In Praise of Metaphysical Conceits

Today is the birthday of Andrew Marvell, probably most well known as the author of "To His Coy Mistress."

I love some of the images and metaphors that he uses. I love that they often go straight over the heads of my students, and I love pointing them out.

For example:

"Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chap't power."

I always say, "Really? Amorous birds of prey in a love poem? Really? Does anyone know how birds of prey mate?" Predatory birds having sex in free fall--not the image we typically associate with love poems.

Most of all, I love this image, which comes earlier in the poem:

"My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;"

Vegetable love--describe your love as a vegetable. Is carrot love better than broccoli love? Is rutabaga love a different kind of love than brussels sprouts love?

Ponder these questions as we prepare to leap into National Poetry Month (gulp!). Tomorrow I will post a list of 30 poetry writing prompts to keep us all inspired as we write a poem a day or cheer the ones who are making the attempt!

Poetry Tuesday: "Horarium"

We only have a few more weeks to go in the pre-publication order time for my forthcoming chapbook.  Have you ordered yours yet?

You may ask, why not wait to order until it's ready?  Because the press run is determined by how many books are ordered in this time period.  If the sales reach certain levels, more books are published, and since a second printing is unlikely, it would be great to make it to some of those higher levels.

Here's a poem to whet your appetite.  I first got the idea for it while I was at Mepkin Abbey, so this week, while I'm there, it pleases me to post this poem which was first published in Poetry East:

Horarium The monks get their morning
news from the Psalms. We brew
coffee and scan the TV stations
for news we can use:
diet tips, a weather report,
the quickest way around the traffic jams.

We sit in our coffin
like cars and watch the sun rise
across sluggish traffic. The monks chant
to each other across the chancel
as the morning light shifts
across the sanctuary.

Chained to our computers,
we undo the work of past days
and create documents to be dismantled
tomorrow. The monks tend
the chickens and mulch
the seedlings. We shred
documents while the monks
welcome visitors to a meal.

At night, we click through cable
channels, our glazed eyes focusing on nothing.
The monks light candles
in a darkened chapel and wait
for the final blessing
of the day, a splash
of holy water and a benediction.


To see how this poem interacts with others, order my forthcoming chapbook, Life in the Holocene Extinction,  here.  You'll find other poems of consolation and hope, poems that explore what elements of modern life give us hope in the face of all the stresses and calamities we face both individually, as a culture, and as a planet.

Easter Monday Reckonings

Here we are at Easter Monday, the day of exhaling for many of us, after an intense week of many religious services.  My thoughts have swirled with all the images of the religious observances this week, and I've thought of these lessons for all of us.

--Palm Sunday reminds us that the crowd that cheers for us on Sunday may be crying out for Crucifixion by Friday.

In what ways are we too invested in the way the world thinks of us?  How can we differentiate between fake cheer and genuine support?

--Some of our Maundy Thursday services mention Passover, which some traditions tell us Jesus was celebrating when he ate the last supper.  Passover reminds us that when deliverance comes, it may come quickly and we should be ready, with our sandals laced and our lunches ready.

What would you take with you if you had to leave quickly?  Do you know where your important documents are?  Do you have your writing projects in a portable format?  What are your most important pictures?  Where are they?

--Maundy Thursday shows us how to build community:  share a meal together.  How can we do more of that?

--Good Friday reminds us of all the ways we can betray the ones we love.  The Easter season tells us what to do when we have betrayed our loved ones:  apologize and try to love better. Peter's approach of apology is much better than Judas Iscariot's, the suicide route.

--I'm remembering the year we gave my nephew Easter stickers, which he loved and took great joy in sticking everywhere.  Each packet of stickers  only cost a few dollars, yet they brought more joy than an expensive present would have brought.

What inexpensive joys can we add to our lives with more regularity?

--Easter Sunday, the empty tomb, the followers looking for the living amongst the dead.  Where are we doing the same things?  Which practices give health and wholeness to our lives?  What entombs us?

--These holidays point to the possibility of renewal.  We might think of our own lives--where would we like to see a resurrection?  Are there projects that we've left for dead that we should revisit?  Are there dreams that have been enslaved that we should set free? What relationships might yet be revived?

A Poem for Easter Morning

In earlier years, I might have gotten in an Easter run at the beach.  In even earlier years, my dad and I would have gone for our Easter run in the afternoon.  Easter has often involved a cake in the shape of a bunny face, and more often church, often in multiple services.

A year ago, my family would have been in Hawaii.  We had no bunny cake, but we did hike to a part of the beach that was deserted, and we did a brief Easter service that my mother wrote.

The day before that, we were at a military base, and I was struck by their Easter displays which enchanted the children that walked through.

Not every Easter can be so spectacular, but every Easter can have a poem.  Here's one I like, although I suspect that poetry purists would find it too narrative, too much like prose with line breaks.  Other poetry purists won't like it for its religious themes.  So be it.



Good News

Awash in Paschal mysteries, I awaken early
Easter morning and run to the beach to watch the sun
rise. I know what to watch
for, the luminous presence, the one to call Rabboni.
Instead, I see the usual assortment of homeless
folks, the crazed newspaper carriers, people just off
work from the extremely early or really late
shifts, and me.

My father and I used to run every holiday, hollering
good wishes to everyone who could hear. But this morning,
I find myself mute as Peter, unable to proclaim
a simple Easter greeting. Like Jesus’
Jerusalem, my city situates itself at a distant edge
of a great empire, a crossroads of continents.
What if I, in shouting “Happy Easter!” offend
a Muslim or a Jew? Chances are good that my language
would be incomprehensible anyway. I sit
on the beach, watching the sun struggle
through the clouds, sketching fish in the sand.

On the Intracoastal Waterway bridge, I muster
my courage. This man looks like he could use a friendly
greeting. He has that downtrodden look that could have
a number of causes: chemotherapy? Homelessness? Aging badly?
I smile and say, “Happy Easter!” His face glows
as he returns my greeting, “The Lord is risen.”
I expected, at most, a “Happy Easter” in reply,
but he bestow this great gift,
a reminder of the reason I’ve risen
early. And like any gift of grace, this one multiplies.

Now, like a woman who has returned from an empty
tomb, I race through my neighborhood streets.
Every pedestrian, every driver with an open window,
gets my greeting and a silent benediction,
along with a smile, that universal sign.
I have a second chance—the essential
Easter message. We have as many chances as we need.

A Poem for the Time between Good Friday and Easter

We are deep into the liturgical time period of Holy Triduum, or The Three Days, which begins with Maundy Thursday night services and lasts until Easter morning. Some churches will hold an Easter vigil for all of today and through the night. Some will do a shorter version. Some churches depart in silence on Good Friday night and return again on Easter (not counting the gatherings for rehearsals, decorating, cleaning, and food prep that may be happening today).

I've never been part of a church that holds an Easter vigil, so the poem below is based on what I think could happen.

For those of you in the mood for a poem, here's one I wrote years ago. It's only been published in this blog.


Triduum


We thought we had you safely buried,
or at least confined to little cages
where we could consider you contained.

“God is dead,” Nietzche declared,
and we all nailed shut the coffin.

So now this Easter Eve,
we spend the night awakening to the sound of knocking.
Doorbells ring across the nocturnal
landscape, but no one stands
at the portal.

No one but a shivering mortal
with the sound of angels in her ears,
the urgings of mystics at her back.
She stretches out her hands to sunrise.

Good Friday Pause

Today is Good Friday, the day no bread can be consecrated.  My mind is full of past Good Fridays--the day that our church's labyrinth was vandalized, and I spent Good Friday helping to clean up and lay new roof tiles along the outline.  I think of the times that we got the grounds spruced up for Easter.  Last year we were on a plane to Hawaii, flying backwards across Good Friday.

Today I will do my final preparation for travel--by this time tomorrow, I plan to have been on the road for several hours so that I can get to my grad school friend's tea party.  She puts together the most wonderful teas.  I will spend Saturday with her, Sunday with a different grad school friend, and then on Monday it's off to Mepkin Abbey after having lunch with yet a different set of friends.

