Friday Fragments: Positive Student Evaluations and Poem Creating

Yesterday was much easier than Thursday--but that's not a surprise.  Yesterday we only had one meeting, so my committed time was only one hour.  Thursday was very scheduled, from 8 a.m. until 3.  Let me capture yesterday:

--Here's the one cool thing that stands out.  We had our Humanities division meeting, and we entered the classroom door that had colored pieces of 8 x 11 paper posted around the door frame.  On each piece of paper was a different student evaluation with a positive statement about teaching.  Our dean told us that she chose a positive evaluation for each one of us and put the comment on the paper.  She wanted us to remember that the work we do is important.  What a great way to start a meeting!

--The meeting was a good one, full of good brainstorming about ways to keep students from leaving us.  We'd like to grow our bachelor degree programs, and we'd like to keep 1st year students from dropping out.  Unlike some administrator meetings I've attended in pre-pandemic days, there was no administrator blame in the discussion of retention.  Refreshing!

--Yesterday morning I was going back through old blog posts trying to remember the pre-first day of class schedules of past years.  I came across this blog post that reminded me of eating ice cream with my parents a year ago and this post about aging bodies and this post about watching the news with my dad a year ago, and a first line for a poem came to me, and I followed it.

--It's not the first time, and it won't be the last time that I've been grateful for my blogging practice.

--This morning, before Saturday sermon writing, I'm trying to finish the rough draft of the poem.  It revolves around three T.V. shows:  Back to the Frontier, a nightly news show, and Little House on the Prairie.  It involves ice cream and habits and the way we may never escape our younger selves in our family constellation.  This bit may be my favorite:

We return to earlier incarnations
of our relationship. My mom
counts the calories in the bowl
and comments on how much thinner
we would be if we dumped
the ice cream down the drain.
Because I am now a grown up,
I resist the temptation
to eat the whole carton.

--I have been making lots of progress on quilting projects.  I've been sewing in the evenings, as we've watched TV--it's a delightful way to end the day.

Workshop Day and My New Bullet Journal

Yesterday was a good day overall, but also a bit overwhelming in understanding ways.  I went from summer days when I'm around one or two people a day to a day full of humans.  I went from the unstructuredness of summer days to a day of a rigid schedule.

Happily, I was surrounded by other humans, my colleagues, who are delightful.  I went from the free floating thinking of summer to focusing on teaching.  I gave a workshop on using haiku to assess student learning--yes, it's a workshop I've given at other places, but it continues to be well received.

As I always do when I use the word "haiku," I did remind us that true practitioners of haiku would tell us that a creation is not a haiku just because it's 3 lines and follows syllable requirements.  But it's a fun way to try to determine if students have a grasp of the material, and it gives them small bits to put on the board, which can give interesting opportunities for small group and/or large group discussion.

My favorite workshop that I attended was one on bullet journaling.  We each got a bullet journal, and I'm planning to keep it through the school year.  I'm now on the tenure track, so I need to be much more intentional about remembering all that I've done as a faculty member over the next 5 years.  Plus, I just love keeping track, and I've been wanting a system that is more portable and encourages me to capture daily observations closer to real time.

You may say, "Couldn't you do that on your phone?"  No, I can't.  I haven't found a phone system that works, and I will be the first to confess that I haven't tried very hard.

Our workshops ended by 3, and I drove home.  It was good to remember how tiring this commute can be, even when it's a straight shot down the mountain and back.  My leisurely summer days occasionally made me wonder if we made a mistake to buy a second house.  Yesterday reminded me that it will be  good to have a second home base.

Today will be an easier day with just one meeting.  Will my spouse and I meet at the Spartanburg house to get work done or will that wait for next week?  Stay tuned.

Back to School, Back to Hiroshima

Yesterday was a delightful day.  Today will be delightful too, although it's a full day on campus, so it will be a different kind of delightful.  And I've been awake since 2, so I do worry about how tired I'll be by late afternoon.

My brain started churning at 2, churning with all sorts of worries and plans.  I need to sit down with a calendar and old syllabi and make some loose plans--or maybe weekly plans--at least that's what my brain was telling me when I couldn't go back to sleep.  My brain also jumped ahead to spring, and how I might teach the Intro to Lit class, and it's much too early to be plotting those classes.

Have I done the syllabus planning for this semester, since I was awake?  No, of course not.  I did some reading and ate some cranberry orange bread.  I did some fretting about muscle loss:  not my own, but my friend who had the catastrophic stroke a few years ago, and has lost so much muscle mass that she can't sit in the wheelchair very long.  I've wondered about other people in my life who aren't getting much exercise--but certainly more than my mostly bed-bound friend.

I am remembering 2 years ago, heading down to campus for a day that would have been even fuller, with a dinner for new faculty at the end.  I remember going to orientation sessions for new faculty and wondering how much would apply to me as a person with a one year position.  And I remember feeling so jealous of people who had the luxury of more permanence.

And now I am one of those people.

Of course, today is one of those days in history that reminds me that permanence is an illusion. Today is the day when the first atomic bomb used in warfare was detonated at Hiroshima, thus launching us into this brave new world where we find ourselves.  I think of those people headed to work when the bomb detonated, those burned into the concrete, and those further away, who would spend the rest of their lives being a walking specimen of what overexposure to radiation does to a human body before they died early.

The bombs used to destroy Hiroshima and Nagasaki were small by today's standards--but what damage they did! The effects of that bomb obliterated much of Hiroshima--and vaporized some of it. There were reports of people fused into pavement and glass--or just vanished, with a trace remaining at the pavement. The reports of the survivors who walked miles in search of help or water are grim. And many of those survivors would die of the effects of radiation in the coming years.

Through the years, I've seen many a documentary about the rush to build nuclear weapons, about the uncertainty of what would happen with those first tests and explosions--would the very atmosphere around the planet dissolve? I have yet to see any footage of scientists who wondered what might happen to civilians on the ground when these bombs exploded.

I've lived long enough to see history being made to know that the choices can be fairly ghastly. In this case, far better to develop the weapons before the Germans. I know many people who believe that the use of these bombs helped avoid more years of grueling battles in the Pacific that would have left us with even more dead--one could argue that the sacrifice of the populations at Hiroshima and Nagasaki were worth the avoidance of more years of war and that loss of life.

I've also done enough reading and thinking about pacifist approaches to wonder if there might not have been another way if we had acted much earlier.

I remember during our grad school years we went to a beautiful anti-nuclear vigil on August 6 in a city park.  I remember paper cranes and seeing some of our grad school professors there.  That would have been in 1988 or 1989.  I wonder if any groups mount anti-nuclear vigils in August anymore?

It's not that the world is any more of a peaceful place these days.  In fact, in recent years, it feels like we're sliding back to a world that's much more dangerous.  Sadly, the world still needs the blessings of the origami cranes.  They're not as easy to fold as they look--that, too, makes them an appropriate metaphor.  But they are worth the effort--and peace is worth the effort too.

Delights Planned for the Last Day of Summer and an A for Paul Class

In many ways, today is my last day of summer 2026.  A year ago, I'd have been going to CPE early and then driving to Williamsburg to help my parents recover from my mom's near death pneumonia hospitalization--I am so grateful that this summer's end is more mundane.

Our transition to the school year is a gentle one.  Tomorrow we have a very full day of teacher training and meetings.  On Friday and Monday, we have one meeting per day.  I'd prefer to have both on one day and the other day free for syllabus prep, but I'm fine with the schedule.  Having more time off is a game changer--in my younger days at community colleges, I'd have been irritable at being expected to do any of this at all.  

Of course, in my younger days, I spent much more time being irked.  Now I am older and wiser and more laid back and a better shepherd of my energy, meaning I ask more questions about situations and whether or not my irritability/anger is worth the energy and time.

