Week-end Recap and a Look ahead at the Coming Week

It has been a good week-end; I haven't meant not to blog this week-end.  My basal cell skin cancer removal on late Friday afternoon went well.  In fact, it was the easiest skin cancer removal yet.  Is it because it was on my back, so I couldn't see what was happening?

Whatever the reason, I'm always grateful for easy medical operations.  

We had a week-end similar to so many, filled with cooking, baking, running errands, looking at mindless TV and mindful internet wandering, both together and apart.

In some ways, my Sunday was easier than most Sundays.  We had a group of seminarians and college students staying at the church.   They were in town for the race, and they slept and had meals at the church, which they've done every time they're in town. The seminarian preached 2 great sermons, both the youth sermon and the other one, and he and 2 friends assisted with communion. Their enthusiasm for life in all its facets made me feel like maybe civilization has a chance after all.

I didn't have to craft a sermon for yesterday, but I still spent time writing a sermon--I won't be with my congregation this coming Sunday, so I'll need to have a sermon to them.  I had hoped to have it ready to leave at the church yesterday, but it was not to be.  I got a draft done, but it was still in rough shape yesterday.

This morning, I've done some revising, and I'm happy that it's stronger now.  I'll put it aside, do one or two more revisions and call it done.

This week will be one of schedule disruptions.  Tomorrow, all classes are cancelled so that we can all participate in Pioneer Scholars day, where we'll have presentations of all sorts.  Faculty are required to be on hand for a variety of support.  I am judging a fine arts competition.

At the end of the week, I will be up the hill at Lutheridge, for my beloved Create in Me retreat.  I haven't really thought about the retreat too much at this point--I'm not that kind of member of the planning team.  I am somewhat surprised to find myself here, speeding to the end of the semester. 

The Week in Science: Astronauts and Biopsies

I slept a bit later today, so my writing time is short.  Let me capture a few snippets.

--I think of the Artemis mission astronauts heading back to Earth today.  I read about all the processes that have to happen for them to have a safe return and not burn up in re-entry or sink to the bottom of the ocean.

--Earlier this week, when war drums rattled with what seemed to be threats of nuclear annihilation, I thought of the astronauts who might have to stay in space longer--but how long is possible?  I thought of all the songs and novels that have stranded astronauts as part of the plot.  Happily these space travelers are returning to a world that has not been decimated by a nuclear weapon.

--It has been a good teaching week, as last paper assignments start to come together.  But we're all tired.  It's palpable.

--I had three spots biopsied when I went to the dermatologist in March.  Happily, two of them are benign, but the one on my back is a Basal cell carcinoma. So I go in later today for additional scraping and burning (but no stitches). And happily, no melanoma.  Not a huge deal--I'm at the point when I feel lucky that it can be done in the office, with no stitches. And it's not a melanoma.

Fan Letter for Forgotten Poem, "The Moon Remembers"

Like many others, I get the occasional e-mail that tells me that the sender can help me find new readers for my brilliant books, millions and millions of readers.  Yesterday I got a different e-mail, an old-fashioned fan letter of sorts.  

The e-mail writer told me that she had selected my poem for a specific reason:  "This is to let you know that as a member of a Lectio Poetry group that met this morning, I chose your poem 'The Moon Remembers' for our session. Because of the recent NASA mission to send humans farther into space than ever before, and to study the dark side of the moon, I felt fortunate to find your poem to share."

The e-mail concluded this way, "In this world of chaos, 'The Moon Remembers' gave us an hour of peace, of joy, of hope."

Wow--what writer could hope for more than that?  I mean that sincerely.  It is one of the reasons I write, in the hopes of bringing something positive to people.

I don't get many fan letters anymore, and the ones that I get are usually about "Heaven on Earth," perhaps my most famous poem, read on Garrison Keillor's The Writer's Almanac.  Yesterday's e-mail referenced "The Moon Remembers."  It's a poem I barely remember writing, and at first, I wondered if she was writing to the wrong poet.

Happily, my blog answers many a question for me.  I posted it in this blog post, and I'm guessing that's how the group leader found my poem.  Even though it's not one of the poems I remember, I'm still happy with it.

Let me post it here again, as I also say a prayer for the Artemis Mission which returns home Friday:

The Moon Remembers

                “I sing and the moon shudders"
                            Li Po, “Drinking Alone by Moonlight”



The moon does not approve of elementary choir
masters who stop the rehearsal, make each quivering
child sing a solo to find the one
who is off key. The helpless moon, marooned
so far away, wishes she could offer sanctuary.

The moon knows what the choir master forgets.

The moon doesn’t understand scales or the division
of voices into the caste systems of chorus:
superior sopranos, dowdy altos, basses as the bubble
of depth holding us up, the star tenor.

The moon remembers what the choir master forgets.

The moon sees our best selves as we sing:
the lonely driver late at night, singing to stay awake,
the melancholy mother, humming Christmas carols
to cheer the babies, the desperate lover
serenading the empty window.

The moon remembers what we all forget.

The moon knows that if we believed in our songs,
strengthened our fragile voices, and sang
as if we meant it, then galaxies would blow
to bits as the universe expands.

Things that Go Bump in the Night

Yesterday morning Trump made a bizarre threat about wiping out a great nation at 8 p.m. EST and ended his post praising the people he had just threatened.  Was he threatening a nuclear weapon?  It sounded like he was, but he's sounded that way before.

Still, I spent the day feeling wary and also darkly amused.  When took my interstate exit to go home in the afternoon, I thought about topping off my gas tank.  If Trump dropped a nuclear weapon at 8 p.m., what would gas prices be on Thursday morning, when I did need more gas?  

During the day, I also reverted to some cold war thinking, some cold war math problems:  if a nuclear bomb is dropped half a world away, how far can radioactive fallout travel?  If there is an electromagnetic pulse, will our electronics be shielded from half a world away?

In the evening, as I waited to see what would happen at 8 p.m., I wrote a letter of recommendation for a student, which seemed like a life affirming thing to do in the face of nuclear threats.  I chatted with my sister on the phone, another life affirming thing to do.  In the last hour before the announcement that the powers that be had backed down, I felt a bit too mind numbed to do much more than listen to a podcast and stare blankly at real estate listings, the way that grown ups amuse themselves when they are too tired to do much else, and the T.V. is too irritating.

Happily, the nuclear night of reckoning has been postponed for another time.  By the time I went to bed, it seemed clear that the latest moment of threat had been resolved in some way.

A few hours later, we both woke up--a noise, like something falling, from a different part of the house.  We listened for a few more minutes and didn't hear anything alarming:  no breaking glass, no voices, no further noises.  We went back to sleep.

This morning, the bird feeder that is attached by suction cups to the sliding glass door is on the deck.  It looks like the bears are awake.  It seems early and cold for bears to be out and about, but then again, what do I really know about the biology/ecology of bears?  

I realize how lucky I am:  I am waking up this morning without war on my doorstep, unlike so many people across the planet.  I am waking up this morning to find that I've had an overnight visitor, but the damage is minimal.

Seeing Clearly and Coldly

I've been up early, an hour earlier than my usual wake up time of 4 a.m.  I decided to go ahead and get up and get a draft of my seminary paper written.  It's due on Thursday, but I had wondered if our professor might extend the due date.  We didn't meet on March 26, so I thought it was possible.  Happily I have a draft of the paper that pleases me, one I'll likely use, even if the due date does get extended.

I finished up the rough draft and went for a walk on this chilly spring morning.  I wanted to see if my camera cleaning had made a difference, and it has.  Here's a picture from Saturday before I cleaned the lens:

And here's a picture taken in less sun but similar weather conditions and time this morning:

I also took this picture:

It inspired a haiku-like creation:

Cold Easter Tuesday

Waning moon held in a claw

Barely budding tree

Easter Sunday Wrap-Up

I am listening to Sting's Nothing Like the Sun.  I am remembering a time that seems long ago now, the first year of grad school, and we were off for Easter, probably just Good Friday and maybe Easter Monday.  I was making hot cross buns with a recipe from The Laurel's Kitchen Bread Book. While the dough rose, I scraped together my last bit of money and went to the local record store, Sounds Familiar, where I bought the double LP, three songs each side.  I spent Easter week-end enthralled.

