All Our Cells: Cars, Monastic, and Other

Yesterday was a good day--we all headed to Bristol for church in our separate cars and lunch afterward.  The classy brunch place was closed because of some kitchen malfunction, so we went to a different downtown hotel for a different lunch experience.

Happily, they had both a breakfast and a lunch menu; it could have been worse.

Today I head down I 26 in a different direction towards Columbia.  A grad school friend had a catastrophic stroke 2 years ago, and she's in a skilled nursing unit in Columbia.  I try to get down to see her every 4-6 weeks.  After that visit, I'll swing by the house of another grad school friend.

This morning I was thinking about cells, the Julian of Norwich kind, and cars, the modern cell and wondering about poem possibilities, even though I'm sure I've used that imagery before.  I'll post the poem, but that doesn't mean I won't revisit this idea.  After all, I wrote the poem a long time ago, during a different time of commuting to adjunct jobs in South Florida.  What does it mean to be doing this driving now, as an older woman?  Stay tuned!

In the meantime, here's the older poem, first published in my chapbook, Whistling Past the Graveyard:

My Habit, My Hairshirt


A modern day anchoress, I commit
myself to my car. In my moving cell,
I sing constantly and pray without ceasing.

I dedicate myself to our modern religion
of hectic pace. I rush from one location to another,
showing my devotion in twelve hour increments.

No time for contemplation, the anathema
to the modern ascetic. I flog
myself with my cell phone and briefcase.

Occasionally, a heretical urge lures
me, a siren song urging me to slow down,
tempting me to tame my frantic schedule.

But no Gnostic visions for me. I race
through another week in the grip of my Daytimer,
my habit, my hairshirt.