On this last day of summer, I'll fill my day with delights:  a morning visit with a neighborhood friend doing creative work together in her studio and an afternoon with the LWR quilting group at the local Lutheran church.  I'll do some reading and some writing.  For one day, today I won't do any teaching work:  I turned in final grades for my online classes last night, and I still have time to create syllabi before classes start on Tuesday.

But I'm just remembering that I need to put an announcement in my onground class course shells that gives a welcome and says that more information is coming soon.  Since the shells open tomorrow, I'll do that cut and paste work today.

I'm happy that my work-for-pay still leaves me with time to see friends and do creative work of all types, along with writing and reading.  I'm grateful that my teaching life doesn't consume all my free time.  I know I say this a lot, but it's worth remembering and retreating.

It seems fitting that on one of the last evenings of summer, last night I got my grades for my summer TEEM class on Paul:  an A on each of the two papers, and an A for the class.  My teacher gave thoughtful commentary that made me feel seen and heard and understood.

I mention my reaction because last night I also got my supervisor feedback for the summer online class that I taught for SMC.  Overall, it was positive, although there is room for improvement:  more personalized feedback and more depth of feedback.  My first thought was that using names of students in grading feedback (a suggestion) would take too much time.  But it really won't take that much more time and maybe it would help students stay engaged.

I'm grateful for my return to school in late middle life for many reasons, but it's been revelatory to remember what it's like to be a student.  I used to think that A level papers don't really need much instructor feedback, but as an A student, I would feel cheated if my papers got the kinds of A level feedback that I give as a teacher.  Maybe that's too strong; I'm remembering all the times I got minimal feedback on A level papers and didn't feel cheated.  But every time I get more involved feedback, I'm grateful.  And A level students are more likely to have the time and mental space to care in a way that isn't possible for students who can't care as much because their lives are falling apart.

Late Summer in One Picture

This picture captures certain elements of the last half of summer:

I'm thrilled that so many people are so engaged with The Odyssey.  I won't go to the movie, probably, for many reasons, but I'm glad people are going.  Maybe in a future year, we can get the story of Penelope or maybe Mary Magdalene, women left behind.

We haven't had that many days of low humidity and lower heat, so this picture captures a perfect summer day, which I decided to make a drinking day, also not a regular event for me this summer.

It's been such a good tomato summer that I wanted fresh basil.  It was easier to buy a drooping basil plant than to trust the produce section.  My spouse pointed out that the pot contained 3 plants, and we repotted them.  Seeing them perk up has made me inordinately happy.

Today I am taking advantage of the last days of summer to go see grad school friends in Columbia, SC.  Hard to believe it's been almost 40 years since I was starting grad school there, back in August of 1987.

No Sealey Challenge for Me--But a Different Daily Poetry Challenge?

For one brief moment yesterday morning, I thought about doing the Sealey Challenge:  reading 1 volume of poetry each day in August.  I've only done it once in the past, so yesterday morning, I went back and read the blog posts that I wrote in 2020; this post talks about the overall experience, and this one talks about photos I used when making my Facebook posts.  Some people have posted their daily experiences on Instagram, but I'm not on Instagram.  Did I post on Twitter in 2020?  I was on Twitter, so probably.

I even went so far as to gather all the single volumes of poetry that I have on my bookshelves here at the house (I have even more in boxes and a few volumes at my office on campus).  But by afternoon, I decided not to do it.

I was able to do it in 2020 because my work life was so different.  I was in an office every day for 8-ish hours a day, but I had long patches of time during the day when I didn't have tasks to do.  At that point, we thought it was likely that the campus would close at some point in the next year, so my main work job was to keep it going, in a hospice kind of way, keeping everyone comfortable, but not starting new initiatives.

It was 2020, early-ish in the Covid time, no vaccines, and trying to stay distanced.  So I had fewer people coming to my office to complain or to strategize or to fight off boredom by gossiping or rage baiting.  In short, I had a lot of free time, even though I had to spend it in an office.

During those no-task times in 2020, I was able to read a book straight through.  My work life is about to get a lot more complicated, with commuting and going to class and one set of online classes coming to an end and another set beginning.

But yesterday's thinking about the Sealey Challenge did remind me that I want to start reading more poetry again.  I want to carry a volume of poetry with me throughout my teaching day.  I want to model the behavior of reading in the moments of down time that come with every class.

And that has made me think of something else--maybe I want to project a poem onto the board at the start of each class--a different type of daily poetry challenge!  Maybe I want poems each day that encourage students.  Hmmm.  Let me think about this. 

The Hinge Festival of Lammas

 Early August is a hinge point in the calendar. In some ways, it's not as obvious a hinge as the autumnal equinox or the summer solstice; in fact, it's the time directly between those two hinges--we're as far away from the start of summer as we are from the start of autumn. But in some ways, it's just as significant a point of seasonal shift.

If we lived in medieval England, we would be celebrating the festival of Lammas, a festival that celebrates first harvests with loaves of bread standing in for that first harvest.  There might be processions to bakeries, to bless them and to bless the bakers.  

It would be a festival that celebrates abundance, the abundance that comes later in a cooler climate.  Of course, we here in Appalachia are celebrating that abundance too; the summer vegetables are still going strong with beautiful tomatoes at the farmer's market.  Yet across the region, apple orchards are opening today.

We may have slogged through summer long enough that we may feel that nothing will ever change--it will be hot and humid forever. The light hasn't changed significantly, the way it will in a month or two. But we are losing more daylight each day as we hurtle towards a different season. Students aren't in school yet, but the time draws closer. Most of us aren't agricultural people anymore, but if we were, we'd be seeing crops in their final ripening. Harvest would be coming soon.

Now is a good time to take an accounting. Have we been planning some summer festivities that we haven't gotten to do yet? Now is the time. Do we need to adjust our trajectories for the rest of the year? Let us make some plans.

Moving to the Tenure Track

A week from now, I'll be beginning the next chapter of my teaching life.  In some ways, it won't be that different from what I've already done.  It's not the drastic change that I experienced going from teaching to administration.  A week from now, I'm back on campus as an Associate Professor on the tenure track, not as an adjunct, not as a year-to-year lecturer.

My teaching load will be lighter:  4 classes instead of 5.  My service load will be heavier, as I didn't have to do committee work in my previous incarnations at Spartanburg Methodist College.  I will keep an eye on tenure requirements which are not onerous.

When I was in grad school, I wanted a job like the kind I have now, as a faculty member at a small, liberal arts college, the type of undergraduate school where I earned my BA degree.  Almost all of my fellow grad students who weren't on the Creative Writing track wanted that.  One of our Victorian Lit professors sneered at us for wanting "a unicorn" of a job.

I assumed I wouldn't be able to get tenure at a state university.  I worried about my ability to get my academic writing published.  I wanted to teach at a place where my creative writing would be a way to tenure, and now I am.  Service to the school and community will also count towards tenure.  I've been impressed with the way that SMU allows faculty to be their whole selves.

And yes, I would expect that at a liberal arts college, but I know it's not always that way.

In fact, I am a bit worried about what happens if leadership leaves.  I've worked with enough presidents of schools to know that the leadership at the top does make a difference.

But those are worries for a different day, a day which might not arrive at all.  SMC's president is my age, and he says he's planning to retire when he leaves, so he may be here at least another 5 years or more.  I suspect that our provost is in a similar position, and my dean, too, seems unlikely to leave.

I am coming onto the tenure track as an Associate Professor, a job title that I've never had.  I am happy that my years of experience are being recognized in this way.  I remember years ago showing a job posting to a friend who is 13 years older than I am, and she said, "I'm a little old to be starting as an Assistant Professor on a tenure track."  She likely would have felt the same if it was an Associate Professor position.

When we had that conversation, she was younger than I am now.  I'm happy to be an Associate Professor, but I'd have accepted the job if it had been an Assistant Professor tenure track.  I'm relieved to have the certainty of a job with a salary and benefits that I can count on for more than a year.