Once I did more of these travels--I would go to my grandmother's house and in between outings with her, I'd make it around the state to see old friends.  I miss it, although if I'm honest, the thought of this amount of driving exhausts me these days.

Today I will also have a group of church friends over.  We'll have lunch by the pool, and then there will be a ukulele and violin rehearsal for Good Friday tonight.

My spouse still has to teach his late afternoon class, and it's on a campus near the church, so I'll meet up with him there.  By then, I hope to be packed, and I hope to have all my grading done.  No, I will have my grading done.

I like the idea of this drive in that it will give me time to transition, time to look forward to this time before me.  I've spent so much of the last week in speeded-up time as I've tried to get ready to be away from the office for a week.

In so many ways, this retreat at Mepkin Abbey with Kathleen Norris is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.  But lately, I've realized that the same is true with most of my travel.  I think that I will always be able to do a certain kind of travel, but then my job changes or someone dies or people move or the expense of the trip becomes too hard to justify.  Fifteen years ago I could get tickets to Europe for $500 or so.  That's not the case anymore.  I could list lots of examples, but that would depress me.

No, let's focus on the possibilities.  I'm not jetting off to Europe, but I am getting to spend a precious week studying with one of my favorite authors and reconnecting with my Create in Me friends.  And then, I come home to a circle of friends, to several circles, who help me remember why I'm glad to live here.

Maundy Thursday Musings

--Today is Maundy Thursday, and it's also the anniversary of the assassination of Archbishop Romero.  More on that juxtaposition here.

--Maundy Thursday, that old term, derives its name from the Latin mandatum, which means commandment--it comes from the passage in John 13, where Jesus gives the commandment to love each other.

--I have been worried that my sense of compassion is slipping away, as I deal with students who come to complain that they weren't given time to finish their assignments, even though the final deadline hasn't yet come.  I have told people that they need to utilize their time and then if they still have a complaint to come to me.  I have been rather stern and unsmiling when I say this to some students who seemed uncommonly stubborn in their resistance to doing work.

--I remind myself of the readings for earlier days of Holy Week, the one in particular where Jesus throws the moneychangers out of the temple.  I'm sure he seemed stern and unsmiling too.

--And of course, if students come next week to complain, I will be gone.  I am in desperate need of retreat time.

--Mepkin Abbey wrote to the participants for next week's writing workshop with Kathleen Norris.  I felt such a whooshing sense of relief when I got that e-mail.

--I am touched by how many people have wished me well during my retreat time.  Why does graciousness and good will always surprise me a bit?

--The events of this week, both personal and global, have showed me how rare it can be to find graciousness and good will.  A week full of angry students makes me even more grateful for drops of kindness.

--But let me also remember the non-angry students, the quiet ones who needed help here and there.  Let me remember my colleagues and the surprise Tuesday of an extra ticket offered to me, an evening at the Parker Playhouse with Vanessa Williams and Seth Rutdetsky, a treat that it would not have occurred to me to give myself.

--Let me also remember the non-school moments of grace, the wine and cheese shared with friends, the discussion of alternative careers.  I am leading a retreat in April, both Bible study and a workshop on spiritual journaling.  My psychologist friend said that she'd love to be able to refer her patients to me so that I could help them with "bibliotherapy."

--We also talked about how one person in a family needs to have a steady income to enable the alternative careers.  It's hard for me to see how I could have my full-time job, my adjunct teaching, and a patient list for bibliotherapy.  But I did want to record this nugget, in case my full-time job vanishes.

--Writing this also reminds me of my stepmom-in-law who asked, "When are you going to go to seminary so that you can be a pastor?"

--What will today bring?  I head off to work to get everything done before I'm gone for almost 2 weeks.  But I'm also going on a field trip to the Rubell Family Collection.  I will end the day at church.  Our Maundy Thursday service includes a meal--I'm so happy for one less thing to think about.

--That service will also include our first use of the prayer loom (more on that here and here).  I look forward to seeing how it will work.

Poetry Wednesday: "Safety Pin Sisterhood"

We are midway through the pre-order period for my forthcoming chapbook, Life in the Holocene Extinction--you have until April 22 to order during this very important time.  Go here to order your copy.  It will ship in June, and you'll have a lovely summer treat. 

You may ask, why not wait to order until it's ready?  Because the press run is determined by how many books are ordered in this time period.  If the sales reach certain levels, more books are published, and since a second printing is unlikely, it would be great to make it to some of those higher levels.

Here's a poem to whet your appetite.  Yesterday's post tells all the reasons I have been needing a poem that reminds me that all will be O.K., and so, I offer "Safety Pin Sisterhood."  It's based on a true story:  a young, female student appeared in my office with a broken shoe.  She said she would need to go home to get a new pair of shoes and could I please tell her Math teacher.  I thought that missing a class to go get replacement shoes was a mistake, and so I looked for a way to salvage her shoe so that she could get to class.

The experience showed me that I could stock some materials for future events:  safety pins and duct tape, neither of which I had.  Happily, my friend who was working nearby had a safety pin in her purse.

I saw the student later in the day, and our safety pin solution had held together.  Hurrah!
This poem first appeared in The South Carolina Review.


Safety Pin Sisterhood



I pin a student’s sandal
back together again and think
of graduate school.

I could tell this student
about the meaning of a broken strap
in fairy tales. In a novel,
this broken sandal would have semiotic
meanings that we could deconstruct.

But in real life, this student simply
needs her shoe fixed so she can slip
down the hallways to get to class.
I am a woman of safety pins and staples,
a spare pen, and the schedule that shows
where everyone should be.

What would Wordsworth say?
I already know: the world
is too much with us.
Keats would not see the beauty
in a broken sandal made of cheap
materials from China.

But Christina Rossetti would offer
a secret smile, as would Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
They, too, were women
with a safety pin or a spare set of socks,
women who ignored the theories
about poetics that swirled
around them while quietly
repairing the world with needles
and bandages and great poems
scribbled in the margins.

To see how this poem interacts with others, order my forthcoming chapbook, Life in the Holocene Extinction,  here.  You'll find other poems of consolation and hope, despite what the title might lead you to expect.

Shifting from Guilt to Gratitude

Last night I dreamed disasters.

I will probably use that line in a poem soon, but it also happens to be true.  I dreamed about storms approaching, and I couldn't get the old people in my care to understand that they had to move to safety.  I dreamed of car crashes.  I dreamed of being unable to make my appointments.  I dreamed of illness.

And then I woke up to the news of the variety of bombings in Brussels.  In my younger years, I'd have wanted to believe that I was dreaming in a sort of language that foretold the future.  But I have plenty of anxiety of my own--no need to channel the world's troubles.

For the past week or so, I have been feeling low to medium grade anxiety--the kind that's in the background, the kind that makes me wonder what important task I am forgetting.  And in fact, I did discover a permit that needed attention to get renewed--I got the packet in November, but it wasn't due until April 6, so I put it in the important papers to think about later file and didn't discover it until I pulled out the tax envelope.  Happily, I was able to get that taken care of.  But what else lurks?

My main anxiety revolves around the fact that I will be gone next week because I am going on back-to-back retreats in the Carolinas.  From Monday to Thursday, I will be at a writing workshop--my favorite writer, Kathleen Norris, will be at my favorite monastery, Mepkin Abbey, in the SC Lowcountry.  Then on Thursday, I go to the Create in Me retreat at Lutheridge, in the NC, mountains.

I am looking forward to the time to write, the time to create, the new vistas for my eyes to see.  But it is the week between quarters, the time when lay-offs occur at my job.  I think that I am safe and that my faculty won't be affected--but I now feel this quarterly anxiety, since I know that for every set of lay-offs, those who are left have more work to do.

I realize that if I was in South Florida, I could not keep the chaos from descending, if chaos is coming.  But when I leave for any length of time, I do worry that I'll return to find only bits and pieces where before there were buildings. That building can be a metaphor for the job, for my house, for any variety of relationships.

And because I will be gone for a week, that means that I have a lot of work to complete this week.  If I was here, I could spread those tasks out in a more leisurely way.  And here, too, I worry about what I've forgotten.