Yesterday was different, rainy and dreary for most of the day.  I was happy to see the rain--it's been far too dry.  As we do most Sundays, we headed across the mountain to Faith Lutheran in Bristol, TN.

It was a good Easter Sunday.  It's a small, country church, so we don't have what suburban or city churches experience, those folks who show up only for Christmas Eve and Easter.  We are more likely to have brand new visitors on Christmas Eve, not Easter, and even then, it's only one or two.

The church felt full, though, in a similar way yesterday.  It's one of the few days when all members are likely to come, along with some friends and family members tagging along.  In addition, the folks who aren't members but come here and there--they were there too.  It was joyful and a bit noisy.  It was also raining outside, so we don't have as many pictures at the chicken-wire cross covered with flowers; some folks did put flowers on the cross, despite the rain.

We lingered a bit after worship, but it's not the kind of church that has coffee hour afterward, much less an Easter brunch.  Off we went, back across the mountain.

As is often the case for me as a grown up, Easter afternoon was low key.  I felt more wiped out than usual.  Happily, my life is set up so that I can go to bed super early, which is what I did last night.  At one point, I woke up and saw the red streaks of sunset, but not even the possibility of a glorious sunset was enough to rouse me.

This week may be hectic, but it's one of the last full weeks of the semester for me; next week I'll be out on Friday for the Create in Me retreat.  The week after that is a full week again, and then on April 27 and 28, we have the last class day.

That gasping sound you will be hearing across the next few weeks will be me coming up for air.  But these last weeks of busyness feel different--the end is close at hand.  And then, beyond that, summer!

Easter Week-end So Far

Overall, it has been a good week-end.  We don't have any hard and fast Easter week-end traditions:  some years, we make a bunny cake, but most years we don't.  We're always cooking, on Easter week-end or any week-end that we're home.  Some years we watch something with some theology behind it, but not always.

I did some cleaning, as seems right for a week-end that will celebrate resurrection.  I scrubbed down counters, and we washed sheets.  I managed to get the phone case off the phone, which means I could clear out dust and gunk that had been giving my photos a foggy haze--an interesting effect, but nott one I want all the time.  I had been worried to force it off, and it turns out my fears were justified--when I tried to get the case off a year ago, I had started to pry the phone apart--happily, it clicked back into place.

We did lots of cooking and baking.  I baked a special challah for today's worship, along with some shortcakes to go with the strawberries I bought.  But again, cooking and baking is standard at our house.

I got caught up with my grading, although there is still some grading to do.  I wrote my sermon for today (you can read the manuscript in this post on my theology blog).  I went on walks.

We also were the point people to distribute the gate "clickers," the remote that opens the new gate on the back part of the Lutheridge property--it meant we got to see a lot of our neighbors.   One of them brought me these beautiful tulips, which I am sure he grew in his yard:

As always, I am struck by how lucky we are to have a house here.

And now, to put on my festive sandals and head over the mountain to preach and preside at Faith Lutheran, in Bristol, TN.  Worship starts at 10 a.m., and all are welcome.

Good Friday in a Better Place

It is Good Friday, and I'm tired.  But of course I'm tired.  Yesterday I drove down the mountain to teach, drove home, and then my spouse and I drove up I 26 in the opposite direction so that I could preach and preside at Faith Lutheran for Maundy Thursday worship service; for more on that, see this post on my theology blog.

I am reminding myself that I have plenty of time to get all the things done that need to get done today.  The primary thing is grading.  I am caught up at Spartanburg Methodist College, but my online classes need attention.

I also need to write a rough draft of my Easter sermon.  I know what I plan to write, so I am less stressed about that.

But I don't want this blog to just be a catalog of to do lists.  I spent a bit of time looking at old Good Friday posts and thinking about what a strange assortment of experiences I've had.

The body experiences are the ones that come to mind, not the worship experiences:

--In 2022, I went out for my normal walk in the pre-dawn dark and fell and broke my wrist.  There wasn't a clear precipitating event, no trip, no misstep.  One minute I was walking and the next I was falling.  I didn't think I had broken my wrist because it didn't hurt.  I am still a bit spooked by this experience, if we're telling the truth.

--In 2024, I spent the morning of Good Friday in the mammography center getting a more advanced scan.

I've had a wide variety of worship experiences, at various points in the day.  None of them match my memories of childhood Good Friday services, which seemed more dramatic than any other, with tales of torment and spookiness and the big Bible slammed at the end.

I've done a variety of the Stations of the Cross, which always leave me wanting to make my own version, not because I find them lacking but because they are so inspiring.

And of course, there are the days when I have had to work because I was in such a secular setting.  I have always had a liturgical calendar moving alongside my secular life, and they rarely match.

Today, I am in a much better place, both physically (healthy even though I'm carrying 30 pounds more than I would like) and in terms of my work life.  I am grateful on this Good Friday.

Here's a poem from a harder time, back in 2003, a time of many home repairs and infestations.  It was inspired by the time when the termites came out of the ceiling in two places inside the house as they swarmed, and it was awful.  It happened in the spring which made me think of spring holidays:  Easter and Passover, and this poem emerged, published for the first time here:

A Thousand Wings



The termites swarm on Good Friday,
the one day of the year when bread and wine
cannot be consecrated.
The termites fill my book-lined study.
I cannot kill them fast enough.

Finally, I shut the door and weep.
I cry for the Crucified Christ.
I cry for my house, under assault
from insects who have declared war
on wood, as if to avenge His death.
I cry for terrors and tribulations and plagues
that do not pass over.

In the evening, I sweep up a thousand wings.
I dust my shelves and attend to my house,
the way the women must have prepared the corpse,
bathing and anointing with oil

so lost in misery and despair,
resurrection blindsides us,
coming from a direction we could never expect,
a cold tomb, modern chemicals,
a spirit unconquered by minutiae.

A Different Poem for Maundy Thursday

Today is Maundy Thursday, the day that celebrates "The Last Supper" of Jesus.  Of course, it's not the last supper.  After his resurrection, he gets right back to having meals with people, cooking fish on the beach for breakfast.  But it's the last supper on this side of the crucifixion.

If you'd like a serious Maundy Thursday sermon, I've posted the manuscript (which might change a bit between now and tonight's 6:30 worship service at Faith Lutheran in Bristol, TN) in this blog post.

On a less serious note, I pulled a loaf of bread out of the freezer for tonight's worship and realized that I had pulled out a chunk of fatback.  Happily, I realized it right away and pulled out the correct bag that contains bread not pig fat.  I double checked and will double check again, probably several times before I leave for school.

My poet brain is already making connections.  But it won't be in time for today's blog post.

Instead, let me post an earlier poem.  It's never been published, and it's not my favorite Maundy Thursday poem (those are here and here).  I wrote it back in 2012 when I was filling in for one of the deans who was away for a week on vacation.  It was a high traffic time in the dean's office when students would come in to discuss their failures and their options, so the office needed to be staffed.  I was a department chair who volunteered.  It was also Holy Week, which provided me all kinds of interesting parallels and possibilities.

The Dean Hears Student Appeals During Holy Week


On the Monday after Palm
Sunday, the students form
a line outside the office of the Dean.

The students come to protest
their sudden change of fortune.
They’ve always been good
students! They can’t fathom
why they’ve been forced
to leave school.

The dean drifts off during
their pleas. The dean thinks of palm
branches, donkeys, and crowns of thorns.
The dean studies transcripts
and hears sad tales of woe.
Like Pontius Pilate,
the dean, several steps removed, asks
questions but never knows for sure:
each decision, a shot in the dark.

Unlike Pontius Pilate, the dean never
has scrubbed hands. The dean listens
to each appeal and offers second
chances, even if undeserved,
a gleam of grace
in a world where redemption
seems impossible.

