to learn in the remaining time.  It's a more complex document than one might expect.  We also spent a day in our cohort discussing what we've written and experienced.  A major part of CPE is the processing of it all, and I'm grateful for that aspect.

Summer is zooming by!  In some ways we're at the midway point of summer, but in fact, we're slightly past the midway point.  My online classes that I teach will end in just a few weeks, and my onground classes begin on August 12.

Our houseguests leave today, but my mom and dad will stay for the week-end.  I'm glad that we can all take the time to be together a bit longer, to linger in the midpoint of summer.

Christmas Carols in July

Yesterday a group of us walked off campus for lunch.  As we were walking down the hill to the gate, one of us shared that "Amazing Grace" can be sung to the tune of "Oh Little Town of Bethlehem."  He sang the first line to demonstrate:  "Amazing Grace, How Sweet the Sound."  We continued to sing the rest.

I said, "It's like Christmas caroling, only different."  A man walking in front of us said, "You guys sounded great to me.  I can barely manage to walk to my car in this heat, much less sing."

It made me wonder how various groups might respond to a Christmas Caroling in July kind of event.  Would patients like it or would we confuse them?  I had a vision of Christmas cookies and decorations, but that might be because I love Christmas.  I don't want to make extra work for people.

I'm thinking of Christmas in July week at camp, specifically at Lutheridge.  It's one of the more popular weeks.  If I was choosing a camp week, that would be the one I would choose.  Even when I was a kid, I would have chosen it.  The only thing that might have been more appealing would be a Left Alone to Read camp week, which as far as I know, doesn't exist.  Why go to summer camp to read?

Those of us who love to read know why.  You could ask the same thing about Christmas at camp, too, of course.  Why Christmas or reading when you could be hiking or canoeing?

It's a larger question that some of us keep coming back to--what is the purpose of camp?  There are many answers, and we don't have to choose just one.

In fact, for future viability, it might be important to choose them all.

Praying for Peace in the World, with Map and Candles

This year, because of CPE,  I can't participate in Music Week the way I have in the past.  But I can go to evening worship.

Last night when we arrived at the chapel, a map of the world was spread out across the center of the worship space.  We picked up battery operated tea light candles as we entered.

Photo by Piper Spencer

The focus of last night's worship was praying for peace in the world.  Near the end of the service, as we sang "Dona Nobis Pacem," we were encouraged to put our candles on a part of the map that we were praying for, and to widen our focus so that we didn't include just the U.S.

Photo by Piper Spencer

As you might be able to tell, the map is not to scale, so I wasn't sure exactly where I placed my candle.  But I thought that aspect worked symbolically too.  If I just pray for peace in the U.S., that peace is much less stable when the rest of the world is not peaceful.  I don't necessarily need to be able to visualize a specific country when I pray for peace in the world, although that prayer practice has merit.

When in doubt, without a doubt, let us pray for peace in the whole world.

Camp Recollections in a Time of Floods

The news has been full of reports out of Texas, of flash floods that came in the darkness and swept campers away--and whole camps that were at the water's edge.  These reports remind me of  Hurricane Helene reports, in the way that there were warnings that got increasingly dire, and then the situation became increasingly dire.  I read about one couple in a campground that went to sleep in a gentle rain and were swept away by the Toe River; one of their bodies has yet to be found.

I am thinking of my own time leading Girl Scouts on a backpacking trip by the Chatooga River.  It was summer, so we slept under tarps.  The  first night there was a terrifying thunderstorm, and we all huddled together, with girls crying to go home, right now, please.  Eventually the storm passed, and we settled into an exhausted sleep.

In the morning, the girls still wanted to go home, and I was inclined to agree.  Happily, our leader wasn't having any of it.  We packed our wet gear, hiked to the next site, and spread it all out to dry, which it did by bedtime.  The rest of the backpacking trip passed with no incident, and in the end, we were glad we stuck with it.

I wonder if those girls heard the reports of cabins swept away and thought back to that storm.  In our case, from what I could tell, the river didn't rise, and the rainfall wasn't abnormal.  I was more worried about lightning than floods--it was a different time.

In that pre-cell phone time, we couldn't have gone home after that first stormy night, even if we had wanted to, at least not easily.  We'd have had to hike back to the place where we began the hike and then had to find a phone and then called the home Girl Scout camp, which was a day's drive away.  By the time they would have come for us, we would have had a day or two of waiting.  Far better to be out on the trail, hiking towards the  pick up point further down the river.  I can say that because no one was hurt, and there were no other threats looming.

Last night, a different kind of camp started--it's Music Week at Lutheridge!  It will be a different kind of week for me; I will miss a lot of it.  But I plan to go to evening events.  Last night was Holden Evening Prayer at the chapel, as the sun set.  It was a peaceful way to offset the news stories about a different camp experience, far away in Texas.