And then there are the worries that hardly seem worth mentioning, but they are on my mind.  I'm travelling through a variety of weather and socializing situations.  What will I want to wear?  I will be bringing a variety of clothes:  swirly skirts, big shirts, lots of layers to keep me either warm or cool.  As always, I am frustrated with my body and the fact that I only have 1 pair of long pants that fits and feels good.  Living in South Florida, I'm usually able to forget that fact.

First world problems, I know.

I am surprised at the amount of guilt I feel for taking this time away.  I have gone on numerous retreats in the past and not felt any guilt at all.  Of course, I wasn't usually taking retreats back to back, and I've rarely been gone this long.  In the past, often my spouse would come with me--this year, he's teaching.

But I am also aware of how lucky I am to be able to do this.  I have a boss and a workplace that supports this time away.  I have a self-sufficient department that is not likely to need me next week.  My spouse is also supportive, although we will miss each other.

And how wonderful that we will miss each other, even though we've been together for decades.  Not everyone is so fortunate.

So, let me continue to try to shift my focus from anxiety and guilt to gratitude for these opportunities.

Rites of Spring

This week-end, I took part in one of the ancient Spring rituals:  the doing of the taxes.  It's not hard, but it does take lots of time.

I was already mostly organized, because I did a mock tax prep in November to make sure we were on track.  I wanted to find out if it would be smart to increase our charitable giving--it was.  And yes, I'd rather give money to charities than to the U.S. government if I can arrange it.

On Saturday, I did the final organizing which involved looking through credit card statements for anything I might have missed and doing some final tallying.  On Sunday, I loaded the TurboTax software--the first try installed wrong, so I uninstalled and reinstalled.  I took note of how calm I was--once I would have been a trembling mess.

And then, I did the data entry.  Type, type, type.  Even with data imported from past years, we had a lot of new data:  my spouse worked a new adjunct job, as did I.  We had different charities to enter.  I had to delete documents from past years--my spouse's self-employed business materials, as he is not doing much budget consulting these days.

Each year, I try to do some analysis along the way.  How are we spending our money?  If a future scholar had only these documents, would we be seen as living according to our values?  Or to put it another way, do we put our money where our mouth is?

I do spend a bit of time thinking about the future and wondering if we're putting away enough money.  I think so, but I'll confess that I could dream up multiple scenarios which would wipe us out in a year or two.

I know that other people celebrated spring with parties or with gardening.  There were moments yesterday when I wished I was doing something different.  And yet, the taxes must get done, and the week-ends left to do them are almost non-existent, given my upcoming travel schedule.

More on that later.  Now it's time for today's tasks:  spin class and work.

Life Reminders from Palm Sunday and Spring

Today churches across Christendom will celebrate Palm Sunday, the day when Jesus rides triumphantly into Jerusalem.  Of course, the same crowd that cheers for Jesus will just a few days later be screaming for his death.  Many churches will cover the whole Holy Week story today:  Palm Sunday has become Passion Sunday.

It is also the first day of Spring here in our hemisphere.  Here are some thoughts swirling in my brain this particular Palm Sunday and Spring:

--Palm Sunday shows us the folly of fame.  People may love you on one day and cry out for your crucifixion 5 days later.

--Spring, however, reminds us that the days of winter will not last forever. 

--Does every religion have a cycle of days that reminds humans that resurrection is not only possible but promised?  I think so.

--It's strange celebrating Spring down here in South Florida, where we haven't had winter, and we barely had any chilly days.  Still, through the years, I've noticed that in March, certain trees seem to bloom more brilliantly. Last year it was the yellow tabulinas.  This year, the bougainvillea blossoms seem a more technicolor hue than usual.

--Spring also reminds me that the shrubbery/trees that don't bloom brightly one year might be shining in a future year.  Spring reminds me not to give up.

--The Palm/Passion story reminds me that it's not about me, that we're characters in a larger narrative (as does the Passover story, which people across the world will be hearing this week too, in some Christian traditions, and next month, in the Jewish tradition).  We will find ourselves in great danger if we start to believe it's all about us, personally.

--I find many values to being part of a religious tradition, but the constant reminder of the larger vision, the larger mission, is one of the most valuable to me.  The world tells me that many things are important:  fame, money, famous/rich people, a big house, a swell car, loads of stuff.  My religious tradition reminds me of the moth-eaten nature of these things that the world would have me believe is important.  My religious tradition reminds me of the importance of the larger vision.  And happily, my religious tradition is expansive enough that my creative work can be part of that larger vision.

--Spring shows us that many types of work can contribute to the garden.  That, too, is an important message for me right now.

Harvest at the Urban Homestead

We have spent the week eating tomatoes from our garden--welcome to the topsy-turvy South Florida growing season.  That sentence makes it sound like we have a lush space with a brimming crop of tomatoes.

Not so.  We pick one here and one there from a tangle of vines that are quickly dying.  One pot with a spindly vine gave us one tomato, but that was one more than we were expecting.  We have about 5 pots in the back that some sort of pest ate to stalks, and I procrastinated in pulling them up--lo and behold, they came back and gave us a few tomatoes.

But the true surprise is the plant in the front flower box that's attached to the house.  I had some portable flower boxes that I wanted to empty out to use for herbs.  I transplanted the flowers to the permanent front box, and I also transplanted the tomato seedling that was sprouting.  I didn't expect it to do as well as it has.

It would probably do better if I paid more attention to it.  Sigh.  I try not to see its browning leaves as recrimination.  It's part of the life cycle.

I think of the dreams I had in my younger years, dreams of a homestead, dreams of being self-sufficient and growing my own food.  We likely would have starved.

Of course, if homesteading was my only job, I could pay more attention to it.

My spouse does a better job with consistent watering in the back. And those plants aren't in better shape.  So maybe it's not me.

We have a harsh climate here, although you might think otherwise, with our lack of freezing temperatures.  But much of the year, the sun shines from a harsh angle, frying delicate plants.  And many vegetables need cooler nights to grow their offspring.

I've gotten a poem out of this year's harvest time.  I read Luisa A. Igloria's poem on the Via Negativa site, and thought about my own experience with seeds.  And then I wrote one of my own.

Go here to read it.

Society: Transform It or Explode It?

I've been reading two 500 page books at the same time, always an interesting experience.  What makes it even more interesting is that each book explores the lives and times of a group of idealists.

I first began reading The Fellowship:  The Literary Lives of the Inklings, by Philip Zaleski and Carol Zaleski.  It looks at the literary and spiritual lives of the intellectual group, The Inklings, which included J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis.

Then I needed more time to finish it--because it is a big book, after all.  I was at the end of the allowed renewals.  So on Feb.19, I went to the library to turn it in and then check it back out again.

While I was there, I also got Bryan Burrough’s Days of Rage, about the explosive activism of the 70's.  The author's thesis says that most Americans don't know about these groups, but I did, good Sociology major and social justice activist that I am.  Still, it's been interesting, although I'm learning more about bomb locations than I really care about.

Through the month of February and the early weeks of March, I would pick up one and then the other.  And lately, I've been thinking about the contrast between the two groups that each book explores.  In light of our current political season, these ideas seem ever more relevant.

Much of the explosive anger that Burrough describes is rooted in a vision for a different America, a vision that is thwarted in so many ways.  For some groups, it seems tantalizingly close.  Other groups never have a chance at the societal--or personal--transformations which they crave.

If any of these groups have a spiritual grounding, Burrough doesn't explore it.  My research has told me that these groups did not.  Other groups that emerged out of the various movements of the 60's did have a spiritual base, and many of them are still active and transformative.

And then you have the Inklings, who envisioned a variety of different worlds, and who were very rooted in Christian disciplines.  These were men who many of them suffered losses far more severe than those suffered by the people whom Burrough describes--and they don't turn to incendiary devices.

Why do some people abandon their social justice work altogether?  Why do some turn to destruction when transformation seems impossible?  What keeps some of us working quietly towards the vision described by the most eloquent prophets?

Those are questions that have haunted me for much of my life, and I don't expect to settle them fully.  I do suspect that the answer lies in the spiritual life and disciplines of each person and group.