Adventures in Reading Outside of the House

I began the day, the outside of the house part of the day, at the dentist's office yesterday morning for an 8 a.m. appointment.  I brought a book, Francine Prose's Five Weeks in the Country.  By the end of the visit, after 29 pages, I decided that I was already dreading having to finish the book--the grown up characters in the book are SO odious.  I reminded myself--you don't have to read any further.  And so, back to the library it goes!

I ended the day, the outside of the house part of the day, at the dermatologist's office to get a basal cell skin cancer removed.  I arrived late in the afternoon, and it wasn't a surprise that they were running a bit late.  Happily, I had a book, Margaret Atwood's The Penelopiad.  

What a delightful book!  How did I miss its publication back in 2005?

Well, a lot was going on in my life in 2005, much of it difficult (hurricanes, house damage, mother-in-law's broken hip and death by medical industrial complex). 

I was glad to have that book with me, because the appointment took longer than it might have earlier in the day.  Even more, I was glad it was a compelling book, a book I would have enjoyed, even if I hadn't been stuck with it, in the unique way that one is stuck in a doctor's office.  It's a short book, and I read about half of it during the time of waiting.

For the past several years, I've tried to get back in the habit of carrying a book with me everywhere, especially to health care appointments, where I know there will be some waiting time--far better to read a book than to read my phone.

Tornado Warning with Biopsy Results (Skin Cancer, Nothing Too Scary)

I was keeping an eye on the weather yesterday--but then again, I'm often keeping an eye on the weather.  In the late afternoon, the sky got dark, sunset dark, but we were far away from sunset.  The thunderstorm watch was upgraded to a warning, and the wind picked up.  I plugged in my phone; I wanted to have a full charged phone, just in case we might be about to lose power for while. 

I saw the tornado warning three minutes before it ended.  I'm not sure why my phone didn't sound an alert.  Happily, the storm never swooped south to us; I have a friend in North Asheville who lost power and internet.  Our lights only flickered once.

The wind died down, and we went back to watching Ride or Die.  It's a compelling show:  female friendship and assassins set in London and maybe now moving into Europe. I can't figure out where it's going, but I like the ride.  It's got enough funny moments to keep me hooked.  The violence is a bit much, but so far, I can tolerate it.

The other afternoon event of note:  I got a phone call from the dermatologist.  The biopsy from my July 1visit came back showing a basal cell on my shoulder.  I will go in today to get the spot scraped again.

In some ways, it's not a big deal.  But it will be my 3rd skin cancer in the last seven months.  In some ways, it's to be expected.  With a melanoma diagnosis, my doctor is keeping a much closer eye on my skin and sending in more samples to be diagnosed.  But it's sobering in many ways.

I also feel like I shouldn't make a big deal out of skin cancer, when other people are having much more serious biopsies done.  But I also see the big scar on my arm from the melanoma surgery; it's fading, but it's still noticeable.

Today I start the day with the dentist and end with the dermatologist.  It seems a commentary on modern life, or maybe just my life.

Car Inspections and Jesus Rewiring a Fixer-Upper

Yesterday was one of those days when maintenance tasks went more smoothly than anticipated.  It's almost August, the time for car safety inspections so that the annual car registration can be paid--in time to do the payments by mail, because the in-person process is a nightmare, only superseded by getting an NC driver's license.

I try to do the safety inspections early because both cars are older (2014 Prius and 2019 Rogue), and with age comes the chance that something will be wrong.  Happily, yesterday's inspections were quick and smooth, plus an oil change and tire inspection/alignment for the Rogue.  Last year, the process was more cumbersome because I was working full-time hours doing CPE at the Asheville VA Hospital.

The afternoon was a combination of cooking, movie watching (the both compelling and baffling Love Lies Bleeding), and grading for my online classes.  In the late afternoon, I had some phone conversations, which is unusual for me, two long phone calls in one afternoon.  In one case, I realized I hadn't heard from an old college friend in awhile; he usually calls on our birthdays as well as other points, so not hearing from him was worrisome.  Happily, he's fine, but doing a lot of traveling.  I also had a long chat with my cousin.

I had that first of the season realization that evenings are getting a smidge darker earlier.  I had already realized that morning light filters through later.

This morning, I returned to a poem idea I had on Sunday:  Jesus rewires the fixer-upper.  Careful readers of this blog might say, "Wait, did you finish the poem about Jesus buying the fixer-upper?"  No, I haven't even started.  One reason I value this blog is as a repository of ideas and inspirations that are easy to find later.

I still plan to get back to that original idea, but Sunday as I was walking, this next poem, which may be part of a series, came to me as I was thinking about our own experience working with professionals to get our Spartanburg fixer-upper rewired.  Could Jesus say the word and have the wiring fix itself?  Does Jesus respect/fear the laws of electricity/physics more than the laws of biology which govern the human body?

I'm still in the process of creating the poem.  I used the verb "wrestling," but this morning's writing hasn't been a struggle.  I started the poem not knowing where it would end, which is not how I always write.  In fact, I'm more likely to think and think and think about a poem idea and figure it all out--for some poems, this process results in writing out a finished poem with few surprises, and for some poems, I figure out that it's not worth the effort of typing it into the computer.

I like the potential for surprise that comes from starting before I figure it all out.  Here are the lines that surprised me this morning:

Jesus knows that first you must
cast out the demons of ungrounded
wires and faulty connections.

Last Full Week of Summer

This week is my last full week of summer.  Of course, it's not exactly summer in its no-working glory, the way that some might assume.  I'm still teaching 2 online classes for Broward College; a week ago, I'd be turning in grades for the 2 online classes I taught at Spartanburg Methodist College.  I'm still a part-time minister at Faith Lutheran in Bristol, Tennessee.

I've had academic work to do as a student.  At the beginning of summer, back in May, I still had several weeks of the Lutheran Confessions class that I was taking.  On Saturday, I turned in the paper on Paul for the Paul class I took in June.  I also had a huge writing project for the Candidacy Endorsement process, a project that was due last Monday.

But not having to commute to Spartanburg every week day has left me lots of time.  Not teaching 5 days a week in person has left me lots of time.  I've used some of this time in volunteer work:  mail delivery for camp, making cookies for counselors, and doing quilting for Lutheran World Relief with the local Lutheran church.

I've also had time to walk.  I've walked almost every day, which is almost impossible during the 8 months that onground classes are in session.  In some ways, I've been eating in a super-nutritious way too, with lots of veggies from farmer's markets.  The tomatoes this year are perfect, unlike last year when the tomato farmer told me there was too much rain.  I don't eat as many beans in the summer, unlike in the winter where I bring a mix of garbanzo beans, lentils, barley, and chopped veggies for lunch at school.

I've also had time for friends and family--but then again, I try to make time for friends and family throughout the year.  I always think of the ones I'm not seeing, those who don't live too far away and those who do.

This week will be a similar mix of what we've had the past 3 months:  teaching tasks, maintenance tasks (car and dentist this week), walking, cooking, strategizing how to get the fixer-upper house into a more livable state, some time with friends, sermon writing, sewing to do on my quilt top.  I am a lucky woman.

The Feast Day of Saint James

Today we celebrate the life of James, one of the 12 disciples, the first to be martyred (Acts 12:1 tells us by Herod's sword). He's known as James the Greater (to distinguish him from James the Lesser, James the son of Alphaeus). He's the brother of John. He was one of the first to join Jesus, and Jesus chose him to go up the mountain to witness the Transfiguration. He is the patron saint of veterinarians and pharmacists, among others.

Lately, I've heard more about St. James, as more people become aware of the pilgrimage that involves walking to his shrine in Santiago de Campostela in Spain from a variety of starting points. Walkers who cover 100 km or cyclists who cover 200 km get a compostela, a certificate, and a blessing.