Running, Running, Running into National Poetry Month and Holy Week: An Unfinished Post

It's the kind of week where I feel like I'm running, running, running.  Even though I have a plan for my classes, there's still prep work to do, and I'm behind in my grading.  It's Holy Week, so I have two sermons, not my usual one.  It's a good kind of tired I'm feeling, since I like everything I'm doing, but tiredness is tiredness.

Let me record a few fragments, so that I don't lose them.

--It is National Poetry Month.  I will probably not do as much as I have in past years.  But I will mention it to my English students.  Maybe I shouldn't--I didn't mention Women's History Month or Black History Month.

--Yesterday I did my communal poetry project with my English 102 class, a project that I first described in this blog post.  I can't always tell what my students are thinking, and yesterday, although I tried to have class conversation after the creating of the poems and my reading of them, they were stonily quiet.  So I decided to have them write about the process.  I was surprised by how many students enjoyed it.  I do realize that some of them might have been telling me what they thought I wanted to hear, but I think that some of them were genuine.  It's good to remember that I might be misinterpreting my students' silence.  Across the classes that I teach, semester after semester, I don't find students wanting to be verbal in class.  It does seem like a generational shift.

--Yesterday I heard about a different kind of writing process, the Frederick Buechner Writing Competition.  I was particularly intrigued by the wide range of types of writing the judges will consider, but this passage made me decide to enter: "The editorial board will give special consideration to pieces that discuss Buechner’s work and themes, to literary and theological essays, and to sermons — the written sermon being an undervalued art form that was particularly close to Frederick Buechner’s heart."  So I decided to enter:  more in this blog post.  

--I've been thinking about the life of a sermon writer.  Some sermons are so much easier than others--and it's often not the ones I would have thought would be easier, back before I was writing sermons every week.  And it's interesting to think about how writing a weekly blog post about the Sunday Gospel text is different from a sermon.  My blog posts are usually half the length of a sermon, and for much of my blogging, I've been able to assume that no one would be reading my blog.  Sermons are so different.

--My congregation in Bristol, TN is the most attentive group of listeners I've ever had, more so than students certainly, but also more so than other congregations.  

Comparing Raisins to Jellybeans in the Composition Classroom

I had such a good time designing autumnal themed writing for my Composition classes in the fall that I wanted to do something similar in this term.  In the fall, I had more days to fill than I had ideas, which led me to try new things, like showing Michael Jackson's "Thriller" video and creating a playlist of autumnal themed music across genres and having students listen and write.  I created the music experience as I was driving to campus feeling unsatisfied with the lesson I had planned--and thus, I came up with something better.

This year, we have three class days, but that works well too.  I have three days planned that lead to writing comparison/contrast essays.  Yesterday was the first day:

Yes, we compared jelly beans to raisins.  Back in January, I had found a raisin mindfulness exercise in this NYT article about a restaurant reviewer changing his approach to food.  Somewhere in the past few months, I came up with the idea of adding a jelly bean.

I gave them two sheets of paper, the pink one for jelly beans and the purple one for raisins.  We went sense by sense describing the two.  And then, I had a worksheet where they compared the two:  five ways that they are similar, with two sentences elaborating on each way, and the same for differences.  They engaged thoughtfully throughout the whole process, and it took longer than I thought it might.

Tomorrow, we'll go back outside to see our trees.  Earlier in the semester, I had each student adopt a tree, and we did a variety of exercises to write about the tree.  Now we'll go back outside to see how the trees have changed--or haven't, because some students chose pines and other evergreen trees.

On Monday, for our third pre-writing, we'll listen to Spring music.  It won't be quite as specific to spring as my autumn playlist was specific to autumn.  I'll have them write about the differences in the music.

Then on Wednesday and Friday, we'll work on turning that material into essays.  I've decided that if they haven't been in class to do the pre-writing work, they will have to choose another topic.  If a student has missed all three?  I will have them go back outside to see their tree again, but first, I will have a conversation about how they need to be in class for all the remaining class days.   And next semester, I'm going to put similar language on my syllabus about needing to be in class for the pre-writing, and that the grade for the final essay may be reduced if the student hasn't been in class to do the work in person.

It's interesting to think about how I once yearned to do more online, so that I had more flexibility.  I got that chance, and it's been great.  Now I am happy to be teaching in person, so that I can do more to control the writing process and require that the students do the actual writing, not some AI tool.

After we do this last comparing and contrasting essay, we have one last assignment, a mini-research assignment which incorporates the mandatory library orientation.  And then we are done--and then, I will catch my breath.

One Last Look Back at Quilt Camp and Palm Sunday

It's been the kind of week (or two or three) where I begin Monday feeling like I need a few days off to recover from the week before.  But at least I was able to get some decent quality sleep last night.  

It's sobering/exhilarating to realize how few weeks remain in the semester.  The last days of class are April 27 and 28, which means we only have four full weeks of class left--and those aren't really full weeks.  We have Good Friday off, and I will be out on April 17.  These weeks will fly by, and then it's summer.  My summer this year will be much more relaxed than last year--hurrah!  I was reading through my CPE end-of-term documents, and I remembered, again, how intense the schedule was.  I'm happy to be through with that training.

Let me record a few snippets before I lose them.

--Yesterday I had a poem idea. We do Passion Sunday, which means we read the whole Holy Week text. This bit from Good Friday (Matthew 27: 50-53) leapt out at me: " Then Jesus cried again with a loud voice and breathed his last. At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. The earth shook, and the rocks were split.  The tombs also were opened, and many bodies of the saints who had fallen asleep were raised.  After his resurrection they came out of the tombs and entered the holy city and appeared to many."

Is there a poem in those lines?  I keep thinking about those holy people, long dead, rising up and wandering around Jerusalem.  Do I want to update it to a modern capital city, D.C. perhaps?

--Here is a picture of the Lutheran World Relief quilt top that I made in one day, on Saturday at Quilt Camp:

It's not what I would have created if I was starting from scratch.  The quilt top contains about 25 squares made to go in a quilt of a different pattern, squares donated when the pattern didn't work.  They were in fall (or autumn adjacent) colors, but not necessarily colors that went well together side by side.  I looked for other fabrics that might work, and for what it is, I think it's fine.

--Yesterday afternoon, I worked on some hand sewing.  In the early evening, I made this Facebook post:  Later yesterday, I made this Facebook post: "After Palm Sunday worship and a beautiful drive back through the mountains, I'm doing a bit of hand stitching while watching season 5 of 'The Chosen,' which brings Jesus and the gang to Holy Week, which seems a fitting ending to the day and a fitting beginning to Holy Week."

Time to get ready to head down the mountain in a different direction.  It's that time of year when every drive is slightly different, in terms of which trees have leaves and which ones have flowers and which ones are still bare--beautiful!

Palm Sunday, Again

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.  Here are some thoughts swirling in my brain this particular Palm Sunday:

--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.

--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.

--I went looking for a good Palm Sunday poem that I've written, but time is short, and I can't find one.  Instead, let me direct you to this poem by Mary Oliver.

Sewing on the Machine at Quilt Camp

Yesterday at Quilt Camp, I got out my sewing machine, which might surprise those who know me.  For much of my life, I've sewed by hand.  I'm still deeply committed to sewing by hand, particularly as a self-calming practice.  Stitching a seam by hand not only calms my brain but also settles my attention.

I am the only person at Quilt Camp who does most of her sewing by hand.  I don't have a sewing room, so if I'm sewing, it's likely at the kitchen table which is problematic for many reasons.  But honestly, for many reasons, I actually prefer to sew by hand.

So last night, after posting the below picture, I made this Facebook post:  "Those of you who know me, are you more surprised to find out that I'm still awake at 10 p.m. or that I've been sewing on a sewing machine all day at Quilt Camp?"