March Madness and Lucky Charms

I heard a news clip that had someone trying to explain March Madness, the basketball variety.

When I think of March Madness these days, my brain goes to the traffic in the South Florida area.  It's been heavy since October, but this month has been especially aggravating. 

On Wednesday, I staff the office for the evening hours, so I head home between 8 and 9.  Usually one of the advantages to those late hours is that I zip right home in under 15 minutes.

But not last night.  It wasn't as bad as trying to leave the office at 5 p.m., but it took me 30 minutes to drive the 8 miles home.

But enough about my woes.  Let's turn our attention to poetry!  I'm happy to report that 2 of my poems have been published at the wonderful Escape into Life site.  I'm always interested to see what editor Kathleen Kirk creates with the intersection of art and poetry, and this feature was no exception.

The theme:  Lucky Charms; my poems "Talismans and Treasures" and "Praying the Breviary at 30,000 Feet"--one of my poems takes a somewhat traditional approach and one less so--can you guess which is which by the titles alone?

Go here to see if you've guessed correctly; you'll need to scroll down to find my poems.  Along the way, you can see how all of the poems interact with each other, and how they interact with the art.

And if you like seeing how poems interact with each other, you still have time to order my forthcoming chapbook, Life in the Holocene Extinction.

I love the title of the chapbook, but I do worry that people will think of it as too bleak.  What I didn't anticipate:  that people might not realize we're in the middle of the 6th mass extinction for our planet, and that some have labeled it the Holocene Extinction.

But my collection is not altogether bleak, although it does ask the question:  "How shall we continue in our daily life in the middle of a catastrophe, a catastrophe we do not comprehend fully?"

The answers are varied:  shopping, finding meaning in work, caretaking, strengthening our relationships, spiritual practices, and engaging creatively.

So, order now, while it's on your mind--avoid the last minute rush!  And order some extra copies--poetry makes a great gift!

To order, go here.

Reasons for Hope in a Season of Rejection

--If you're looking for something to help you feel hopeful again, see this post on my theology blog.  I love the story of Christians at a Trump rally on Monday who linked arms to form a human barrier between different protesters who might otherwise have tried to hurt each other physically.

--I know that Christians don't always act on their faithful convictions.  That makes these kinds of stories even more valuable to me.

--I noticed that the national news had nothing about this story.  I confess I have not done an exhaustive search.

--Last night, I got home and took advantage of the extra hour of daylight to spray weedkiller on the sprouts that persist in pushing up between the paver bricks.  And then I headed inside to listen to campaign results.

--Although I haven't always liked him, I felt sad for Marco Rubio.  I felt the same when Jeb Bush left the race.

--Why would I feel sad?  Because they once had so much promise, but now cannot go forward?  Perhaps.  Because they are fellow Floridians?  No, that's not it.  They seemed legitimate, in ways that others did not--thus, I didn't feel sad when the dilettantes left the race.  But Rubio and Bush once had potential, and may still.  I understand how it feels to be thwarted, even if it may be temporary.

--I worry that we're in a season of rejection.  I worry about what's coming.

--So yes, let me return to the activities that give me hope.  Tomorrow I'll finish my latest piece on the Purgatory Project:  God on retreat. 

--What I'd really like to do:  some sewing of straight seams.  That would be soothing.

--But that's not my day today--off to spin class, which soothes in a different way.  And then my long day at work.  But I've brought poetry notebooks.  It's time to type new work into old computers.

A Poem for a Later Super Tuesday

We are close to the midpoint time of the ordering period for my chapbook; you have until April 22 to order during this very important time.  Go here to order your copy.  It will ship in June, and you'll have a lovely summer treat. 

You may ask, why not wait to order until it's ready?  Because the press run is determined by how many books are ordered in this time period.  If the sales reach certain levels, more books are published, and since a second printing is unlikely, it would be great to make it to some of those higher levels.

Here's a poem to whet your appetite; it seems a good choice for this day when many of us head to the polls, an additional Super Tuesday which may determine political fortunes and which may scare/sadden/anger many of us:

Restoring the Seams

She used to count every rib,
a loom around her heart,
like the Appalachian tool
that spools honey into her tea.

But years of good food and wine
now hide her ribcage.
She lets the seams
out of the side of her favorite
dress, a dress bought long ago,
a dress stitched by a distant
woman in Afghanistan in a different decade.

She thinks of that country
come undone, torn and shredded.
She slides the seam ripper
under threads made softer
by the humidity of many Southern summers.

She thinks of distant graveyards,
young men buried in alien
landscapes. She thinks of English ivy,
that invasive immigrant, clinging
to the marble markers,
obscuring the names beneath.

Hours later, half blind from restoring
seams, she walks the woods
of a neighboring monastery.

The monks have reclaimed
an old slave cemetery, but a toppled
angel lies face down in the rich dirt.
She sets the angel upright
and brushes soil off her half-eroded features.

This poem was published in Adanna.  It's a poem that wouldn't exist without a variety of other people's thoughts and pictures on their blogs.  For more on that process, head on over to this post I wrote when I first wrote the poem.

To see how this poem interacts with others, order my forthcoming chapbook, Life in the Holocene Extinction,  here.

Of Bobbins, Bug Spray, and Trump's Visit to a Lutheran School

--I smell of citronella candle smoke and bug spray.  We spent much of yesterday afternoon sitting on the porch--what a lovely day!  My spouse had been away at a Board of Trustees meeting, so it was good to catch up.

--I spent much of the week-end working on quilts for Lutheran World Relief.  Although I spent 6 hours, I still don't feel like I'm making much progress.

--However, I did learn how to place the bobbin in the slot of the sewing machine so that it operates properly instead of snarling.  That doesn't seem like such an accomplishment, but the directions and drawings in the manual took some serious deciphering.

--What did the rest of the week-end contain?  It was a good reading week-end.  I finished The Fellowship:  The Literary Lives of the Inklings and Inferno.

--It was a good writing week-end.  I got another piece for our Purgatory Project written.  I got 2 partial drafts of poems written.

--Over the week-end, I learned that today at 10 a.m., Donald Trump will speak at Lenoir-Rhyne, a small, liberal arts Lutheran college very much like Newberry College, my undergraduate school.  I have many thoughts about this, but the Bishop of the North Carolina Synod says it better than I can, with great eloquence, in his recent Facebook post.  Go here to read it.

--Why would Trump choose a small, liberal arts Lutheran school whose students are on Spring Break?  Was UNC-Chapel Hill closed to him?  Were there no community colleges willing to host him?

--I'm guessing that it shows how little he knows about religion in contemporary America.  I'm guessing he's thinking he's going to a right-wing Christian kind of school.

--I know that Lutherans all over the country have headed to NC to protest Trump's visit today.  I wonder if it will be the unruly kind of protest that we saw over the week-end.  If it's left up to the Lutherans, it will be polite and full of grace--perhaps some singing, but nothing violent.  If it's up to the thuggish elements that this candidate has begun to attract, well, all bets are off.

--I say that, but I don't believe it.  All bets won't be off when middle-aged to older, polite, religious people are attacked.  The whole culture can be changed--we saw this in the Civil Rights Movement.

--Meanwhile, my day is likely to be ordinary.  I am not unhappy about that--although part of me wishes I could be in North Carolina to witness events for myself--and to join my Lutheran brothers and sisters in resistance.

Tolkien Between the Wars

I have been thoroughly enjoying The Fellowship:  The Literary Lives of the Inklings, by Philip Zaleski and Carol Zaleski.  It looks at the literary and spiritual lives of the intellectual group, The Inklings, which included J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis.

I particularly enjoyed the depiction of life between World War I and World War II, when the group members worked on individual projects and came together to read writing in progress, to drink, to have theological discussions, and to support each other.