The Boss and Me

I have noticed that I am standing up straighter as I make my rounds during the work day.  Sadly, I still have a fairly hunched over posture when I sit at the computer.  I also try to smile and project a peaceful presence throughout the day.  

On Thursday,  a much older man said to me, "You look like somebody who knows she's the boss."  I smiled, and he said, "No really, you look like the person who's in charge of this place."  I said, "I assure you, I am not the boss."  It was a kinder interchange than it sounds here on the page.

In some ways, it felt evolved--instead of being complimented on my looks or my smile, the man might have been complimenting me on something career related.  But it also made me think of that whole pre-Covid movement for women to claim their authority, to act more like men who were in charge, that whole Bosslady trend that spawned a billion TikToks and memes and merchandising.  I am not the Bosslady, nor was meant to be, to paraphrase Shakespeare or T. S. Eliot.

As I took my walk back to the elevator, I thought about other ways I could have responded.  I thought about Bruce Springsteen and all the song lyrics I could have offered in response:  "Tramps like us, baby we were born to run."  But I suspect that most people wouldn't get that reference.  I thought about how I would be happy to be more like Springsteen, a man who really is the boss in so many ways.  But his touring schedule would be exhausting.

I thought of Bruce Springsteen yesterday as I was taking a walk around camp.  Because I had the federal holiday off of work, I went later than usual.  I saw the campers gathering for Morning Watch, and I heard the blast of music, the opening chords to Springsteen's "Born in the U.S.A.," an interesting choice for Independence Day.  I thought of politicians who have tried to co-opt the song without listening to the lyrics.  It is such an amazing song, and it was my Springsteen entry drug.  I remember buying the record that contained the song (yes, on vinyl) in the early days of fall semester 1984, where I was at Wal-Mart buying a fan for my dorm room that had no air conditioning.  I have never loved another Springsteen album the way I LOVED that one:  all the songs are great, and there's a narrative arc (or maybe it's just a theme that connects them all) when one listens straight through.

The playlist for the campers' Morning Watch went to John Mellencamp's "R.O.C.K. in the U.S.A.," a much happier song lyrically.  And later, I heard them singing "The Star Spangled Banner," voices drifting down the hill to where I stood at the berry brambles, eating as many black raspberries as were ripe.  

It was a perfect start to Independence Day 2025, which included hamburgers AND hot dogs, a watching of Independence Day (which I had not seen again since I saw it in the theatre on the week-end it was released), and a neighborhood potluck.

Fourth of July Morning in the Mountains

Fourth of July morning, birds in full-throated song, a cool morning compared to morning temperatures elsewhere in the northern hemisphere.  A huge budget bill passed yesterday, and yes, it sounds apocalyptic, but I've seen apocalyptic budget bills, and other types of legislation, come and go, and sometimes it is every bit as bad as predicted, sometimes less, sometimes the world goes sidewise in another direction that has nothing to do with the bill.

Fourth of July morning, a Friday, which means a three day week-end.  Music Week starts on Sunday, which means I have some shopping and cleaning to do.  I need to think about what's in the study that I use on a daily basis--the study is about to become a guest room.  I will still be reporting for work at 8 a.m., Music Week or no Music Week.  I will need some of the clothes and shoes that are in the closet in the study.

Fourth of July morning, with a sermon still to write.  I think it will be a sermon that looks at dangerous ideas, Jesus' dangerous ideas and Jefferson's.  Too brave?  This will be the 3rd early July sermon with this congregation--let me do a quick look to see what I've done before.  Cool--I haven't done it before.  Part of my sermon writing problem this week is that I have too many ideas, which is not always the case.

Fourth of July morning, a baking morning.  I made cookies because I'm going to a neighbor's backyard party later today.  Today is going to be an eat with abandon day.  Or maybe it won't.  My counting of calories and writing them down is working--I've lost the weight I gained in May when I had a few weeks of abandon.  Being alcohol free is working--today will not be a drinking day.  Freedom!

Fourth of July morning, a day that may or may not celebrate freedom, a day that may or may not tell us what independence means.  I'm thinking of those founders of the U.S. who signed their names to a document that was treason, in the eyes of their government. They pledged their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor. Each July 4, and most other days too, I think about my own life, my own beliefs. To what would I pledge my life, my fortune, and my sacred honor?

Fourth of July morning, and I can't resist posting again these favorite pictures, me dressed as a Colonist fighter, my Dad with a British soldier coat, both of us standing in front of a painting of British soldiers:

I have always been amazed that the rowdy colonists could pull off this defeat of the greatest empire in the world at the time. I don't think it's only that they were fighting on their home territory that helped them win. Plenty of people fight to defend their homes and don't win.