St. James is associated with scallops, and if you look at a map, you'll see that the pilgrims arriving from a variety of beginning points to the same end point does look like a scallop shell. There are now travel agencies that will help pilgrims, but I've been told that it's not hard to set up one's own journey. There are all sorts of lodgings along the way, all sorts of support.

In 2023, I finally saw the Martin Sheen/Emilio Estevez movie, The Way, which features this pilgrim's path. I'd love to actually walk part of it, but it seems increasingly unlikely. But life has taught me never to say never. If I could go on the Santiago or Iona, I'd probably choose Iona, but who says I would have to choose.

I'm not the only one who finds the idea intriguing. In 1985, only 690 pilgrims made it to the end point, the Cathedral of Santiago de Campostela; recently, 179,919 pilgrims completed the journey. The most hardcore pilgrims walk barefoot. I would not be one of those pilgrims.

A few years ago, one of my good church friends figured out how to walk part of the Santiago de Campostela, how to make sure her pets and children were taken care of for 2 weeks, and off she went with her husband. I found her journey so inspiring. She kept a blog while walking and has continued to keep writing posts in her "regular" life.

Let us remember that we're all on a variety of pilgrimages, even if we're not leaving the house. Let us remember that God is with us.

Getting the Band Back Together

Yesterday I spent much of the day shopping and getting ready for our South Florida church friend's arrival for dinner--which is odd since I wasn't buying food for dinner.  But it was that time of year when it was time to restock on basic pantry staples and over the counter meds and such.

I spent far too much time trying to think about what would be best for dinner.  In some ways, I was lucky:  my friend's only request was not to have lettuce (future readers may have forgotten the cyclospora outbreak of this summer which is much wider than usual, but as usual, linked to lettuce grown on factory farms).  I thought about grilling.  I thought about vegetarian dishes.  I know my friend has been traveling and not gotten much in the way of homecooked meals.  I thought about pot pie.  The idea of a cozy chicken casserole began to take shape in my mind, and that's what we ended up having.

I had this picture in mind as I thought about our dinner:

This picture is from Easter Sunrise Service 2021 at Trinity Lutheran Church in Pembroke Pines, Florida.  I'm on the upright bass, which belongs to Piper who is standing beside me.  Piper was here for Music Week a few weeks ago, and Eileen (in the blue dress) was our dinner guest last night.  Carl, my spouse, is on the violin.

I thought about staging something similar last night, with a witty caption about getting the band back together.  But I didn't want to disrupt the good vibes of the night.  We had a great meal of chicken and broccoli rice casserole with a mushroom white sauce holding it together, maple glazed carrots, homemade bread, and blueberry pie for dessert.  We had wonderful conversation.  We haven't seen each other since summer 2022, so we had lots to catch up on.

In one light, it's sobering to think of what's happened since this picture was taken:  people moved away, people dead, buildings gone.  But it's also inspiring:  new jobs, new houses, new churches.

But what I love best:  we could pick up right where we left off.  I'm fortunate to have so many friendships that are like that.

More Late Summer Gratitudes

Two weeks from today, I'll be getting ready to drive down to Spartanburg for a day of meetings, faculty workshops, and not just one but two meals.  Those of you who have never worked in a place with a day of meetings and faculty "development," but no food or coffee provided may not understand why I am so happy and grateful to be in a place where we get food along with our trainings and meetings.

But what I'm most grateful for is finding myself in a place where faculty are appreciated.  That appreciation takes the form of food or a verbal thank you during meetings or supplies . . .  on and on the list could go.  It seems so simple and yet in so many places, berating seems to be the default, not appreciation.

Today, though, I want to post about summer gratitude, here in these waning days of summer.  I've already touched on some of my gratitude, like for summer veggies which turns into good eating (in this blog post) and creative time with friends (in this blog post about making cut paper cards) and Music Week gratitudes of all sorts.

Earlier this week, I saw a Facebook post from Beginnings Quilt Shop about a birthday party for Georgia Bonesteel and inviting us all to stop by on Tuesday from 10-noon.  I was relatively free, so I decided to pop by.  And I'm so glad I did!

Georgia Bonesteel's books on lap quilting were some of the first I read, and while I never could figure out how to put the smaller quilted pieces together into a larger quilt, I was inspired by her work.  I was one of the first ones at the shop, and I had a chance to tell her how much her work meant to me, and that felt great.  I was not starstruck and mute, the way I have found myself in my younger years approaching writers whose work had meant a lot to me.  She asked me what I was working on, and I had a photo on my phone that I pulled up, the one I posted Tuesday morning:

We chatted a bit more, and I moved over to get a piece of cake, so that I wasn't monopolizing her time--even though there weren't others waiting their turn.  

I considered some pieces that had potential as a backing fabric for the quilt, but decided it was better to wait until I'm sure of how big a backing I need.

Yesterday I zipped down to the Spartanburg house to deliver yet another light fixture, in the hopes that we can get a final inspection on the fixer-upper house rewiring.  In some ways, I don't mind.  It's a lot less commuting than I do in the school year.  I was also able to pay the water bill in person.

In the afternoon, I went to the Lutheran World Relief quilting group at Lutheran Church of the Nativity, the Lutheran church around the corner from my Arden house.  They are a wonderful group, and I'm happy to have a chance to work with them, as I have been doing for 4 years.   

We also got the phone call that both final inspections (for the HVAC and the rewiring) are scheduled for Friday--fingers crossed!  Then we can figure out what makes sense for a timeline for the remaining work that we need to get done before we move in:  painting the interior and refinishing the hardwood floors. 

I was very tired by day's end, and I finally gave in to my urge to go to bed, even though it was only 6:30.

Today one of our South Florida church friends is coming by for dinner.  I am looking forward to catching up, grateful that she's the one on her way back to Florida (she, too, has moved away from South Florida, but not out of the state), not me.

I have been feeling such joy this summer and so much gratitude, along with feeling a bit odd about feeling this way.  The world is burning, both literally and figuratively, and my mood doesn't match.  I'm grateful about that ability too, to be aware of my good fortune, to try to help others, and to be able to have such joy, even with the sorrows that come from being 61.

Poems for the Feast Day of Mary Magdalene

Today is the feast day of Mary Magdalene.  If you came here hoping for a historical and theological and feminist type blog post, I wrote that type of blog post for my theology blog, which you can read here.

This morning, I'm thinking of Mary Magdalene and the way she has appeared in poetry.  My favorite is Marie Howe's Magdalene is my favorite, both the book and the individual poem, "Magdalene--The Seven Devils" (the poem is here).

And a sidenote before continuing with this post:  I do realize all the ways that talking about demon possession is problematic, and I do think that characterizing Mary Magdalene as a prostitute possessed by demons was a way that the early Church tried to discredit her.  Back to poetry.

Howe's poem is so fabulous that I hesitate to post mine here; I'm fairly sure that I had not read her poem when I wrote the two poems below.  I wrote one and then a few years later, decided to revisit the idea in the poem that I thought had more potential.  It's an interesting insight into the ways that poems can influence each other, talk to each other, and lead to different poems.

Here's the first one, which I wrote after reading the passage in Acts where the slave girl has her demons cast out, which makes her valueless, since she can no longer forecast the future.

Demon Dwellings



Mary Magdalene misses
the sixth demon the most,
the one who was her best self,
the one who knew what to say,
how to dress,
how to make the best cocktail,
the one who slept
peacefully through the night.

The slave girl misses
all her demons—
no one else would talk
to her when she was possessed.
No one talks to her now.

I eat dinner with homeless men,
and I remember my mother explaining
demon possession as an ancient
way to explain mental illness.
The homeless man rants in a language
not quite human, and I ponder
those demons and their destiny.

Here's the poem I wrote a few years later, when I was continuing to think about Mary Magdalene and what healing from demon possession might be like, especially after Jesus was gone.