This passage that described the life Tolkien lived just after publication of The Hobbit moved me.  It asks the question of whether or not Tolkien was happy, with a rather ordinary middle class life of family and teaching and writing.  The answer:

"On the whole, yes.  . . . The truth is that he was often depressed about his own work and the world around him, but he was also in many ways a profoundly contented man.  He loved his family, his friends, his writing, his painting; he knew their flaws, but they neither surprised nor embittered him.  His domesticity instilled a quiet stability that enabled him to navigate through life without the dramatic conversions and intellectual combativeness so characteristic of Lewis.  He found at home a refuge that rarely failed him" (p. 212).

His Catholic faith sustained him too:  he went to Mass daily.  "Yet underlying his pessimism about humanity was an indomitable hope, born, as surely as his pessimism, from his Catholic faith.  Belief in the ultimate triumph of good over evil, light over darkness, logos over chaos, bestowed upon all the oppositions in his life--scholarship and art, male friendship and marriage, high spirits and despair--a final and satisfying unity, a deep and abiding joy" (p. 213).

As I read this passage, I felt a sense of foreboding, as I know the historical events that will be rising up to meet this group.  I suspect, though, that what sustains Tolkien between the wars will sustain him during World War II and beyond.

My Night in a Nineteenth Century Novel

I had a great reading day yesterday.  I had thought it might be a great writing day, but by the end of the day, I was too tired to do much.  Happily, there were books to read.

 

In the early morning hours, I got an e-mail from my partner-in-reading, the one who inspired my reading of Hard Times and Inferno.  We had decided that we were going to read Middlemarch next, and my partner-in-reading had downloaded the audiobook from the library for the trip she was taking yesterday.

 

I didn't want to be left behind, so I slipped away from the very quiet office yesterday morning to go to the downtown Main branch of the public library.  I got Middlemarch, along with My Life in Middlemarch by Rebecca Mead and The Year of Reading Dangerously by Andy Miller.  I was glad to pick up Jane Smiley's Golden Age, the 3rd book in the trilogy I started reading almost a year ago.  I picked up some books on journaling, because I'm leading a workshop next month--I could do it without the books, but I was in the library, and they were there, so I got them.

 

Throughout the day in the office, when I needed a break, instead of heading over to Facebook, I read another canto or two of Dante's Inferno.  I am so intrigued by Mary Jo Bang's translation; she's making such interesting choices in how she weaves contemporary references, and how well it works.  I plan to finish that book this week-end.  My partner-in-reading finished long ago and went on to read Purgatorio.  I'm trying not to feel inadequate.

 

I got home and tried to do some writing, but nothing was coming easily, despite the fact that I had mapped it out in my head earlier, both a short story (for my activists at age 50 collection) and my latest piece for the Purgatory project.  I decided to abandon the struggle.  I did some grading of late submissions from my online students.  I finished completing my e-mail address list for book promotion.  And then it was time to read.

 

I am in the middle of so many books:  the one about the Inklings, Inferno, and on Thursday night, I read the introduction to Mary Karr's book about the memoir.  But I wanted to read Middlemarch--and I was hooked from the first chapter.

 

I had forgotten how funny the book is.  I had forgotten the appeal of Dorothea--and how interesting that she's appealing.  In the hands of a different novelist, she'd be the self-righteous prig who was being set up for a horrible come-uppance.

 

I remember the plotline enough to remember that yes, indeed, Dorothea will have her come-uppance.  But we won't cheer.  At least, I won't.  Poor Dorothea.  When I first read the book, long ago in 1988, I didn't see what a bad choice she was making.  Now, even if I didn't know the plot, I'd still say, "She wants to marry that pitiful man?"  And I see myself in her more than I once did.  Oh yes I do.

 

I went to bed last night thinking I'd read something lighter, in bed, just before I turned off the light.  But I really wanted more Middlemarch.  So I got up, padded out to the living room, got the book, returned to bed, and read another chapter.

 

Last night was such a different experience from grad school, when I was reading the book as one of the last ones for the Victorian Novel class, and I had a tight timeline.  I did not stop to delight in the language or to savor any of the scenes.  I had to finish the book.  I had a paper to write.

 

And that paper, which had nothing to do with Middlemarch, would go on to be the cornerstone of my dissertation--I wrote about domestic violence in Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights.

 

It is wonderful to revisit these Victorian novels again, now that I have a few more decades of experience and time to savor.  It's interesting that I still feel like there's not enough time to read.  Never enough time to read.

 

 

Defending Intellectual Freedom and Building Consensus

One of the facets of administrative life which is often a frustration is that I never know what each day will bring.  Will it be quiet?  Will I see a steady stream of students with a variety of complaints?  What faculty problems will need to be solved?  What joys will I share?

Yesterday seemed on track to be one of the quiet days.  We have people who are out on personal leave, so I knew we were unlikely to have meetings.  In the middle of the day, I went upstairs to share a coffee with a colleague--she brings the coffee in and makes it in a drip pot, with one of those special, non-artificial, cream concoctions.  It was delicious.  I went back to my office feeling perky with a boost from caffeine and good conversation.

I was going to need that energy.  In the half hour I was gone, controversy had overtaken my inbox.

Some background:  for many months, one of my department's faculty members has displayed student artwork in the library--the students create final projects, using the medium(s) of their choice, to prove that they understand one of the concepts the class has studied.  So far, the display has received nothing but praise.

Yesterday, one of the students took great offense to two of the projects that talked about the status of women throughout the world.  In an attempt to de-escalate the situation, the librarian took down the two pieces.

I spent the afternoon dealing with the fallout.  I spent two hours crafting an e-mail in response to the exchange between the librarian and the faculty member.  I met with various people, both by way of phone and in offices.  We were all wrestling with the issue of how one creates a welcoming space without sacrificing intellectual freedom and first amendment rights.

Let me stress that the artwork was not as explicit as some of the projects I've seen.  And there were no outrageous claims--the statistics can be backed up by facts.  And yes, those facts are horrifying, but I'm not about to deny them just because they display some countries, countries of origin of some of our students, in an unflattering light.

In the end, we decided that we'd put the artwork back up, and I did.  I left a stack of my cards with the librarian so that upset students can come to me if they want to talk about the status of women, the pedagogy of my department's classes, and the protections afforded by the U.S. Constitution.  Students who are still upset can write a letter to the Library Committee, who will respond.

Of course, I don't expect any visitors.  We've never had complaints before.

I left work feeling both pleasantly exhausted and happy that I spent the afternoon wrestling with very important issues.  I spent a few moments thinking about consensus building, which had consumed a large part of my afternoon, and how difficult the process can be.

Difficult is perhaps the wrong word.  Maybe I mean time-consuming.  Cyclical also comes to mind.

It's something they don't teach in leadership training sessions.  No one ever says, "You will have difficult conversations and move to stages where community is stronger.  And then, 2 months later, you will again have to have difficult conversations which will strengthen your community.  Some of those conversations will be exactly the same two months later or six months later or three years later."

I understand why people decide that community building is just too hard.  I have more sympathy for the U.S. Congress than most people might have.  I understand the frustration of having to get along with all those people and how many of them must have decided to just be done with it.  I also understand why no leader has emerged who can do or even wants to do the work of bringing that particular community together.

I understand why people want to leave their jobs, their families, their churches and other communities--the work of community and consensus building is so cyclical that it's easy to believe we're making no progress, that life would be better elsewhere.  Some times, of course, that's true.  But we often forget that we will be taking ourselves with us wherever we go.  We will be building community with quirky humans no matter the setting.

I have a tendency towards being an autocrat because it's more efficient.  But I also understand, deeply, the importance of consensus and reconciliation.  It's a tension that I walk most weeks.

Dreaming New Dreams with Harriet Tubman

Today, Harriet Tubman died in 1913 and Sojourner Truth in died 1883. Think about that for a minute.  What long lives they both had--Tubman in particular.

Think about how much change Harriet Tubman saw. She was born around 1820 and spent her early years as a slave in Maryland. The next part of the story is probably most familiar, the part where she makes her escape to freedom, and she goes back to rescue others, not once, but at least 13 times.

Harriet Tubman has been one of my heroes since I was a little girl and first read about her. My school library had a biography section, with that series about notable Americans, each book bound in orange. I read my way through the whole series and returned to ones I loved. Did I learn about Harriet Tubman there or elsewhere? No matter.