Fourth of July morning, a good day to say prayers of thanks for those who have done the hard work of fighting for liberties of all sorts and to pray for those who are still oppressed. Let us pledge allegiance to our God who yearns to set us free.

Notes on the Halfway Point of Summer

I am at the end of week 4 of chaplaincy training.  July has begun.  We are at the halfway point of summer camp at Lutheridge.  Let me make a few notes.

--My cold has a long tail.  I can go through much of my day only coughing occasionally.  I'm no longer blowing my nose each hour.  But I still have a slightly scratchy throat.  If I talk for too long, I need a drink of water, and I don't feel like I can count on my voice.

--I have been wearing Saucony running shoes to work every day.  I am channeling that 80's woman commuting to work on public transportation--but I'm not changing into heels when I get to the office.  It's a new level of frumpiness for me.  But I am able to spend much of the day on my feet without excruciating back pain at night, so I'll stick with frumpy comfort.

--Music Week at Lutheridge starts on Sunday.  It will be a different experience for me this year--but I'm hoping I still get some quality time with friends and family who are coming through for Music Week.

--We are at so many halfway points:  summer is halfway over, Lutheridge summer camp is halfway over, the year is halfway over.  I wonder where we will be at the halfway point of next summer.  Hopefully I will be meeting with my candidacy committee to proceed to endorsement, which is usually a halfway point to ordination, but in my case, I'm doing things a bit out of order.  At Lutheran seminaries, students would do CPE much earlier, often in the summer after the first year, and then they'd get to endorsement sometime in the following year, before internship (year 3 of seminary) and the last year of seminary. 

--This week, my sketching was lifted up as one of my gifts that I should use in ministry.  I never really thought about my sketching as one of my gifts. I still think of myself as not good at visual art at all.

--As I've been training in various office spaces, I've discovered art supplies stashed away--a delight!  I found a tin box of Crayola markers, but much better quality markers than the Crayola label would imply.  The red marker is missing, which makes me wonder what happened to it.  Did someone love it and take it?  Did it run out of ink?

--I arrived early to rounds and discovered a guitar in the corner of the small conference room.  I strummed it, and to my untrained ears, it sounded like it was in tune.  I assumed that it belonged to someone who might not appreciate me playing it.  But no one is sure who owns it or how it came to be there.  Was it a person who once did music therapy?  That seems most likely, but why would that person leave the guitar behind?

--I looked up the chords to "This Land Is Your Land."  I reminded myself that I am not a guitar player.  I thought about getting my ukulele and bringing it on rounds--but I need a year or two of practice before I might be able to count the ukulele as one of my spiritual gifts

Writing or Walking? Black Raspberries Await!

It is the kind of morning where I feel like I'm running behind.  I was awake for several hours in the middle of the night, so I didn't wake up quite as early as I usually do.  I have to be at work at 8 for a morning huddle each day, so there's not much flexibility as to when I leave.  I can take my breakfast with me.  

But it's the kind of morning where I need to choose between a walk and deeper levels of writing.  And since today is a day of more meetings and sitting, I need to walk early.  Plus there are black raspberries to pick!  I haven't visited the hillside patch, which I call my secret garden, since Saturday.

In terms of current events, it's a good day to walk instead of write.  I don't want to think about budget bills or Alligator Alcatraz or all the ways our research universities are being gutted.  I am grateful to those who can fight day in and day out, especially to the ones who still have some power to make change (who are those people?  judges perhaps).

I understand that there's a time for picking black raspberries and a time for working to save the country.  We'd likely all be better off if we took a morning walk to remind ourselves what we are saving. 

In Praise of Big Books

Last night, I finished reading Paul Murray's The Bee Sting.  It's the longest work of fiction that I've read in a long time.  It is a very different book from Paul Lynch's Prophet Song.  I mention them in the same paragraph because they were both nominated for the Booker Prize.

I have big sprawling books on the brain in part because of reading The Bee Sting, in part because of this wonderful essay by Carlos Lozada on the works of John Jakes.  This NYT photo taken by Naila Ruechel will spark memories for certain generations of readers:

I started reading these books in my teenage years, when I devoured all sorts of books.  These books had it all:  great characters, the sweep of history, and I loved having a whole series to explore.  As a teenager, I was desperate to lose myself in a book, and these books were just what I wanted.

I also loved the books by James Michener, where the history was more meticulously researched, which meant one got a much bigger treatment of the subject.  I got the history not just of the people on the land, but of the land itself.

Lozada reread all these books before writing the essay; I won't be doing that.  There are so many wonderful books in the world, and I have so much less reading time than I did when I was in high school.

But I am relieved to discover that I can still read a big book.