All of the piles of blocks behind me were stitched by hand.  But yesterday, I wanted one of the sewing machine experts to see if she could get the bobbin winder to work.  She could not.  So why did I keep sewing on the machine?

One of my Quilt Camp friends had won a batch of quilt blocks as a prize, which we both agreed was a strange prize for a quilt contest, and she was trying to figure out how to assemble them into charity quilts, her task assigned to her as she claimed her prize.  I offered to help.  Here we are, me showing her the long strips I decided to assemble:

I knew that getting the quilt top done during the retreat was my best hope of getting it done, so I just kept sewing and sewing.  And finally, at 9:20, as Duke was winning the basketball game that some of my Quilt Camp compatriots were watching, I did.  However, I forgot to take a picture of the finished quilt top. 

Soon I'll head back to Quilt Camp for the last morning.  I'll get my cloth organized so that I can keep sewing small scraps into log cabin squares, the sewing that I do in the evening as we watch T.V. together.  It's been a good Quilt Camp, but it's time to come back down from the mountain (and I'll be rejoicing that my trip home is very short).

Quilt Camp Midway Report

Much of yesterday, I would have looked like this:

I've had one of those Quilt Camp weeks where I've had to balance the retreat and the other duties of my life.  Yesterday I had planned to go to the class I'm taking, Lutheran Confessions, by way of Zoom and come to Quilt Camp in the afternoon.  But my professor was having travel related disruptions, so we didn't have class.  I got several additional quilting hours in the morning--hurrah!

I made progress both on my own projects and on one of our group projects:

We were asked to take one of the paper doll forms and add fabric scraps to it to represent ourselves.  We've been putting them on the poster, and as we've been looking at our work, we've been praying for each other.

I loved making my self portrait in threads and fabric scraps:

I am tired, tired, tired.  Ordinarily I might say that I'm tired in a good way.  But last night, as my energy level crashed, I spiraled into a strange thought pattern, feeling like all of my fabric art is ugly, ugly, ugly.  What was that all about?

Part of it is being surrounded by other quilting artists who are all doing very different work from the work I'm doing:

My workspace is full of scraps, and the process of putting them into larger squares usually delights me.  The process still delights me, but I'm less sure how well it all works together.  I put some of my more varied squares together and felt despair.  I've got autumnal squares (think browns, coppers, oranges, yellows) and jewel tone squares.  Last night I thought, I've really got two quilts here--which might not be a bad thing.  But will I ever actually finish?

I'm also noticing a pattern in my larger life.  It's easy for me to do the individual parts, but harder to finish the larger project.  I thought about my writing life and all the poems I've written--but so few larger books.  

On the one hand, I take delight in the process, the creativity itself, the commitment to doing creative stuff every day.  On the other hand, I wonder how it might all be different if I focused on seeing a project through to the end.

Do I let myself off the hook too easily?  Should I be more rigorous?  If I decide I should be more rigorous, is it too late?

Let me remind myself of this article I read in The New York Times, an article that talks about Matisse in his later years, his last years, and an exhibition of his work from this time:  "The show includes more than 300 works on loan from around the world (with some exhibited for the first time) that demonstrate how wide the French master’s oeuvre stretched beyond his best-known paintings — to innovative drawings, gouache cutouts, illustrated books, textiles and stained-glass windows. It also challenges the conventional understanding of any artist’s 'late' years as an inevitable tapering off. Here, we see a blossoming, a relentless drive to experiment in new mediums and a radical simplicity that only a lifetime of making could achieve."

Annunciation and Other Callings

Today is the feast day of the Annunciation, the religious holiday that celebrates the day that the angel Gabriel appears to Mary and hails her as the chosen one.  She says yes to God's offer to be the mother of the Messiah.  

You may be saying, "Wait, this isn't your theology blog."  Very true--for a more traditional approach to this feast day, head on over to my theology blog to read this post.

Today, even though it's the first day of Quilt Camp, I'll head down the mountain to do a day of teaching.  It makes sense in one way, but it's leaving me exhausted in other ways.

I've done this to myself.  I knew that my March and April would be very crowded.  All those self-help gurus talk about saying no to invitations, but I find it hard to say no to things I want to do.  My March and April are crowded with things that bring me joy and delight.

Last night I spread out fabrics, but just felt a bit overwhelmed.  I tried to remember that I always feel this way on the first night of Quilt Camp.

Let me record a few other things, while I'm trying to gather my scattered fragments of attention:

--Now that I've told my Candidacy Committee contacts at the Florida-Bahamas Synod, I can talk about it here:  one week ago, I was offered a tenure track position at Spartanburg Methodist College, and I accepted.  I am still floating on air.  I am happy beyond belief at this promotion.

--This morning, I have a Zoom session with those contacts.  I continue to hope that I can find a way to be bi-vocational.  This particular tenure track job could make it easier to do just that.  The Church needs more people who can work part-time.

--I keep wanting to create a poem out of these strands:  Annunciation, teaching job promotion, Quilt Camp.  O.K., subconscious brain, get weaving!

Energy of All Sorts

There was a moment earlier today when I got an idea for a poem, and then I thought, wait, it's almost the end of March.  I haven't written any rough drafts, and I haven't polished any rough drafts.  There was a moment during Spring Break when I pulled up three rough drafts intending to work on them, but then I didn't.

I always forget how much energy travel takes:  both the literal kind, like the gas used to make the car move and my own energy, both to get ready to go and the driving and the return and putting it all away.  Travel might give me some inspirations for future poems, but it doesn't do much for poetry writing or revising in the moment.

This March travel time is odder than most because I've gotten back from one trip almost immediately to leave on another.  This week, I've returned just in time for Quilt Camp, a three minute trip up the hill to Lutheridge.

My travel is impacting Quilt Camp too--I don't feel good being away for 2 weeks at a time, so I'm going to teach today and tomorrow.  Thursday morning I need to be here, doing my Lutheran Confessions class.

This morning I go for my yearly mammogram, and I found myself trying to remember if I'm allowed to have breakfast.  I thought about the pre-reqs for bloodwork and for a colonoscopy, both of which might require fasting.  I thought about all the markers that a urine sample can discover.  I wondered if I had the workings of a poem.  

Earlier this morning, I thought I did.  Now I'm not so sure.  But here's the first stanza, as it is right now:

In the hours before my mammogram,
I try to remember the rules
for this particular scan.
Can I eat breakfast?

Wedding Season Begins

It was a beautiful wedding.  I took no pictures because I wanted to travel light, the way I did when I was a girl with just a credit card and a lipstick in my pocket.  I left the credit card behind, but I did take the hotel room key and my driver's license, even though we were riding on chartered vans and wouldn't have to drive.  Before September 11, 2001, I went a lot of places without my license, which I left in the car so I wouldn't be without it when I drove.  But that event was the beginning of the surveillance state in which we find ourselves now.

But that's not a happy turn of paragraph.  That paragraph doesn't do much to support the topic sentence.  I have no pictures to prove the topic sentence, and I don't want to spend too much time on describing in words.  The bride and groom were beautiful, but I don't think I've ever seen a non-beautiful bride and groom.  They pledged their love and support, slipped rings on each other's fingers, and then we celebrated the rest of the evening.

I am intrigued by urban and non-traditional spaces that transform themselves into celebration venues.  My sister's wedding reception was at The Torpedo Factory in Alexandria, which was once a torpedo factory but is now artist spaces and celebration areas.  Last night's event was at an old train depot, right under an interstate highway.  It worked.

The food was sumptuous, the drinks free flowing, the music loud.  I couldn't do this every night, but I was glad to be there last night.

Most years, wedding seasons come and go, and no one I know gets married.  This year, we have two family weddings, just like we did a few decades ago, when my cousin got married in early Spring and my sister in late Spring.  Then, as now, there was a war in the Middle East.  Then, as now, we celebrated love despite a world that seems intent on coming apart faster than we can patch it back together again.

Then, as now, I think that love is the only way we patch this world back together again. 

