Writing in a Time of Tumult

Last night, I met my Hindu writer friend at our favorite Panera.  I usually get there first, depending on how long I shop at Trader Joe's along the way, and I try to remember to bring a book of poetry with me.  Last night's book was Anna Leahy's Aperture.  I loved all of the personas that the poems inhabited, but this morning, my brain keeps coming back to the cycle of poems that explored the missing mothers of The Wizard of Oz.  I never thought about the Tin Man or the Scarecrow having a mother--intriguing!

My writer friend and I used to get together to exchange short stories, but we're both writing more sporadically now.  We used to get together to go to readings or to plan readings of our own--I hope some day to do that again, but we are neither of us in that space now.  It's hard enough to meet for dinner.

We've known each other a long time, she reminds me periodically as we met.  It's a nicer way of reminding me that we're not the much younger selves we once were.

She reminds me of many important things.  I tend to say that I'm not writing much, and she scoffs.  She reminds me of my daily blogging.

I came home and read a bit as my spouse watched the World Series, with its record breaking heat--and I don't mean the skill of the baseball players.  This morning I listened to this interview on Fresh Air with Jeff Gooddell, a journalist who has written a book on climate change, The Water Will Come.  He reminds us that water will always win.  Sigh.

I got an idea for a poem--or is it a business?  I had a vision of cruise ships that will take us to the edge of climate chaos--or into the eye of the storm.  We could go to the poles to see them melt and anchor offshore to watch catastrophic fire.  For the extreme tourist, the ship could go right into hurricanes.  I thought about the Titanic and icebergs that are no longer around to threaten it.

I wrote a poem, but I can't decide if it has potential.  I wrote a theological post for Reformation Sunday, and I particularly like this paragraph:  "It's been a tumultuous year for many of us, a year of natural disasters, a year of discovering how far apart we are politically, a world where we might feel like history is in rewind mode, and we're afraid of what year our time machine might land."

The time machine chunk is missing a word or two, but I'm going to leave it.

I also wrote part of my story that's a variation of "The Things They Carried." I wrote from the perspective of the building:  "In the end, the building stood by itself. The building had thought that it would miss the hustle and bustle of the school, but it was surprised to find that it didn’t miss the drama that comes when students gather in a place. The sadness that had soaked into every fiber of the school slowly dissipated until the building felt so buoyant that it might leave its foundation and float away to sea."

So, yes, my friend is right--I am still writing.  I want to record and remember that writing a bit each day can still provide progress.  It may not be with the blazing heat of my youth, but it brings its own benefits.  By the time I actually return to a work, I've had some time to plot and plan.  I may not be writing as many stories in a year, but I'm not discarding as many either.