The Fifth Demon



You moderns read about my demon
possession, and you think of The Exorcist:
gravel voices out of the mouths of schoolgirls,
mouths that spew gobs of green goo.


I tell you, it wasn’t like that. Each demon
had a unique personality, a tone
that only I could recognize. In the night,
the hiss of their suggestions soothed
me into sleep. By day, their constant
criticisms and complaints proved motivation.

And then I met Jesus. His voice
filled my head and crowded out the demons.
His stories left me slightly dizzy,
like I had spent weeks sleeping
on a sailing ship and returned to land.

I miss the fifth demon most.
I lost them, and then I lost
him, and now I have only the tomb
of my empty mind.

Last Weeks of Summer

Three weeks from today, my onground classes start at Spartanburg Methodist College; it will be both similar and different for me.  It will be my 3rd year of full-time work at the college, after 1 year of adjunct work, but the beginning of the tenure track for me.  I'll write more about that in a few weeks.  

I wish I could say that our plans to be in our fixer-upper house in Spartanburg are on schedule, but they are not.  I will make a few phone calls today and hope to figure out where we are.  We've been having electrical work done and HVAC work done, and from what I can see, we're close to having final inspections done, but those haven't been scheduled yet.  

Once those final inspections happen, we'll paint and redo the hardwood floors.  We're holding off on the kitchen remodel until next summer, mainly so that we don't sink all our liquid cash into a not-liquid asset, our house.   The kitchen that is there is workable, though far from ideal.  We've had worse, but we are now used to having better (like a dishwasher).

Today I will also go to Hendersonville, where my favorite quilt/fabric store, Beginnings, is having a 90th birthday party for famous quilter Georgia Bonesteel.  Her books on lap quilting were some of the earliest on quilting that I read.  Those books in the 1980's had a plan for how one could quilt in smaller pieces and then join the pieces together into a bed-sized quilt.  

I've spent the summer making a quilt in my old-fashioned way, hand stitching much smaller scraps into what I hope will become a beautiful quilt.  

I do a lot of this work while my spouse is watching T.V.  This week we've both been enjoying Clarkson's Farm, which is a good reminder of why farming is so difficult, even when one is a TV figure with other income streams that are significant.  Jeremy Clarkson has lost several small fortunes in these seasons of doing farming.  He can afford it.  It's a very funny show, if one ignores the sobering reality of farming in a world where the climate has changed dramatically.

I'm hoping to have a quilt top ready for Quilt Camp in late August.  I want to create a quilt for our new bed that I hope we will have in the house by late August or early September.  In some ways, each time I pick up my needle and thread, I feel like I'm doing some version of "manifesting."  

It also reminds me of my garage sale rambling as a child, where I would pick up things like napkins and dishes and think of the hope chests that I read about in books about pilgrims and prairies.  In my darker moods, I find myself thinking that I'm doing the enjoyable work while trying to ignore the harder, sweatier work that needs to be done to make the house habitable--or even avoid phone calls to contractors.

Happily, our time line is our own.  I've been commuting every week day to Spartanburg, and I can keep doing that.  So far, the costs that come with an additional house have been manageable.  And I much prefer to spend summer in the mountains, instead of doing home renovation work in the Upstate (SC) heat and moving in August.

Farm Stand Eating

We have had a stretch of farm stand eating.  You may say, "Of course--it's July--it's how we're all eating."  But I spent 24 years in South Florida, where summer is not a growing season, where growing any sort of vegetable during any month takes planning and good fortune and is likely to end in tears.

One summer, I wanted peach cobbler in the worst way, a homesickness that was wrapped up in missing my elders that had died, missing friends far away.  I stood by a display of overpriced peaches, not one of which had any kind of smell:  not peach, not rot, not any smell at all.*

I wanted to cry.

And because I'm an English major, I thought of those lines from Keats' "Ode to a Nightingale":   

"Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn"

I thought about tears and alien produce and how I didn't really like peaches much anyway, and then I moved along.  I thought about my peach triggered homesickness a few weeks ago when I was peeling peaches from the box I bought to support one of the high schoolers in the church I serve in Bristol, Tennessee.

One of my other parishioners has been bringing us other gifts from her garden.  We've had a blueberry pie because she made jar after jar of pie filling made with blueberries from her yard and brought the jars to church.  Yesterday she brought a bag of green beans and implored us to take them all so that she didn't have to can them.

I was happy to help, even though beans aren't my favorite vegetable.  On the drive back across the mountain, I snapped each end and got them ready to cook.  I thought about hot afternoons on my grandmother's front porch, with bowls of beans on our laps and a paper bag on the porch floor to catch the vegetable waste, which my grandmother would dig back into the compost strip in the back yard along the detached garage.  

Back to yesterday's beans:  I found some hunks of ham frozen from Thanksgiving, and we let the beans and ham bubble away on the stove and had a wonderful dinner.  I had gotten some Mills River corn that had just been picked on Saturday, so we had that too, along with  the yellow squash casserole I made on Saturday and tomato slices.

Classic farm stand meal--and could there be a poem peeking around the edges too?  Or would it just be a collection of cliches?  Is there anything new to say?

I do like the idea of snapping beans in the front seat of a car instead of a front porch.  I like the idea of channeling the elders by way of food, but that's not a new idea--far from it.  Let me continue contemplating.

*After writing this blog post, I wondered if I had written about the earlier peach experience--and I did!  Go here to read that blog post from 2016.

Housing Contentment with Ants

For the past two weeks, we've had a solitary ant in the kitchen.  I've thought it odd--ants don't usually travel alone.

This morning, I'm wondering if it was a scout ant, sent ahead to find a good homestead.  This morning, we have ants all over the kitchen.

We rarely have bug problems in this house in Arden, which is strange because we live on a densely wooded lot, the kind of woods that means we don't have any yard care tasks.  We pay for termite protection because we're in a wooden house on a wooded lot.  But we don't have roaches and ants only a few times in the last 4 years we've lived here.

Wow--we have lived here 4 years.  I still think it was a smart move.  My spouse still misses Florida.  I used to say that I missed every place I had ever lived, even the ones I didn't particularly like while I was living there.  Now I am realizing that I don't miss those places anymore.

Is this one of the undiscussed joys of aging?  More probably, it's something specific to me.  For decades I was baffled to discover that most people don't miss places where they used to live.  Most people don't go back and give deep consideration to roads not taken and decisions made.

I am now in a place that I don't long to leave:  I love all my jobs, and I'm happy to be able to live here in the mountains.  I have good friends, both near where I live and far away.  My health feels stable.  I'm also happy with our fixer-upper in Spartanburg.

Yesterday I took a quick trip down to Spartanburg.  I needed to get the check to our neighbor who takes care of our yard and to get the mail.  I also wanted to see first hand how the rewiring project was going.  The rewiring project is much closer to finished than I expected--all but 1 fixture is installed.

It is much easier to feel less stress about this fixer-upper house because I love our mountain house so much.  We're going to keep that house and move back and forth.  If I have some additional commuting time to Spartanburg Methodist College, if the fixer-upper house isn't ready by the time classes start, that's O.K.

It's easier to deal with home repairs when I'm not living in the house being repaired.  That, too, is a source of my current contentment.

It's time to shift my focus.  This week brings major due dates:  SMC online grades on Monday, a Candidacy Endorsement Writing Project on Monday, and my Paul paper on July 26, Sunday.  Let me turn my writing attention to other projects this morning. 

Making Cut Paper Cards

Earlier this week, I went to the studio of a neighborhood friend.  She wanted to make cards out of cut paper, and I was happy to try my hand.  She had the supplies, including papers we painted earlier in the year for a retreat.  If you look closely, you can see the hymnbook print behind the paint.