I've written about Tubman before, most notably about my view of her as a model for managers here and in some of the ways that Tubman and Southern history haunt my poems here. But today, as I again read about her at The Writer's Almanac site, I learned about the ways that she avoided capture: "She used ingenious diversions to avoid being caught, like carrying two live chickens with her so that she appeared to be going on an errand. She worked coded messages into spirituals and hymns, and the singing of them spread her instructions from slave to slave. Once she evaded capture by simply pretending to read a newspaper — since it was well known that Harriet Tubman was illiterate. She traveled in winter, when folks who had homes were usually inclined to stay in them, and she scheduled departures for Friday nights because "escaped slave" notices couldn't be published until the following Monday."

What creativity! It makes me think about our own time, about our own approaches.

I hesitate to move in this direction, since I don't want anyone to accuse me of trivializing slavery. But this morning, as I'm reading about Harriet Tubman and her can-do attitude, I'm thinking about conversations that I've had over the past several weeks. It's an interesting time to be working in the field of education, and as you can imagine, many of us have been talking about the future of education. Some people I've talked to have become completely demoralized and defeated and just hope to hold on until retirement. I've talked to some people who are energized by recent developments in technology and can hardly wait to see what the future brings--and if there are some scoffers and doubters who would like to strip us all of our paychecks and benefits, these enthusiastic types just dismiss them by reminding us that there have always been scoffers. I've talked to several people who say, "Well, what else is there to do? How shall we get our health insurance?"

I want to get back to thinking about the future in these terms: what would I do, if I believed that anything was possible? What do I enjoy doing? To put it in theological terms I want to structure my future in the way that Frederick Buechner would advise in his book Wishful Thinking: "The place God calls you to is where your deep gladness and the world's deep hunger meet."

What is the world's deep hunger? What are my deep gladnessess? Blogging brings me deep gladness these days. So does the writing of poetry. What are the world's deep hungers that my blogging and poems could meet?

The cynic would now sneer, "Yeah, this is all very well and good, but back to that issue of health insurance--how will you pay for all the insurances you require as a woman at mid-life, not to mention how you'll put bread on the table."

To which, on this Spring morning when the gusty winds seem to sweep away all doubts, I would say, "Shut up, cynic." My life has taught me that there are more pathways out there than I can comprehend. I've had nice, comfortable jobs, and I've had times in my life where I relied on synchronicity and good luck and a benevolent universe (and to return to theology, on God). And guess what? I didn't go bankrupt and I didn't lose my house. I got to have marvelous adventures when I was in the synchronicity period that I wouldn't have had if I had remained shackled to my decent job with a good retirement package and health insurance.

Let me have the spirit of Sojourner Truth, who worked tirelessly for social justice, even when she envisioned a better world that many of her contemporaries couldn't see as possible. Let me have the courage of Harriet Tubman, who led so many to freedom. Let me look up from my safe life to see the revelations that are all around me.

A Day Off to Relax

I took a day off from work yesterday to spend some quality time with my spouse's family.  His dad and step-mom had spent Monday doing a touristy thing--the Key Biscayne lighthouse--so they were happy to spend much of yesterday relaxing at our house.

First, we went out to get ingredients for our planned feast:  chickens at Doris' Italian Market and ingredients for banana pudding and charcoal at the regular grocery store.  As always, we made too much food--my spouse wanted to smoke 4 chickens and grill 2.  We thought we'd have 8 adults over to eat, but my brother-in-law's grown children decided not to come.

So we have leftovers for days, which is fine.  We have freezer space, and it's good to have food for later.  We had a great time with our big meal poolside at noon.

By later afternoon, we needed a walk, and so we headed for the beach.  We got beer and pizza at the organic brewery.  It was almost too breezy--it's been windy for days.  But I was glad that the beach was not as crowded and chaotic feeling as it was on Sunday.  The high part of our tourist season has felt more hectic and road-clogged than any other one since we've lived down here.  My in-laws commented on the Monday traffic which left them exhausted.  I understand that feeling.

My favorite memory from yesterday will likely be the time in the organic brewery when we were waiting for our bill.  Suddenly, in a complete change of programming, Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire" started blaring from the speakers--and we all started singing, all 6 of us--and not shyly.  I had a momentary vision of being kicked out of the organic brewery, and I decided it would be worth it.

It's good to have a day off where we focus on relaxing.  It's good to have visitors who like to take it easy.

A Poem for International Women's Day

Today is International Women's Day.  It's intriguing to me that this day was started by various socialist and communist groups--and now we have our first mainstream, female candidate for president running against a socialist--and the fact that he's a socialist doesn't seem to bother people the way it might 40 years ago.

After all, these days, when one says "socialist," most of us think of Scandinavia, not the Communist re-education camps of the 20th century.

Let us also take a minute to consider how amazing it is that the most qualified candidate in this campaign season, in terms of experience, is a woman.  In the past, it wouldn't have been possible for a woman to accumulate enough years of service to make that claim.  Now, even if other candidates had been running, candidates with more years of public service or military service, Clinton's years of service might actually be more impressive.

She may not win, but she will go further than a female in the U.S. has gone before.  And that will clear the way for someone who will win.  After all, we've had women as heads of state in other countries. 

When I was younger, the glass ceiling seemed made of sturdier stuff.  And now we have women who will be allowed in combat, women as heads of corporations, women as Supreme Court justices (more than just 1!) . . . on and on I could go.  We could argue about whether or not we have enough women in these positions, and whether or not women have more barriers than men, but on this day that commemorates women, let us celebrate how far we've come.

But my inner sociologist also insists that we note that many of these gains are available only to those of us in certain countries.  Throughout much of the world, women live very circumscribed lives.  In some cases, that might not be bad--but it's not like women have a choice in the matter.

Here's a poem that addresses this reality.  It's from my forthcoming chapbook, Life in the Holocene Extinction, which you can order here.


Vast Incarnations of Violence

We are the hollow women,
the ones of perilous
journeys: the dash through deserts
of all sorts, across turbulent seas,
always moving from south to north.

We are the hollow women,
the ones who care for your domicile
while elsewhere, you labor
guided by charts that show earnings,
expenses, the sorts of potential
that matter in the modern office.

We are the hollow women,
the ones who leave our children
behind to care for yours.
We agree never to speak
of this bargain. You imagine
that the desert colors of our skin
buy us some sort of emotional protection.

At night we dream of death’s other kingdom:
the militias and rebels,
the vast incarnations of violence.


To see how this poem interacts with others, order my forthcoming chapbook, Life in the Holocene Extinction,  here.  It will ship in June, and you'll have a lovely summer treat. 

You may ask, why not wait to order until it's ready?  Because the press run is determined by how many books are ordered in this time period.

So, celebrate this International Women's Day by ordering a book that will address themes of what it's like to be a woman now.  Or support your favorite women artists in some other way. 

And if you decide to celebrate by giving money to a group that helps women across the globe, that would be a great approach too.

Visitors, both Welcome and Unwelcome

It's been a wonderful week-end, albeit very full.  Much of Saturday was taken up with the training session/faculty meeting at the college where I adjunct--and then my spouse's dad and step-mom arrived.  I went to a wonderful quilt group gathering yesterday, while my spouse and his dad and step-mom went to church.

I've had many occasions to reflect on how lucky I am that I have these people as in-laws.  This week-end was one of those times.

We had been hearing noises in the attic on Saturday night--and off and on for the past week.  Happily, my in-laws were not freaked out.  Instead, they shared their stories of squirrels coming down the fireplace, birds pecking out the side of the house, a rat story or two.

Yesterday, my spouse and his father went up to the attic to see if they could find the source of the banging--clearly a creature was up there.  We'd had traps set all week, because of the skittering noise, but had caught nothing.  Until Saturday night's noises, we thought we had the problem solved or that it was a different problem, like something on the roof.  But the noises throughout Saturday night and Sunday morning made it clear that the problem in the attic might be even bigger--maybe a raccoon up there.

Stop reading now if you're squeamish.