Atlanta and Me

Atlanta is famous for its horrible traffic, and yesterday's traffic was horrible, just as we expected.  The worst part was some side streets which had cars parked on either side of the street, a 2 way street, which barely left room for one car to drive through.  Yikes!

Happily, we made it through and got to the hotel in Midtown Atlanta.  The car is parked in a garage, and we will not be moving it until we leave.  Last night, we walked down to South City Kitchen for dinner--what amazingly good food, drinks, and service!

As we walked back, I looked at the huge skyscrapers and thought about my connection to this city.  My earliest memories are of Atlanta and theatre.  In 1972 or so, we came to Atlanta to see Godspell, a life changing event even when I was 7--that play shaped my theology and that trip to Atlanta made me see big cities as thrilling, not scary.  In 1978, when I was 13, we came to Atlanta to see A Chorus Line and to shop for some Scandinavian furniture to go with what my mom and dad had bought when they were stationed overseas in France in the 60's.

We lived in Montgomery, Alabama, and when we would drive to see my grandparents in South Carolina, Atlanta was an unmissable landmark with buildings bigger than any in any other Southern city, a statement no longer true.  Later, in my undergraduate years, I would go to Atlanta or drive through Atlanta periodically.  I loved Atlanta and my Georgia Tech friends so much that I thought about going to grad school in Atlanta.  But instead, I went to the University of South Carolina, a choice I don't regret.

I remember coming to Atlanta in 1997 to see an exhibit at the High Museum, the first time I ever saw Pre-Raphaelite paintings, the real ones, not pictures of them in books--amazing.  I left and bought my first set of paints and brushes from Pearl, a local-ish art supply place (only later did I realize it was a chain when I moved to South Florida).

My fondest memories are of Charis Books, a feminist bookstore that is still in business, a happy surprise.  But I will not be going there today--the wedding week-end logistics don't allow for many other activities, but that's O.K.  It's good to see relatives we don't get to see often, and good to have a happy occasion to bring us together.  I am aware that in future years, it will be more likely to be a funeral that draws us near.

But let me not think about that today.  Let me marvel in this city, which 1980's Kristin would not recognize.  That girl could make her way through the city in her 1974 Monte Carlo without breaking a sweat.  I remind myself that she was younger and more foolhardy, and the city wasn't as crowded then as it is now.  Let me enjoy this time out of time, an experience that has always been quintessential Atlanta for me.

When the Next Generation Gets Married

I have lots of thoughts whirling in my brain this morning, but none of them are earth shattering.  Here's a sample:

--My spouse's sister's youngest child is getting married this week-end, and her older child will get married in May.  I think that this wedding will be the first of the next generation that I've attended.  Wait, that's not true.  I went to the weddings of both children of my grad school friends who moved to England, in part because she was from there, in part because medical care was better/easier there.  But I am almost sure this is the first wedding of grown ups whom I held when they were babies.

--Instead of pushing myself, I decided to trust that my school means what it says about work-life balance and take some days off around the wedding.  We have personal leave options, as long as we make sure our students have learning happening.  And if we're too sick to do that kind of work from a distance, we have sick leave.  

--Yesterday I remembered how much work it takes to make sure that students have learning happening when I'm not going to be here.  I'm not complaining, just observing.

--This morning, I went through my journal to remember when I first had my phone interview for an adjunct position at SMC.  It was almost 3 years ago to the day.  I was hired at the end of the phone interview, and I continue to be grateful--SO grateful--at the full-time doors that have opened because I said yes to that adjunct job.

--I am working from home this morning, which means I'll be going to my online Lutheran Foundations class from my home study.  I've written notes to myself so that I remember to log on.  Let me stop writing here and go get ready.

My Offline Journal and All the Other Types of Writing Taking the Place of Poetry Writing

I'm a bit more tired than is normal for me in the morning.  I do feel like I've been pushing myself harder than is normal:  I wanted to get the pastor work for the coming week-end done by last Sunday, which I did, but that meant I was behind with the short paper that is due tomorrow.  So yesterday, I finished that draft, then went and taught, and then came home, doing some grocery shopping along the way.

So, in the past week, in addition to the blog posts that I've written, I've written 2 sermons, 2 shorter meditations for Wednesday night worship, and a short paper (850 words) for my Lutheran Confessions class.  So, in January when I look back and wonder why my poem writing trailed off in mid-March, that's why.

This morning, before writing in my offline journal, I spent some time reading old entries from the past year.  That can leave me tired, since I usually write in my offline journal about non-bloggable stuff, usually heavy stuff, and reading those types of entries can leave me sad and slightly hollowed out.

So why do I do it?  I'm usually looking for information, of the when did that meeting happen or when did I apply for this job kind of information.  That's what took me to my journal this morning, at least.  Often I'm looking through my offline journal for sadder information, like medical details or when someone died.

Today is a heavier teaching day than I had planned, in part because of Monday's tech glitches.  Happily, it was a fairly easy pivot.  Based on yesterday's Poe/horror discussions, I'm looking forward to seeing how my afternoon classes react.  It should be a good teaching day.

But if my weariness persists, perhaps I'll treat myself to a delicious coffee indulgence mid-morning.

Mid-March: Tornadoes and Snow and the Wearing of the Green

Yesterday morning did not go the way I planned.  I thought I would get up, do a bit of work on my Lutheran Foundations class paper that is due on Thursday along with some blogging and head to campus at my normal time of 7:15.  We'd been expecting some stormy weather; in fact, I slept with my cell phone in our bedroom just in case there was an overnight alert.

I got up and looked at the weather websites and the radar.  I could see the cold front headed our way, with a huge line of storms, the kind that show up as yellow and red on the radar.  It was in Knoxville when I first woke up, which is about two hours away.  As I kept an eye on the line of storms, I decided that it was wise to hurry up my preparations and head down the mountain to Spartanburg before the storms arrived.  I left the house just after 6 a.m.

Even though I wasn't traveling in severe weather, it was still a harrowing drive.  It was dark, and I no longer drive in the dark much, so when I do, it's hard.  It had been raining, so the lines on the road weren't as clear, and worse, I could see the lines that existed from the time before the interstate renovations and reshaping.  There was quite a wind, even before the storms arrived.

As I pulled into the campus parking lot, it was daylight enough to see the clouds, which looked threatening.  Sure enough, we had a tornado warning an hour later, just when I would normally be arriving.  Even though we've never had a tornado drill, enough people knew where the safe spot in the building was that we were able to get there relatively easily--and happily, it was a big enough space to hold us all.

I thought of the tornado drills of my youth in Montgomery, Alabama.  We'd go to the hallway of the elementary school and sit facing the wall, with a textbook across the back of our heads and necks.  Our space yesterday was much safer, with a reinforced ceiling, so that the two story building was less likely to fall and crush us.

Happily, we didn't test the building strength.  After 15 minutes, we got the all clear and headed back to what we were doing.  But if I'm being honest, I was a bit discombobulated the whole day.  It was the first day back after Spring Break, and when I got to my classroom at 9, I discovered that the sound wasn't working on the in-classroom electronics.  Happily, the tech person came right away, and I had an activity to do while we waited; still, that, too, was discombobulating.

The drive home was less harrowing but still included rain and wind--and oddly, some sunshine here and there at the same time as the rain and the wind.  By late afternoon, when I was safely home and dressed in comfy clothes, it was snowing, in that beautiful way of snow that won't be sticking around.

And now, here we are at Patrick's Day, a feast day that may mean more to non-Christians than Christians--or perhaps, more accurately, to anyone who needs some festivity in the middle of March, whether that festivity be a parade or special foods (soda bread!  corned beef!  cabbage!) or green beer.  If you came here hoping for a blog post on Saint Patrick's Day, head over to this post on my theology blog.

I don't have special Saint Patrick's Day traditions, aside from wearing green.  Elementary school culture shaped me in that way, with vicious pinching for all who forgot to wear green on March 17; I look back on my elementary school days and marvel at what was allowed.  As with tornado preparedness, we weren't really protected at all.