One approach is to look for words that match the picture or mood.  I rarely did that.  I was primarily looking for the colors that I needed.  But when I returned to the picture below to add some additional green circles that I hope look like a tree canopy, I saw some bits that worked, most notably at the top word "Seasons."

It was a fun exercise, but harder than it looks.  I was trying to make shapes that evoked tents, but I'm not sure the purple under the trees or the red shapes at the bottom of the mountains in the upper card do that.  I was more pleased with the trees and with the mountains.  

My friend also decorated the envelopes to match the image on the cards, but I didn't have the patience to work with that canvas that needed to be smaller so that there's room for the addresses.

It is fun to work on a project like this one while catching up.  I'm grateful to be able to share her supplies and the hospitality of her studio.  And now I have two more cards to send out.  I am feeling truly fortunate.

Angels of Deliverance

Today is an important nuclear anniversary.  On this day in 1945, scientists exploded the first nuclear bomb at the Trinity test site in New Mexico.

I hadn't remembered until doing some Internet wanderings that the explosion was scheduled for this date because Truman had an important meeting with Allied leaders in Potsdam on July 17.  Bomb as savior?

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

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

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

It's also the birthday of Tony Kushner.  I remember long ago, in 1994, my friend who dreamed of writing plays told me about Angels in America, which she had just read.  It happened to be available from the Quality Paperback Book Club, so I ordered it.

I consumed it in one sitting.  It has haunted me ever since.

I watched both Angels in America and Perestroika when they came to the Kennedy Center during the mid-90's.  Wow.  Sometimes I forget the power of live theatre.  The HBO version came out in the early years of this century, and it, too was powerful, but when I'm watching something on a screen, I assume that part of the power comes from high-tech sorcery.  With live theatre, I give all the credit to the humans on the stage.

I have spent the years since wondering about the idea of writing that tackles the big issues of an age.  I've thought of August Wilson writing a play that represents the life of African-Americans during the twentieth century, one play for each decade.  And he pulled it off!

Some days, I think I dream too small.

It's oddly comforting to think about Angels in America, a play written about a dark time in American history.  I remember the early days of the AIDS crisis, when we weren't quite sure of the cause and how to prevent it and even as we discovered more about it, the thought that haunted us was that maybe there were additional transmission routes that we hadn't found yet.  The disease seemed more ravaging in those days, as people went from healthy to corpse in six months or less.  And then, as now, the government seemed helpless--or worse--in the face of the devastation.

And yet, here we are, into a generation or two saved by protease inhibitors.  There's recent talk of a pill that prevents transmission.  Darkness can be split apart by light.

I have hopes that ten or twenty years from now, we'll look back and say, "We were at a turning point, but we didn't see it then.  The world was about to emerge into a better place, but boy did it look bleak then."

And what writers/works will we see as the documenters of that dark time?  As a writer, is it better to document the dark time or to dream of the brighter future?

Modern Life with Tick Removal

My spouse started his day by pulling a tick out of the back of my knee--we're romantic that way.  I was sitting at my desk and felt a weird bump, which I assumed was a new skin growth, which I assumed would mean a trip to the dermatologist when I saw it was black.  And then I saw legs on either side.

It took some effort to see the tick, so I decided to wake up my spouse to get his help.  He was calm, as he almost always is in a medical situation, in most situations.  The tick came out easily, and I smushed it in a piece of paper and then put tape over it.  I've read that the body might be needed for testing, if I develop any symptoms.

I'll be on the lookout for a bull's-eye rash.  I'll also be on the lookout for other symptoms of Lyme Disease.  I'm already feeling chills, because I'm suggestible that way.

I will also look at my body more carefully and have my spouse check my scalp.  

In some ways, I'm a bit freaked out.  I've managed to get through my 61 years without ever having a tick.  In other ways, I shrug.  I live in a place with lots of trees and undergrowth, so in many ways, it's to be expected.

I planned to write about my delightful day yesterday.  I was staying with a grad school friend in Columbia, SC, and we went to the Gourmet Shop in Five Points for early lunch/late breakfast.  The place was draped in French flags, and all the workers had jaunty neck scarves, and a few wore berets.

How wonderful to be in a place that celebrates Bastille Day!  I had a goat cheese, pesto, and tomato panini with a cup of tomato bisque.  I took advantage of a Bastille Day sale and bought 3 bottles of wine for later.

We spent the rest of my birthday eating leftover pizza with the wine and bits of birthday cake I brought home.  I had a phone call from an old friend from Trident Tech and Mepkin days whom I hadn't talked to in many years--what a treat!

And now, back to regular life.  I'll go for a walk and later, coffee with a neighborhood friend.  I'm doing a day of mail delivery duty today and then quilting at the local Lutheran church.  So, it's not all regular life--regular life will be some grading and bill paying and maybe some of the writing that needs to be done soon:  sermon writing and my Paul paper and my Candidacy writing project.

Happy Bastille Day! Happy Birthday!

Today is my birthday. I was born on an Air Force base in France, where July 14 is Bastille Day. My mom always told me that when I was born they had parades and fireworks and people took the day off to have a picnic; it was years before I realized that these celebrations had nothing to do with me. I've always found it thrilling to be born on Bastille Day, and later, as I discovered the influence of the French Revolution on some of my favorite British authors, I've been even more happy to have been born on Bastille Day. Even my knowledge of how the French Revolution turned out (boo Napoleon!) doesn't dull my appreciation of the event. I see it as one of the important world events that paved the way for the world of freedoms that so many of us in the first world enjoy.

So, you're not ready to stop celebrating the human drive for freedom from tyranny, you're in luck!  Bastille Day is the French Fourth of July, and you could make a strong case that both revolutions should be celebrated in tandem.  The French began their revolution in the decade after the American colonies broke away, and for the next century, maybe 2, abusive leaders worried about the example set by these revolutions, how these revolutions showed that ordinary citizens could change the world.

It's also the birthday of former president Gerald Ford, which impressed my elementary school classmates (sharing a birthday with the president!) more than it impresses anyone now. Now I'm most happy about sharing my birthday with so many great artists. Woody Guthrie was born on this day, as was Irving Stone. It's also the birthday of Isaac Bashevis Singer--not bad to share one's birthday in such company!

I'm most happy about sharing a birthday with Woody Guthrie.  I find Guthrie fascinating as an artist. Here's a singer-songwriter who doesn't know music theory, who left behind a treasure trove of lyrics but no music written on musical staffs or chords--because he didn't know how to do it. For many of the songs that he wrote, he simply used melodies that already existed.

I think of Woody Guthrie as one of those artists who only needed 3 chords and the truth--but in fact, he said that anyone who used more than two chords is showing off. In my later years, I've wondered if he developed this mantra because he couldn't handle more than 2 chords.

I love this vision I have of Guthrie as an artist who didn't let his lack of knowledge hold him back. I love how he turned the deficits that might have held a lesser artist back into strengths. I love that he's created a whole body of work, but his most famous song ("This Land Is Your Land") is still sung by schoolchildren everywhere, and how subversive is that?

If I could create a body of poems that bring comfort and hope to activists, as well as one or two poems that everyone learns as schoolchildren, well I'd be happy with that artistic life. If I could inspire future generations the way that Guthrie did, how marvelous that would be. I could make the argument that artists like Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen and the members of U2 would be different artists today, had there been no Woody Guthrie (better artists? worse? that's a subject for a different post).

Here's a Woody Guthrie quote to help you celebrate Bastille Day and the spirit of freedom, wherever it blooms. Those of you who listened to and loved The Alarm may remember Mike Peters quoting it during concerts (want to listen? see if you can find a copy of Electric Folklore Live and enjoy that soaring music one more time). Here's the Guthrie quote, which makes quite a good vision statement, for those of you in need of one:

"I hate a song that makes you think that you are not any good. I hate a song that makes you think that you are just born to lose. Bound to lose. No good to nobody. No good for nothing. Because you are too old or too young or too fat or too slim too ugly or too this or too that. Songs that run you down or poke fun at you on account of your bad luck or hard traveling.