Sunday afternoon, my spouse found a trap with a not-dead-yet rat in it.  It's been quiet since he took care of it.  I'm hopeful that we've solved the problem for now.

We live in an urban area--I've been amazed with how much of a struggle we have to keep creatures out of our houses down here.

But I digress. 

 

I feel bad, since those traps are supposed to be instant kill, and I'm not sure what happened.  Much as I don't like rats and I don't want them in the attic, I don't want them to suffer all night.

 

My father-in-law and step-mom-in-law have been very laid back about it all.  Some would have left shrieking in horror.  They helped us solve the problem--or, to be more accurate, we all stood by my spouse (literally in the case of my father-in-law, metaphorically in the case of us women-folk, who stayed outside), while he solved the problem.

 

And then we walked to the beach, where it was very crowded, and we walked back and played a round of Euchre. We had burgers for dinner, and watched some TV.  And I went to bed very early, because I hadn't gotten much sleep.

 

They are here for a few more days.  Hopefully, we're done with the rodent control part of the visit!

Time and the Alchemy of Transformation

Yesterday I spent much of the day at a training session for a school where I teach online classes as an adjunct--an onground training session.  It was interesting to go to one of these days as a participant, a person in charge of nothing.  In my full-time job, I'd have been the one leading one of the segments--or the whole meeting.

It was an interesting day, although I didn't learn any information that was completely new to me.  I've been teaching since (gulp!) 1988, so I'm familiar with the teaching techniques, although some of the technology is completely different.  I'm aware of the theories of how different generations learn and what they value, but it's work that I find fascinating, so I liked that presentation and discussion.

It was interesting to spend time with old friends and to realize that although we're now working in a variety of settings, we can still be happy to see each other and reconnect instantly.  I drove over with a friend, and on the way home, I stopped by to see how she and her spouse, who once had an office beside mine, had transformed their backyard cottage.  It's a very small space, and they've done amazing things with it.  Her spouse helped my spouse with our own backyard cottage transformation, and he's one of the few people I know who understand as much about home repair as my spouse.  We spent half an hour talking--it was good to reconnect.

But I knew that my in-laws would be arriving, and so I cut our visit short.  I called my spouse to let him know that I was running late, and I got the news that my in-laws were running early.  They would get home about the same time I did, not the later evening that they had originally planned.

So, the guest room wouldn't be quite ready for them--I had planned to put the closet back together again after my all-day meeting.  I told myself that they would adapt.  I thought about dinner and called my spouse back to talk about the possibility.  Happily, I had put leftover chili in the freezer a few weeks ago.  It wouldn't be enough, but I knew I could stretch it with some tomatoes, beans, and perhaps more beef.

Truth be told, I put it in the freezer when I was unhappy with it but couldn't bear the waste of throwing it away.  But after a slow simmer to defrost, along with some additional spices, the tomatoes, and the beans, we ate a transformed and much better chili. 

I thought of that transformation and the alchemy of transformation that time can sometimes perform.  I think of the colleagues that I saw yesterday and how many of them have managed a similar transformation in a new setting.  I am always happy to see colleagues/friends from a former time, especially when they've gone on to find themselves in a happier place.

Pat Conroy Passes Over that Wide Water

When I was in grad school at the University of South Carolina in the late 80's and early 90's, two literary figures towered over us:  James Dickey and Pat Conroy.  James Dickey was actually part of the faculty still; he came to grad school gatherings and played his guitar.  I never worked with him, but I had friends who did, and they spoke of his huge kindnesses and generosity.

People today will be saying similar things about Pat Conroy, who died yesterday.  I don't remember having any encounters with him in grad school or beyond, when I worked in a community college in the Charleston area, but one of my friends had read all of his works.  We were both slogging away in teaching jobs that left us too exhausted to do much of what we really wanted to do, which was to write.  We took great comfort from her reading of Conroy's The Water is Wide.  Here was a man who had taught under more adverse conditions than the ones we faced, and he still managed to be a writer.

I must have read his books along the way, but they don't stick out in my reading memory.  I was reading so much then.  He was competing with Toni Morrison, with Louise Erdrich, with so many others who mapped the worlds of family and societal dysfunction so brilliantly, so beautifully.

But occasionally, I come across a line of his that takes my breath away.  Here is the opening line of The Prince of Tides:  “My wound is geography. It is also my anchorage, my port of call.”

For more on Conroy's life, see this article in The Post and Courier.  I love the way the article ends: 

"At the end of “The Prince of Tides,” the main character, Tom Wingo, offered what is a fitting epitaph to Conroy’s life:

“He was a coach, a teacher and a well-loved man. And it is enough, Lord. It is enough.” "

 

May we all be so fortunate to live our lives so well so as to be remembered this fondly.

Lunch and the Larger Writerly Tasks at Hand

Yesterday I went for lunch with my writer friend who was once my student.  It seemed like quite an effort to get to our lunch date:  there was traffic and an accident and then construction and then more traffic.  But it was worth it to catch up.

Part of me mourns our lunches of the past, which felt more long and lingering.  But those days are not these days, and I'm trying to be grateful for any moments of connection, even if they're not the ideal. 

As I was driving back to school, I thought of the readings that we used to do.  With a book coming out in late June, I should start thinking about readings and other events for late summer and fall.  Let me capture some ideas.

My sociologist writer friend has recently published a book on the sociology of creativity.  Could we somehow put together a night of readings that might feature her work too?  At some point (soon, Kristin, soon), I should look through my manuscript with an eye to that.

Likewise, I should read with an eye to the work of my friends.  My writer-former student friend has been working on a novel about Louisa May Alcott.  Maybe we could put together a set of readings that showcases history or real authors who have been fictionalized or characters who are made real.  My Hindu writer friend has been crafting amazing poems from fairy tales and short stories from Hindu gods and goddesses.

I also need to make up some fliers and postcards to take with me when I travel.  It will still be the pre-order time period.  I could also think about sending out an e-mail blast in the next week or two.

But for now, let me get ready for the day:  spin class and work and car maintenance and more work.  Hopefully my brain will still keep noodling on the book promotion possibilities, even as I do the work of the day job.

And for those of you who want to order the chapbook in this important pre-publication period, go here--and thank you for your support!

The Mourning Habits of God

It's been the kind of morning where I start a load of laundry and forget to close the washer lid--and so, I'm behind on the kinds of chores that must get done before my in-laws come for their visit on Saturday.

It's been an exhausting week, full of up and down and up again news about home repairs (do we need to upgrade electric?  can we get our new on-demand hot water heater before our ancient water heater collapses from old age?  stay tuned!).  It's the height of registration for Spring quarter at school, which leaves many people crabby.  I am not sleeping well.  I've been fighting off the slight depression that comes after a good visit with loved ones--and perhaps fighting off a cold.

But let me not focus on the negatives.

This morning, knowing that time was short because I slept a bit later than my usual wake up time of 4 or 4:30, I wrote my Purgatory piece about the mourning habits of God first, before I got lost in e-mails or Facebook or research.  But first, some background.  On Tuesday, as I talked with one of my Purgatory co-creators, I made a casual comment about the mourning habits of God--and then I couldn't get it out of my mind.

I thought of Victorian mourning customs, the way people were expected to dress, the two year process moving from blackest black to lighter lavender to signal to others where they were in the mourning process.

I also can't get the John Donne line out of my head, "A bracelet of bright hair about the bone," from "The Relic."  I love, love, love the repetition of b.  I love that image.

And so, in the voice of God, I talked about God's creative practice: 

"I wonder if any of my creatures ever give consideration to my mourning practices. As one who has been creating a long time, I’ve had to suffer a lot of loss too.

I know that some would say, 'Well, aren’t you God? All powerful? Why not just create another creature like the one you’ve lost.'

As I’ve pointed out before, my creative powers do not work like that. I don’t have a magic wand that I can spin and then see in a physical form what I was only able to visualize minutes before. My creative powers take time. I’m the ultimate outsourcer, letting evolution do much of the creative work for me."