Early Morning Music and the Writing Tasks of the Day

Once again, my writing time is fragmented by all the writing I'm hoping to get done this week-end:  tomorrow's sermon and a meditation for Wednesday night, next week's sermon and a meditation for the last Wednesday in March, and my short paper for Lutheran Confessions class which is due on Thursday.  I can get it all done, but it doesn't leave much time for other writing, like poetry writing or blogging in depth.

Yesterday I also worked some doctor's appointments into my schedule:  our annual eye exams and my 3 month dermatologist exam.  After my melanoma, I'll be going to the dermatologist every three months for the next few years.  Yesterday I had some spots zapped, along with three spots sent in for a biopsy.  Now that I've had the weird melanoma that didn't look like a melanoma, we're both a bit spooked and erring on the side of more information.

By the end of yesterday, I was a bit overwhelmed, so I unplugged for a bit.  This morning I woke up with "Ophelia" by The Band in my head.  I heard it while I was waiting for my skin exam.  My dermatologist has a great playlist, and she told me that she had it done for her exclusively.  There aren't ads, and it's a great mix of music across all genres.

This morning I did a bit of a deep dive into some music by way of YouTube, which has an algorithm for me that I don't resent.  I wanted to see if I was remembering correctly that it was The Band that did "Ophelia," and then I wanted to hear a few more songs that I remember from that Greatest Hits album.  And then there were others, including a dance-in-my-seat session to "Hold On!  I'm Coming."

It was a great way to start the day.  I should probably do it more often.

Home Again after Weather Bogged Down Travels

I made it safely back home yesterday.  Yesterday was the kind of drive where a good chunk of it was done in driving rain mixed with some sleet, snow, and hail.  Many of the drivers zoomed on by me, which is fine, except that three of those drivers had a wreck further on down the road, which made the drive even longer.

It was the kind of weather day when I was almost grateful when traffic came to a stop, so that we could see the lines on the road and the cars around us.  By the time we got moving again, the rain was mostly over.

I thought I would be driving toward bad weather, but it was actually behind me:  my folks got a dusting of snow in Williamsburg yesterday, just 24 hours after we sat outside enjoying the balmy weather.

Today's post will be a short one.  We have eye doctor appointments, and happily, we are the first two appointments of the day.  It does mean that we need to be there at 8 a.m.  So let me get ready.

Mountain Bound after a Good Visit in Williamsburg

Today I have breakfast with my parents in Williamsburg and then head back to the mountains of North Carolina.  I'm not going through the highest elevations, but I might see some snow mixed with the rain that's expected today.  A big cold front is coming through, so I'm grateful not to be expecting tornadoes, particularly when I see the devastation from storms in the middle of the country yesterday.

I've been in Williamsburg visiting my parents, and it's been a good visit.  I'm lucky, in that my visits are always good visits, even ones like back in August, when I arrived to help when my mom suddenly developed life threatening pneumonia.  I'm grateful that my luck continues to hold.

We've done some shopping, picking up some end of winter bargains on clothes--and hey, I'll still get to wear them for the few weeks of winter temps that are likely ahead.  I picked up a pair of festive sandals for a wedding next week-end, along with a festive finishing garment.

We've had great meals.  One of my favorites was the soup supper at my parents' church, one of my church homes away from home.  We had a choice of three soups (corn chowder, vegetable with beef, and chili) and cornbread and sourdough bread.  I love these kinds of soup suppers, and I was glad to be able to be part.

We were there for soup supper because the church does a Lenten Wednesday evening program.  It was meditative and quiet.  We ended with the option to light a small candle from the Paschal candle and put it in the cross-shaped sandbox on a table in front of the Paschal candle.  I wanted to record it, because I liked how it looked.  Is it worth the extra effort to make a sandbox in a specific shape, instead of a big bowl of sand?  Perhaps.  It was lined with 2 layers of heavy plastic, not to protect the wood frame from the flame, but to keep the sand contained.

I didn't take any pictures because I didn't bring my phone to the church.  There wouldn't have been a good way to take pictures, and I wouldn't have wanted to destroy the meditative mood by taking pictures.

On the way home, we stopped at a soft serve ice cream place, the kind that has a small building with a walk-up window and some picnic tables in the parking lot.  It was wonderful to eat ice cream after church and enjoy the freakishly warm weather.

And now to head back, through unsettled weather--the price for a foretaste of summer.

What Time Is It? What Season Is It?

I'm one of those people who wish that we wouldn't turn clocks forward or back, even though I know that if we did that, we'd lose something in terms of darkness and light.  If we had fewer sunsets that came later or fewer sunrises that came earlier, but I don't think I would care.  For me, it doesn't matter if we spring forward or fall back, it takes me weeks to get back to a regular sleep schedule, as regular as my sleep schedule is.

This week, in addition to a time change, we've had a drastic change in the weather--it's been downright hot.  So my sweaty self thinks it's summer, while my light sensitive eyes read spring in the shift in light, while my body is still back in winter in its desire to go to bed early.

I had thought of this time away as having writing residency possibilities, at least in the morning, since I get up hours before my parents.  But instead, I'm tired.  I pulled up some poem rough drafts that I thought I could finish transforming into final drafts, but no, not this morning.  I need to write Sunday's sermon, and if I was really efficient, I'd also write the one for the following Sunday, when we'll be away at a family wedding.

I want to write something more profound as a blog post.  But it won't be this morning.

Happily, Rabbi Rachel Barenblat has written something more profound.  In this blog post, she writes eloquently about why she won't be using AI when she crafts sermons and other religious writing--or any writing:  "My divrei Torah and sermons are love letters, of a kind: they’re love letters to Torah, to God, to my tradition, to the communities I serve. They’re not just communicating information, they’re conveying heart. This may make me old-fashioned. (The fact that I’m still writing longform blog posts on my own blog may also be a sign that I”m old-fashioned!) But it is still my goal to communicate with others without AI mediation. It matters to me that what I share (here and on the bima) are always the words of my own mouth and the meditations of my own heart."

Today my mouth and heart are tired.  Here's hoping for a better day tomorrow.

Of Cars and Headlights and Petrochemicals and Politics

It was somewhat strange, traveling by car yesterday, hearing news of the latest developments of the war in Iran and beyond, wondering how much gas prices would have risen by the time I stopped to refuel.  Last week on Monday morning, gas was still $2.49, and it's hard for me to believe that gas stations sold all that gas before gas prices rose to $2.99 by the end of the day on Wednesday.  I would complain to someone about price gouging but who would listen, much less do anything?

I shouldn't complain:  I've long thought it odd that a gallon of milk costs more than a gallon of gas, since one is renewable and one is not.

As I drove through foggy parts of the mountain, I turned my headlights on and then tried to remember to turn them off again.  In the past, I wouldn't have bothered.  But on Sunday, we replaced both headlights, after a scary-ish time driving back from a pizza place after dark on Friday and realizing that both headlights weren't working.  

We just replaced them in September, so I was surprised not to have headlights on Friday night.  I drove with my brights on, and since many headlights seem to be on permanent brightness to me, I didn't worry overly much.  But that's not a workable solution.

We thought it might be a fuse, but both fuses looked good.  Since the bright lights were working, it didn't seem like a problem with the switch.  What else could it be but bulbs?  

So I bought two more, and my amazing spouse replaced them, and voila!  Hurrah for easy fixes.

I did see on the packaging the notice that a bulb will last for 200 hours.  It's an LED bulb, so I thought it would outlast the life left in the car, but no.  So, yesterday, I only had the lights on when needed.  In the past, I might have left them on until the next time I turned off the engine.

Even if we have to replace the bulbs every 6 months, that's still cheaper than buying a new car.  Over the week-end, my grad school friend and I talked about the delight of a new car, knowing that one won't have car repairs for the first few years.  But we also talked about the puzzlement of a new car--which one should we buy?  Could we find a simpler car, one that might be cheaper both to buy originally and to repair eventually?  Should we think about having some sort of electric/plug in capability?  A few years ago, I would have assumed yes, but now, who knows?