I am out to fight those songs to my very last breath of air and my last drop of blood. I am out to sing songs that will prove to you that this is your world and that if it has hit you pretty hard and knocked you for a dozen loops, no matter what color, what size you are, how you are built.

I am out to sing the songs that make you take pride in yourself and in your work."

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.

A Quick Tour of Spartanburg with My Parents

Yesterday we went down to Spartanburg with my mom and dad.  They wanted to see our fixer-upper that we bought in May, and while we were there, also see the campus of Spartanburg Methodist College.  So that's what we did.

My cousin Judy also wanted to see the house and to see Mom and Dad (Judy is the wife of my mom's cousin Bob), so she drove down from the Charlotte area to join us.  And then, before we left each other, we had a wonderful late lunch at City Range Steakhouse, which despite it's name, does have vegetarian and pescatarian options.

I wondered about the wisdom of giving a house tour at this point in our renovations, this very early point before we've done very much.  But seeing the house at this "before" stage will make our renovations even more impactful (she says with hope in her voice).  The house impressed the visitors with its size--much bigger than people thought from the pictures.  My mom had been expecting a neighborhood that was much seedier, so the solidness of the neighborhood impressed her.  Everyone agreed that this screened porch was the place where they would spend a lot of time:

realtor's picture of screened porch

The campus also impressed my family members.  I was surprised to find that the door to the Ellis building was open.  That's the building where I have my office and where, so far, all my classes have been located.  We peeked into a classroom, but I didn't take them up to see my office.  It felt too much like we were trespassing, even though the door was open--plus, my locked office should be behind a locked outer door to the office space, so why make us all walk up the stairs?

As we left the building, which is at one end of the campus, we looked up the street to the rest, which I described.  We also had a bit of a driving tour as we drove to a different exit.

When I describe the school as a small, liberal arts college in South Carolina, my mind goes to my own alma mater, Newberry College, a much smaller campus, at least when I attended.  Like many a campus, both schools have an open space of lawn, around which are dorms and classroom buildings.  But SMC has another space of lawn at the other end of campus.  It's not as large as a state school--it's no UVa or UNC-Chapel Hill.

After our delightful late lunch, we drove back to our main home in Arden, NC.  Even though we finished lunch at 2:00, we had a late supper at 6:30, a supper of sandwiches.  I went to bed before the sun was down, at 8:15.  Music Week has been wonderful, but I am tired!

End of Music Week

A week ago, I'd be doing the last tasks to get ready for Music Week:  the cleaning, the final shopping, he laundry, some cooking.  I was grateful to have so much in place--food in the fridge, clean clothes--because the pace of Music Week feels more jam-packed every year.

Yesterday was a day of final rehearsals and then concerts and worship.  I went to the kid's concert--I am amazed at how the director is able to take a group of very young children, all under the age of 8, and get them focused and making good music.

I was able to record the Adult Choir during worship--they had 4 pieces for the prelude part of the service and 1 piece for the response to the Confession, 1 piece as a response to the Bible reading, and 1 piece for the Offertory.  If you'd like to hear them, I posted each one separately on my YouTube channel.

I was the Communion assistant, which went well for the most part.  Closing worship was held at the Chapel, which has no HVAC system, so we were all sweaty.  I was briefly worried about the chalices slipping out of my sweaty hands, but happily, that didn't happen.  As I walked back to the altar, some of the grape juice in the very full chalice sloshed and dripped on the floor.

The other team communed the choir, while the chaplain and I communed everyone else--including the bishop of the NC Synod.  I always find it profoundly moving to commune my mom and dad.  I'll get another chance to do that tomorrow--they're coming to Bristol on their way home.

We spent the afternoon helping our friends staying with us get on the road and then straightening a bit.  Mom and Dad came back in the late afternoon for dinner--delicious hamburgers, which we got cooked on the grill just before a thunderstorm came through.

After a week of late-ish nights, it was good to have an early bedtime.  Today we will head a different direction on I 26.  We're going down to Spartanburg to see our fixer-upper house and to see the campus of Spartanburg Methodist College.  We'll have some lunch at some point, and then we'll head back.

It's wonderful to have a slower ending to Music Week, otherwise yesterday afternoon could have been a crashing come down.

Thursday Night Hymn Festival

Last night we all headed over to St. James Episcopal Church in Hendersonville, about 15 miles away.  We trooped over there for the Music Week Hymn Festival.

Why did we need to change location?  In part, because the organ is better.  In part, because more people could come.  In part, because we've always done it this way, at least for the past decade or two or three.

Last night, at times, the organ took center stage.  Even if you think your church has a magnificent organ, it's likely 2-5 times smaller than the organ at St. James.  I know this because my mom is an organist, and at her last church, she was the organist who helped do a capital campaign for a new organ.  I thought it might be the same size as last night's organ, but she said it's about a quarter of the size.

David Cherwien was the organist and director of the Hymn Choir last night.  He showed us all the ways the organ could perform, and I was happy with the way the music illuminated the hymn itself.  At times, I wanted less organ and more singing, but I am aware that my preferences don't reflect the whole of the attendees.

Many of the hymns were familiar, but some were not.  Almost all of them came from the ELCA hymnal, the ELW (which stands for Evangelical Lutheran Worship).  As always, I am struck by what a wonderful resource that hymnal is.  Like my brain, like a computer, I don't use nearly as much as is there.

Last night, with every hymn, the audience had verses to sing; some years, the hymnfest is more like a concert, but not this year.  I thought about how unusual it is for me to sing in a group where I cannot hear myself singing--what a delight!  I took the picture above before the pews filled, and because it's Music Week, everyone was singing.

It's been a week full of delights, and I'm sad to see it come to an end today.  Happily, we are likely to be able to come to Music Week again next year.  I feel very fortunate.

Thursday Weariness

I am weary this morning, but in a good way--in several good ways:

--I've gotten to hear a lot of good singing/music and even done some singing myself.

--I've seen a lot of folks:  old friends, family members, people I recognize from past years.  I've had lots of conversation.

--The work still needs to be done:  grading, sermon writing, thinking about papers due in a few weeks.

--I've done more sketching than usual.

--We've started every morning with a vigorous walk.

--Each day since Sunday has contained one worship service, and usually 2.  And they are so well done.

--There's been Bible study:  villains in the Bible (the serpent, the Pharoah, David, and today, the Crowd).

--We've had good food.  Much of it was pre-prepped, but it still needs to come out of the refrigerator and go back in.

--I am thankful for the dishwasher, which we've used twice a day most days.

I am thankful for this time out of time, this time that reminds me that there's more to life than maintenance of body and of structures.

Music Week Sketching

I have spent time during Music Week sitting with my dad as the Adult Choir rehearses.  I may start bringing my laptop and getting some writing or grading done, the way I did the first year we came to Music Week as adults, back in 2022.

But maybe not.  Yesterday when I had read the book I brought and looked at the vender displays and still had time, I decided to do a quick sketch.  I began with a tree, the lower part of the tree, which is my go-to when I don't know what to draw.

Another go-to is pumpkins, which signify my favorite time of year, so I tried to sketch one.  I remembered that I had forgotten how to draw them, so on my phone, I looked up some techniques.

When the rehearsal time came to an end, I was really happy with the sketch I created:

I thought I might add color later, but I think I will let this sketch stand.  It brings me happiness, and I don't want to mess it up.

Later in the day, the grown son of my friend who is staying with us asked to see my sketchbooks.  He studied them intently.  I said I had work to do with perspective, and that I still struggled drawing humans.  Later, he said that he could tell which shapes were sheep and which were pumpkins and so on.  He pointed to some of my sketches to demonstrate.