In the voice of God, I talked about quilting as metaphor for short-circuiting evolution to bring back a favorite species:

"It’s as if you made a quilt and then, years later, you needed to repair it. You might not be able to find the exact same cloth, so you’d have to make a judicious substitution. And even if you could find the exact same cloth, you alter the quilt by the very act of trying to repair it. Maybe you can love the quilt just the same. But you’ll always realize the difference."

And then I ended this way:

"I engage in a much older mourning custom, designed to keep my lost ones close. I make jewelry out of their DNA, like those Elizabethans with their bracelets made out of the hair of lost loved ones. 

No one knows about my mourning jewelry—they might find it morbid. But I like weaving the patterns of DNA to try to capture the essence of the creature left. Some of my bracelets are chunky and textured. Some are wisps, like the most delicate spiderwebs."

Back to me and my every day, writing/blogging voice.

It's been a good morning, working through the tiredness, following through on an idea.  I'm still finding it intriguing how easy this writing feels.  I'm taking the ease as a good sign.  And it's energizing my co-creators too.  We're having great conversations, and we're inspiring each other--a lake district of our very own!

Society: Transform It or Explode It?

I've been reading two 500 page books at the same time, always an interesting experience.  What makes it even more interesting is that each book explores the lives and times of a group of idealists.

I first began reading The Fellowship:  The Literary Lives of the Inklings, by Philip Zaleski and Carol Zaleski.  It looks at the literary and spiritual lives of the intellectual group, The Inklings, which included J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis.

Then I needed more time to finish it--because it is a big book, after all.  I was at the end of the allowed renewals.  So on Feb.19, I went to the library to turn it in and then check it back out again.

While I was there, I also got Bryan Burrough’s Days of Rage, about the explosive activism of the 70's.  The author's thesis says that most Americans don't know about these groups, but I did, good Sociology major and social justice activist that I am.  Still, it's been interesting, although I'm learning more about bomb locations than I really care about.

Through the month of February and the early weeks of March, I would pick up one and then the other.  And lately, I've been thinking about the contrast between the two groups that each book explores.  In light of our current political season, these ideas seem ever more relevant.

Much of the explosive anger that Burrough describes is rooted in a vision for a different America, a vision that is thwarted in so many ways.  For some groups, it seems tantalizingly close.  Other groups never have a chance at the societal--or personal--transformations which they crave.

If any of these groups have a spiritual grounding, Burrough doesn't explore it.  My research has told me that these groups did not.  Other groups that emerged out of the various movements of the 60's did have a spiritual base, and many of them are still active and transformative.

And then you have the Inklings, who envisioned a variety of different worlds, and who were very rooted in Christian disciplines.  These were men who many of them suffered losses far more severe than those suffered by the people whom Burrough describes--and they don't turn to incendiary devices.

Why do some people abandon their social justice work altogether?  Why do some turn to destruction when transformation seems impossible?  What keeps some of us working quietly towards the vision described by the most eloquent prophets?

Those are questions that have haunted me for much of my life, and I don't expect to settle them fully.  I do suspect that the answer lies in the spiritual life and disciplines of each person and group.

Second Week of Chapbook Sales: Order Now

We are now in the second week of a 8 week pre-publication sales period for my forthcoming chapbook, Life in the Holocene Extinction.  To order, go here.

If you are thinking of buying this book, it's important to order it during this 8 week period, as Finishing Line Press determines how many copies to print based on how many copies are sold during the pre-publication time.

To whet your appetite, here's the title poem:

Life in the Holocene Extinction

I complete the day’s tasks
of e-mails and reports and other paperwork.
I think about which species
have gone extinct
in the amount of time it takes
to troll the Internet.
I squash a mosquito.

He drives to the grocery store
to pick up the few items he needs
for dinner: shark from a distant
sea, wine redolent of minerals from a foreign
soil. He avoids the berries
from a tropical country with lax
control of chemicals.

As she packs up her office,
she thinks about habitat loss,
those orphaned animals stranded
in a world of heat and pavement.
She wishes she had saved
more money while she had a job.
She knows she will lose the house.
She wonders what possessions
will fit into her car.

This poem first appeared at the wonderful online journal, Escape Into Life.  I encourage you to go here to see the wonderful image of a fiber collage that's paired with the poem.

In many ways, this poem encapsulates all the themes of the book, as a title poem should do.  But it leaves out a key element:  this collection also explores what elements of modern life give us hope in the face of all the stresses and calamities we face both individually, as a culture, and as a planet.

So, order now, while it's on your mind--avoid the last minute rush!  And order some extra copies--poetry makes a great gift!

To order, go here.

What Would Future Scholars Say?

We had a great week-end with my sister and 9 year old nephew.  They are Jimmy Buffett fans, so of course, we had to go to Margaritaville, the new resort at Hollywood Beach affiliated with Buffett.  But it was so lovely, sitting by the pool at our house, so hard to leave.

Finally, on Sunday we made our way over.  We watched a Footvolley match that was part of the U.S. Pro Tour.  I had never heard of this sport, much less realized that there was a pro tour, but it was fascinating with its mix of soccer and volleyball.  Then we wandered through the resort.

We didn't stay to eat or have a drink.  We went back to our house to have hot dogs and drinks by our pool--a pool we could actually use, unlike the resort pools.

While sitting by the pool this week-end, I made significant progress through The Fellowship:  The Literary Lives of the Inklings, by Philip Zaleski and Carol Zaleski, the book which looks at the literary and spiritual lives of the intellectual group, The Inklings, which included J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis. I am thoroughly enjoying that book, although I will confess that I am more interested in some chapters than in others.

It does not make me want to read these works--but it does make me think about my own creative groups and what future scholars might say about us.

Sure, we're not famous now, but many of the literary groups that are near and dear to my heart weren't exactly famous in their own time.  It would be more accurate to say that they were famous in one way, but not in the way that we've come to think of them now.

My friends continued to write e-mails about our Purgatory Project.  At one point, I suggested that one of them could write as a future literary critic or historian writing about us, writing our book.  Yes, very meta, I know. 

Yesterday, during spin class, I had a vision of a preface to a collection of scholarly essays, a preface written by the editor on the centennial of the publication of the book that we're just now creating.  By the end of the day, I had it written.  It was great fun, and it flowed out of me 1600 words, effortlessly, unlike the last short story I wrote, which I often eked out paragraph by paragraph, day after day, over several weeks.

It was an interesting experiment, thinking about what others might say, how we might look from a distance.  This morning it was back to writing in the voice of God, which was also effortless.

I can't resist posting the first three paragraphs that I wrote yesterday:

Before we consider each of the artists who created A Pilgrim’s Progress Through Purgatory, let us remind readers a century later that these artists, while supportive of each other, did not see themselves as a group. Although we have chosen to call them the Catharsists, they did not see themselves as a cohesive group, at least not as writers. Early observers of the group might have expected them to transform the world of fiber arts, since that’s the medium they first explored together. But after the first quilt show that they entered, in which the response was mixed, the group seemed to lose interest in fabric as formal art.

Still, what inspired the move from quilting group to writing group? Although many of the members showed some propensity towards writing, few would have expected that they would cohere as a group. And in many ways, it’s a stretch to conceptualize them as a writing group.

They rarely showed each other their unfinished work. They didn’t function as foil or muse for each other, in the way that the Inklings, the group that contained C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien did.They produced no manifesto that any scholar has ever been able to locate. Unlike, say, the Bloomsbury group of early 20th century London or the Lake District group of Wordsworth and Coleridge, our Catharsists did not see themselves as challenging any particular status quo in terms of the literary world. Indeed, at first, they were simply having a good time and taking a break from what they considered their more serious work."

Indeed--we are having a good time--my favorite chunk from this morning, where I wrote in the voice of God: 

"But real life isn’t like that. I’m no quantum physicist, so I have trouble explaining it. You’ll just have to see for yourself. Time isn’t linear. Time isn’t cyclical. But those two statements, which might seem contradictory, can’t capture the totality of time.

As you see, there’s a reason why I’ve outsourced the broadcasting of my thoughts to the prophets, the Psalmists, the theologians, the poets—outsourced with varying success, I will be the first to admit."

I look forward to seeing where our writing takes us this week.