So yesterday, I drove my 2014 Toyota Prius, the subcompact size, through the mountains, across the Piedmont, on and on across North Carolina and then Virginia.  When I get to the Virginia line, every time I think, Hurrah, I'm almost there!  But I'm still 2 hours away from Williamsburg.

I am here with clothes for every season; I even threw a winter-ish coat in the car, my coat which is really more of a longer jacket, but which I wear more than my parka-ish coat.  I don't expect to wear it, but the delight of traveling by car is that I can take many an item that I might not need.

We ended the day as we often do, by watching the NewsHour show on PBS, watching people trying to explain what might be happening on the world stage.  I thought about my headlights, once burning brightly, then burnt out sooner than expected.  I thought about those brave headlights and the human newscasters, trying to function as headlights, showing us parts of the landscape we might not otherwise see. I thought about technology, how we sometimes feel like we're in control of it, but then we're back in the maw of petrochemicals showing us who is really in control--or not.

Spring Break Travels

My spring break is taking on a familiar shape.  I'm headed to my Mom and Dad's house while my spouse stays home to take care of stuff.  I'll be there for a few days and then head back here for doctor's appointments (eye and dermatologist) on Friday.

I'm not leaving until 9.  I don't like driving in the dark in the mountains, and this morning, it's foggy too. May as well stay home until rush hour dies down. It's not an awful rush hour by DC standards or S. Florida standards, but it can get snarled up.

I thought about walking this morning, but my ankle feels really odd--painful, like I shouldn't put too much pressure on it.  So between my painful ankle, the fog, and the time change, I'll likely just take it easy until 9.  Plus I need to finish packing.

As I always do when I travel by car, I'm bringing too much stuff:  my sewing basket, my art supply bag, my laptop, along with normal stuff, like clothes.  My sewing basket may stay in the car, but I'll be happier if I know that I can do some hand stitching if I want to.

Unlike some of our past spring breaks together, we don't have much planned.  We're not traveling, and we won't explore wineries or breweries.  My mom and I will get our hair done, and we'll do some shopping.

But even though it will be a low-key time together, it will be good to be together.  We are none of us getting younger, and it's good to gather while we can.

A Poem for International Women's Day

Today is International Women's Day.  I realize that I am luckier than many women throughout the world.  I have part-time work that I can do in the wee, small hours of the morning--or any time and place that I can get an Internet connection.  I have a full-time job that pays me a decent salary with decent benefits.  I am safe at both jobs, and my employers deposit my pay without incident.  I also have a part-time preaching job that feeds my soul in a different way.

I have a lovely house in a relatively safe neighborhood.  I have food in my kitchen and a way to keep it safe until I'm ready to cook it.

I have a bit of time here and there to do the activities that nourish me:  reading and a variety of creative work.  I have time to see friends.  My family members are in good shape.

We are bombarded, day after day, with stories of women who have not been so lucky, reminding us that we still have work to do.

I'm thinking of the multitude of poems that I've written about gender and history and all of those intersections.  Here's a poem that I wrote years ago that says a lot about the life of a certain class of women in modern, capitalistic countries.  It's part of my chapbook, Life in the Holocene Extinction.

The Hollow Women


We are the hollow women,
the ones with carved muscles,
the ones run ragged by calendars
and other apps that promised
us mastery of that cruel slavedriver, time.

We are the hollow women
with faces carved like pumpkins,
shapes that ultimately frighten.

We are the hollow women
who paint our faces the colors
of the desert and march
ourselves to work while dreaming
of mad dashes to freedom.

At night, the ancient ones speak
to us in soft, bodily gurgles
and strange dreams from a different homeland.
We surface from senseless landscapes
to wear our slave clothes
and artificial faces, masks
of every sort. We trudge
to our hollow offices to do our work,
that modern drudgery,
filing papers and shredding documents,
the feminine mystique, the modern housework,
while at home, domestics
from a different culture care
for the children.

Spring Weather and Spring Break and Villanelles

I in the Spring Break corridor of my teaching life, so you would think I would feel less harried.  But I also realize that the weeks after Spring Break bring increased activity on the calendar, with retreats and a wedding in Atlanta.  So here I am, feeling more stressed than I want to be, even as I know I will get it all done.

I remind myself that the stresses I have are the good kind--there's not sickness stress or family crisis stress.  And then I feel a bit fretful about other stresses that might be waiting offstage.

So let me chart some positives from the week that might slip away otherwise:

--I've given my English 102 classes time to write their second essay in class.  I've been happy watching them write and consult the textbook and write some more.  I do realize that they may use AI at some point, but they've done a lot of the work of writing without AI.

--Yesterday we went to a neighbor's house.  We are going to help with their garden while they are away, and in return, we get to use 2 of their raised beds.  It was such a beautiful afternoon, and so wonderful to see all that they have managed to cultivate on a very tiny patch of mountain land.

--We are in that part of spring where I can see the trees waiting for their grand debut, with a few making a quicker entrance.  And the daffodils have fully committed to the idea that we can count on spring having arrived.

--Because it's been warmer, I've been walking before I head down the mountain to school.  I don't always get a long walk, the way I did in the summer.  But I get a half hour walk in, and that's better than I've been doing.

--It's also been getting lighter earlier, so this week the sunrise has been an added benefit of an early morning walk.  This week, both sunrises and sunsets have been glorious.  Both of the pictures in this post are of sunrise on Wednesday.

--I got pulled over on Wednesday afternoon.  I have no doubt that I was speeding, but the officer never told me what he clocked me doing.  He gave me a written warning, and I feel lucky.  It's my 3rd written warning.  The first was when I was a student at Newberry College, and the second as I travelled to Mepkin Abbey.  In every case, I was treated kindly, and I do realize how many people are not that lucky.

--I had originally planned to do both sestinas and villanelles in my Advanced Creative Writing class yesterday, but I decided that I was being a bit ambitious.  We did a session on villanelles, which didn't take my students as long as I thought it might.  They probably could have done both sestinas and villanelles.  But I'm not going to worry about it.  It was the Thursday before Spring Break, so only half the class was there.

--I decided to write a villanelle too, and at first, that writing muscle felt so crusty and creaky.  But I quickly got back into the rhyming and repeating groove.

--I want to remember that I'm getting rough drafts written.  I may not always be transforming them into finished drafts, and some of them, like yesterday's villanelle, may not be worth more work.  But I am getting poem composing done more regularly than my finished drafts file will indicate to end of year Kristin.

Generational Milestones

For much of my life, we've been looking for generational milestones, saying, "Is this it?  Is this our Pearl Harbor moment?  The where were you when Kennedy was shot moment?"  Maybe instead of the royal "we," I should speak only for myself.  Is it because I read voraciously as a child?  Is it because I overheard grown ups talking, as bookish children often do?

I knew early on that September 11, 2001 was this kind of milestone, the event that cracks the world into "before" and "after."  Even today, almost 25 years later, I can still recall almost every minute of that day, and I do mean this literally.

This morning I've been listening to various podcasts about Iran.  I am wondering if generations after us will see the 1979 take over of the U.S. Embassy in Iran as a generational marker.  I remember that the television was on in the living room of the house on the Outer Banks where my family was having a week-end get away with another family.  There was a "breaking news" interruption, and my dad moved closer to the T.V.  He recognized the serious nature of events, but I think we all thought it would be settled quickly.

I am thinking about historical regimes, how we see them differently now than their citizens might have seen them.  Of course, it's much more complicated the further back we go.  Citizens of Rome would not have had the kind of daily/hourly news updates that we have now.

I'm not naive--I do realize that the news updates that we get aren't always reliable.  In the days of escalation to the Iraq war, I remember Colin Powell's address to the U.N., and I assumed he was telling the truth.  He might have left out classified information, sure, but of course we could trust the information that we got in that kind of speech.