He also said he could tell that my sketches started with strong, quick lines, and that can be hard to learn.  Interesting!

Being at Music Week often makes me sad that I haven't invested more time in developing musical abilities.  It's good to remember that I have other abilities.

Music Week Day 1: The Contrasts and the Contradictions

The last 24 hours have been full of contrasts.  On the one hand, it was the first full day of  Music Week at Lutheridge:

--Monday began with a long walk with the S. Florida church friend who is staying with us for the week.  Up and down hills, but I didn't really notice them because the conversation was deep and meaningful.

--Morning worship was also deep and meaningful.  I LOVED this prayer of the day:  "On the night he was betrayed, Jesus took bread, not revenge.  He offered bread to feed and to forgive.  On the night he was betrayed, Jesus took a basin of water to sooth [sic], liberate, and heal.  Help us, so washed and fed, to do the same."

--My inner English major was intrigued by the above spelling error, which made me think of soothsaying, which I continued to think about all day.

--My inner English major also was there for Bible study, which will take us to some villains in the Bible.  We began with one of the biggest, the serpent in the Garden of Eden.  One participant talked about the devil possessing the serpent, which sent me to the text, which reminded me that it's not in the text.  Ah, Milton, how your version has taken over everything we think we know about the story--which is what I said, in more non-English-major accessible form.

--One of our last questions for Bible study was "What does the serpent get out of this?"  I keep misspelling serpent, and this morning, I thought about serpent and repent, and now I want to write a poem, "The serpent repents."

--I was there for general choir rehearsal.  From the very beginning, this group can sing.  They sounded amazing, like they had been practicing for weeks, instead of just beginning together.

--The director has interesting ways of describing what he wants:  "You just sang the color dusty rose.  But it was the dusty rose of a piece of tuille or a curtain so faded you can see through it.  Now try it as a deeper rose color."  I immediately thought of a creative writing class idea, having students write a description and me bringing in different fabrics and colors and saying, "Now write it this way." 

--We had good meals together at our house.  The prep work was easy because I did most of it in advance.  It's becoming clear that I have prepared too much food--happily, much of it is freezable.

All of yesterday happened against a back drop of World Cup drama, both the games themselves, and the rumors of a phone call pressuring the officials to change a decision about red cards.  And then, this morning, the U.S. team lost anyway.

I got up this morning to news not only of that sports/political development/scandal, but also of the one in Maine.  If I left that sentence standing by itself, would future me remember which scandal I'm referring to?  In the interest of history, let me note that there are new rape charges against the Democratic candidate for Senate.  The charges that were already known (inappropriate sexting, inappropriate use of force against girlfriends) by the time of the primary would have been more than enough to disqualify him in the not-so-distant past.  Sigh.

I don't have a pithy way to end this post.  After all, if we're lucky, every given day is full of these contrasts if we just know to look:  deep friendship and deep spirituality and the farcical elements of modern life particularly the political bits and pieces, along with song and sustenance of all sorts.

Music Week Begins!

Yesterday was the start of Music Week at Lutheridge.  This year, unlike last year, I can be around for more of it.  I plan to go to the choral group (adult choir) rehearsals, so that if my Dad needs anything, I'll be there to help.  Plus, I don't mind being there when rehearsing is happening; in fact, I find it fascinating to see how a conductor trains, motivates, and shapes a choir.

We will be eating most meals at my house, and I have bought and prepped accordingly.  I'm still not completely sure of how many will be here, but I'm ready for a crowd.  Dining hall food during the summer is not designed for adult eaters:  think chicken nuggets, corn dogs, and school cafeteria quality pizza.  I have sandwiches of all sorts, plus a selection of chips, yogurt cups, fruit, and an amazing variation on carrot raisin salad that I made yesterday.

I have a lot of carrots, so I grated roughly 4.5 cups, a task which made me very happy for my food processor.  I didn't have raisins, so I roughly chopped 3/4 C. of dried cranberries.  I made a dressing of 1/2 cup mayonnaise and 1/2C. sugar plus a squeeze or three from a lemon, all whisked together.  Wow!  I am never buying this salad from a grocery store deli again.

Last night's meal was burgers, a choice of turkey or beef.  We had corn on the cob, and of course, chips.  It was delicious, and a good reminder that simple meals can work.

I am also going to hope that repeat meals can work.  Tonight I have a variety of elements to make Mexican possibilities, like burritos or nachos or the filling put on top of a salad.  Tomorrow night we might repeat.  Maybe we'll add in a baked potato, depending on how much I want to heat the kitchen.

After dinner last night, we went up the hill for orientation in the Faith Center and then further up the hill for evening worship in the chapel.  It was a Vespers of sorts (Evening Prayer on p. 309 of the ELW), but with more singing.  

We ended with a piece of music we had just learned at the end of orientation, Ana Hernandez's "If In Your Heart."  I was surprised at how easy it was for even a novice like me to learn (go here to buy the sheet music).  It's a Christmas song of sorts, but perfect for a close of day worship service.

The words are deceptively simple:  

"If in your heart, you make a manger for love's birth,

Then God will once again become a child on earth."

The lines are repeated in various vocal ranges, and it's just stunning.  This recording will give you an idea, but it can't replicate how it feels to be in a small chapel at camp, surrounded by skilled singers, with fireflies beginning their own evening song.

Independence Day Wrap Up

We had a weird 4th of July, and for these times, maybe that's appropriate.  We have several groups of visitors arriving today--Music Week at Lutheridge starts today!

So part of our 4th of July was getting ready.  We did extensive cleaning, and although the floors could still use a mopping, they look great.  My spouse cleaned the gutters--not something that needs to be done before company arrives, but another chore we'd put off for too long.

Some parts of getting ready were not drudgery.  I went to the small farmer's market in Mill's River, and most folks were wearing red, white, and blue, with most of the tables decorated for the 4th.  We grilled two chickens, ate some for lunch, and then pulled the rest of the meat off the bones--food for the week ahead.

I thought it was going to be a quiet day, but I woke up later, after dark, when it sounded like an explosive device was zooming past my window.  We don't have a lot of kids in the neighborhood, so it was weird to hear fireworks.  I don't remember hearing so many in past years.

Happily, I didn't hear much in the way of fireworks after 10.  In South Florida, people shoot off fireworks until 2 or 3 in the morning.

And now it's off to preach and preside at Faith Lutheran in Bristol, Tennessee, then back across the mountains to do some last tidying before folks arrive.  Life is good.

Happy Independence Day: History as Life Preserver

I have begun this 4th of July listening to a variety of podcasts:  an interview with The Rest is History British podcasters and David Remnick and a NYT Book Review podcast with Jill Lepore talking about history and good books for Independence day.  I listened to this story on heartland rock, which didn't tell me anything I didn't already have figured out about Springsteen's "Born in the U.S.A."  This piece on Octavia Butler's typewriter was disappointingly short. 

I have been re-reading Octavia Butler's Wild Seed, and I might go on to re-read Kindred, both interesting approaches to understanding history.  The interview with Jill Lepore meanders into a remembering of what it was to be immersed in books, especially the summer reading in childhood type.  Glorious!  I am always grateful to have longer stretches of reading time than I sometimes do during the school year.

This morning, I've also been re-reading past July 4 blog posts that I wrote.  Every 4th of July post is both similar and different, full of hope, yet also tinged by dread of what might be coming.  This year is no different.  Sure, we have a corrupt president, but that has usually been a national truth revealing how many different ways one can be corrupt, if one has enough power.

Here is the way I concluded my 2012 July 4 post.  It seems perfect for any ordinary Independence Day, but also for this one, which celebrates the U.S. at year 250:

I love this picture of a flag and a life preserver.  I often wish that our country could do more to hold out a life preserver to oppressed people across the globe.  But it's good to remember that our history serves as a life preserver of sorts, a beacon of hope to so many.