I do think that people like Colin Powell were telling the truth as they knew it at the time.  We may not see it as true now, with more than 20 years of follow up information.  This time, because I've heard so many different strands of information, some of which seems to contradict each other, I'm less inclined to think I'm hearing the truth.  

What's more accurate probably:  the truth will shift, and right now, no one is sure what is true, with the possible exception of some top level people who have access to some top level classified documents--and even those are subject to interpretation (I'm thinking of satellite data and intelligence reports).

I am looking at the full moon outside of my writing window and reflecting on the fact that the same moon has shown down us throughout all of human history, as we go back and forth, making the same mistakes over and over again, stumbling over milestones that we may not even recognize as milestones until generations later.

Poetry and Current Events

Here we are, day five of the Iran war--or is it year 46, if we date it to the 1979 take-over of the embassy?  Or earlier, given our interactions in that country during the years of the Shaw.  

Yesterday on my way home, I noticed that gas was at $2.99 a gallon, up from $2.49 a gallon in the morning when I left.  On some level, I shouldn't have been surprised.  Long ago, when the Kuwait interaction went from Desert Shield to Desert Storm, I went right to the gas station, but it was much longer before gas prices rose.  That's my memory, although I wasn't commuting at the time, so I might not have been as focused on gas prices.  I was a poor grad student, so I might have noticed.

Back then, my brain was focused on the war.  I wrote poems about people in war zones, a poem that contrasted me washing dishes in solitude to someone trying to keep body and soul together in a bomb shelter.  They weren't good poems, but I mention it because decades later, I'm able to move throughout the day without my brain returning to the drum beat of war.

That's not to say that I've ignored the issue, just that I've gotten more skilled at compartmentalizing it all.  

Part of me also assumes that people in charge have information that I don't.  This Washington Post article by Jim Geraghty argues that most presidents become war hawks as they see top secret briefings during their tenure, and that makes sense to me.  This New York Times article by Brett Stephens makes a case for military action against Iran.

This is not to say that I'm just fine with these military actions.  I'm always wary, because I've had a lifetime of hearing leaders tell us that we can do a limited intervention, and these things almost always spiral out of control and have all sorts of unintended consequences.  I can read, and I know that throughout history, military actions almost always spiral out of control and have all sorts of unintended consequences.

I've been thinking about my undergraduate days, when my favorite Literature professor told us that poems that engaged specific current events were never any good.  I argued fiercely with her; I thought that poetry needed to be involved in the real world.  I still believe that, although right now, I'm not producing any poems, of any quality, that are about this war.  Similarly, I haven't written poems about Gaza or Ukraine (maybe obliquely?) or any other hot spot.

Some part of me thinks that 500 years from now, if humans survive, people will look at us and marvel that we started these wars and refused to focus on the climate disasters bearing down on us--and I have written about that historic event from a variety of angles.

But like so many humans through history, I continue moving through my day, feeling powerless, even if I knew what I thought should happen, and I don't.  I continue moving through my days, feeling fortunate to be far away from the theatre of war and feeling guilty about my good fortune.  I move throughout my days, documenting regular people approaches to current events, even if I'm not writing poems about those current events.

Eclipses and Other Portents

Later this morning, we'll go vote in the primary.  We don't live in Texas, so our primary isn't as interesting.  But it may have an impact on the Senate race in November.  

We'd vote regardless.  In North Carolina, we're registered as independents which means we can vote in either the Democratic primary or the Republican primary, but not both.  Two years ago, I voted in the Republican primary because I wanted Nikki Haley to win.  Today I'm voting in the Democratic primary because I want Roy Cooper, our former governor, to be the candidate in November. 

If we had voted early, we'd have done it at the public library.  Today we'll go to the local Lutheran church, the one where I go on Wednesdays to quilt when I'm not teaching.  I'm glad that the polling place is easy for me, even as I wonder how it came to be the polling place.  My younger self would have done some talking about separation of church and state.  My older self is happy to see church buildings used for the good of the community.

This morning's post will be shorter than usual, not because I'm headed off to vote, but because I'm going on an early morning walk.  I could wait; it's the one weekday where I don't need to be on the road to Spartanburg before 7:30.  But there's an eclipse happening, and although it's cloudy, I'll go out, just on the off chance that the clouds clear.

The moon will look red, and ancient people would have seen the blood moon as a portent.  With a war in the Middle East, we have no shortage of portents.  Still I will vote, and I will look at the sky, and I will hope to be amazed in a good way, not a horror-filled way.

No AWP For Me

Various social platforms (primarily Facebook for me) have begun to fill with writers posting their AWP schedules.  My grad school friend and I briefly thought about going.  After all, it's in Baltimore, within driving distance, which it rarely is.  We both have family in the area, although we would have stayed in the conference hotel.

I decided early that I couldn't do it this year.  Some years, AWP is the same year as spring break, when I'm working at places that have a spring break, and that confluence makes the whole thing easier.  Some years, AWP is nowhere near spring break, and that, too, makes the whole thing easier.

This year, AWP is right before my spring break in a March that is very busy even before adding a big conference.  So I decided not to go.

Some years I feel like I'm missing out, and now, it's been so many years since I attended that if I could get there, it might not feel like a repeat of past years in terms of what I learn/hear.  And now, I'm teaching a lot of creative writing courses, which has not been the case in the past.

Next year, I might see if I can get some travel money from Spartanburg Methodist College.  But this year, I'm glad not to be travelling this week.  The rest of March will have plenty of travel, lots of family reconnecting, and a quilt retreat near the end.  That's almost more than I can handle, so I'm glad not to be adding AWP on top of it all.

Being Born Again: Sermon Revisions in the Midst of News Reports

In later years, I may wonder why I'm not writing more about the events of yesterday:  bombs on Iran and Ayatollah Khamenei dead.  Maybe later readers will wonder why I didn't analyze Trump's decision to go ahead without consulting Congress or maybe they will have knowledge I don't.  I will say that U.S. presidents have been moving forward with war plans, asking for forgiveness rather than permission, for my whole life regardless of political persuasions.  

I didn't pay close attention to the news yesterday.  I was working on both taxes and my sermon.  I didn't even hear about the death of Khamenei until evening.  At the end of the day, I wrote this Facebook post:  "Doing some sermon revisions, thinking about Nicodemus who comes to Jesus, two men who likely see the world very differently but take the time to talk. I'm thinking about how Nicodemus is perplexed in the third chapter of John (tomorrow's reading) but by the end of the Gospel of John, he's buying an astonishing amount of burial spices for Jesus, a public declaration of Jesus' importance. I'm thinking and revising and flipping to news reports and my sermon seems even more relevant, about the necessity of talking and understanding and being born again for new possibilities in this life."

In a week of good time management, I have my sermon written before Saturday, and my spouse offers suggestions.  This week, I got my sermon draft done by Thursday, and I was proud of that.  Yesterday, as we were going over his notes, I realized that I had printed out not the sermon for today, but one for two years ago.

In a way, I was relieved.  The fact that the sermon was so unfamiliar just two days after I had written it had me worried before I checked the date on the sermon.  In a way, no harm done.  I made the discovery while my spouse still had time to read the correct sermon yesterday, and I had time to make the sermon stronger.  My spouse wasn't upset that he read two sermons this week.

And yet, it reminds me that although I may think I have all the parts of my life moving smoothly, there are some indications that it may be more tenuous than I want to think.  I thought of this again in the afternoon, as the phone rang, and I realized that the afternoon was later than I thought, and I hadn't called my parents, as we had arranged on Friday.  Again, no harm done, except . . .   I thought of this idea again as afternoon faded into dusk, as we looked in the recycling bin for the draft of the correct sermon with my spouse's notes on it.

It was a productive day, despite the mishaps.  I got the first draft of our taxes done, and now we have decisions to make about how to pay them.  Happily, we have the resources.  I got the finished draft of my sermon done.  Now let me get ready to preach and preside at Faith Lutheran in Bristol, Tennessee--worship starts at 10 a.m., and all are welcome.