Balancing Acts in the Time to Come

In some ways, life returns to normal today.  We are headed across the mountains soon, so I can preach and preside at Faith Lutheran's worship service which begins at 10, with Confirmation at 9.  There may have been some freezing precipitation in the highest elevations, but it looks like the worst stayed to the east.

In some ways, normal life is on vacation until mid-January when I report back to campus at Spartanburg Methodist College.  I'm not done with my teaching life--no, in some ways, it's getting even more intense, as all the classes that I teach, in person and online, come to a crashing close at the same time, with grades due within 24 hours of each other.  But I won't be commuting.

In the time freed up by not commuting, I hope to have a bit of writing time in the next week, along with some reading time.  I hope to redistribute the creative energy that is so often spent on planning for daily classes to writing new poems.

I know that I tend to overschedule myself in these weeks off because I'm trying to make up for lost time.  I did not have much time off this summer, which makes my need to catch up with friends even more intense, along with my need for down time.

It's a delicate balancing act, and I hope to be intentional about the balancing.

Thanksgiving History in Fabric Scraps

Here I sit, at the kitchen table of the big, ramshackle house at Lutheridge, the church camp where my family has always had our holiday festivities (well, since 1992 or so), the house where we’ve assembled for at least 20 years.  It was at this table, on the Saturday of Thanksgiving week-end in 2022, where I first assembled the log cabin patch out of scraps, and I’ve been doing it ever since, and may just continue to do it until my fingers won’t let me.

It has been a great Thanksgiving this year, although zooming by too fast, and I know I likely say that every year.  This year, all the members of the next generation are teenagers now, which brings a certain sadness about all the books we’re not reading about giving a mouse a cookie or llamas in pajamas.

 Happily, there are other joys.  We spent much of the week-end helping the oldest teenager in the house with a project she envisioned:  letters made of fabric scraps, sewed on a sweatshirt.  When my cousin wrote me in advance and told me what she had in mind, I brought all my fabric scraps with me.

 

 

The project became a bit bigger than we first thought it would be.  She chose small squares, and we made them into larger squares of four patches; then we made took the template she’d made of paper letters and cut out the fabric.  We used the Steam-a-seam product to make sure the letters didn’t move around.

 

 

And what do you know—it worked!  It looked very much like the picture that had provided the inspiration, and she was very happy with it.  The whole family had a great spirit going in, and they assured my spouse and me (mostly me) that whatever happened would be fine.  I was worried about a ruined sweatshirt and the crushing of creative dreams—I’m so happy that didn’t happen.  The oldest teenager was so happy with her creation that she wore it on the long car trip home.  I wish we had had more time to sew the letters to the sweatshirt, but she knows how to do it, and her mom knows some folks who will help, and in the meantime, they won’t wash the sweatshirt.

In a way, that’s a metaphor for the whole holiday time together—the worry that the experience won’t live up to expectations, the happiness of time together, the realization that it’s all going to be O.K., even if not exactly perfect.

                                                                                                           

Thanksgiving Morning

Thanksgiving morning, in a house with no wi-fi, and a writer determined not to use her hot spot until the last possible minute because she, unlike much of the U.S.A. does not want to pay for unlimited data on her cell phone. But she knows what to do. And so she writes the old-fashioned way, typed in a Word document that will be uploaded later.

You thought the writer might use a pen? She’s not that old-fashioned—she still has electricity! And she’s willing to pay for the version of Microsoft Office that’s always available, regardless of Internet access.

That writer, of course, is me. I’m being cautious with my cell phone usage because one past Thanksgiving of reckless abandon showed me how much data can cost, when I left the hot spot function on overnight. I am educable.

But I’m also delighting in disconnecting. I’ve gotten a sermon written in the past hour since I got up. If I’d had connectivity, I’d have spent that hour looking at stuff on the Internet, and likely feeling dispirited. Now I am feeling virtuous!

Long ago, I did write with a pen and paper, and I do remember that I had to fend off distractions then, too. Back in those days, I might be tempted to read the newspaper before I started—the old-fashioned kind, that arrived on the doorstep, not on my computer screen. The world is always trying to pull us away or lull us into complacency or sedate us—or terrify us or make us feel inadequate.

Let me take a moment before Thanksgiving starts in earnest, a moment to remember some of the wonderful events that have already happened:

--We have managed to gather at the ramshackle house at Lutheridge where we have gathered almost every year since 1992.

--Not everyone could come. But we had new participants—yesterday my mom and uncle’s cousin’s wife came over for a wonderful afternoon of talking and reminiscing.

--The babies that I once read to are now teenagers. They are grown but not gone yet. They have interests (fabric! Cooking! Getting ready for Christmas!) that intersect with mine. What a delight.

--We did not gather at this house last year because of hurricane damage from Helene. I have not looked out of these windows at Thanksgiving until this year, although I was in the house in September. In September, the view was obscured by the trees still in full leaf. Now that the leaves are down, I’m sobered by how few trees are actually there.

--It is also sobering to think about how much older we all are. On the other side of the spectrum from babies grown into teenagers are the rest of the family, with a variety of health challenges.

But for today, we are here, the house is still here, and we will celebrate that fact with food, my favorite meal of the whole year.

Gratitude Tuesday: British Lit, Teaching, and the Larger Perspective

This morning, I'm trying to remember to do my writing first before going to teaching duties.  Yesterday I did grading for my online classes; I thought I was caught up with grading late work, only to discover that I had some more to do.  It's not a huge deal--it's late work, after all, so students should have no expectation of timely grading.  But the term is ending soon, so there's some pressure, all self-imposed, because the semester isn't ending that soon.

In short, I was in a sour mood yesterday.  That's not the reason I didn't do any blogging.  I didn't do any blogging because time just zoomed away from me.

I went to school yesterday, and had a good in-person teaching day.  My English 101 class got their final exam writing assignment and settled in to write--they are one of the best classes I've ever had about settling in to a writing day.

My British Lit class was wonderful in a different way.  I did a variation of an in-person final exam that I did in the spring with my American Lit class (see this blog post for more information).  My Brit Lit class is much smaller, so I skipped some steps.  First I had them write their top 5 list, the 5 works we studied which most inform their understanding of the world today, the top 5 list of works that they would keep on the syllabus.  Then I had them divide into 2 groups of 4 students.  Each group made a group list and put it on the board at the same time.

Both groups had Frankenstein at the #1 spot, which I expected.  I was happy that both groups also included "Goblin Market" and Mrs. Dalloway.  We had a good discussion about the similarities in the works and the differences.  One group also included Wollstonecraft's "A Vindication of the Rights of Woman" for similar reasons.  That group's fifth work was "Porphyria's Lover," which led to a great discussion of new ways of telling stories and creating characters, like the dramatic monologue--new ways which are as old as literature, in many ways.  

The other group chose Dorothy Wordsworth's journal, which made me happy and led to a conversation about women's lives and ordinary lives being seen as important--links to Mrs. Dalloway.  The other group also chose Dickens' "A Christmas Carol," mainly for ways it shows the way the past affects the present--good insights that the student who advocated for it came up with on his own.

We also talked about works that we didn't cover deeply or much at all, and what might be included next time.  One of my students suggested Jane Austen, and I said that I had also been thinking about adding Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre.  I also mentioned that Sense and Sensibility is coming back to the big screen for one day only and recommended it.  I may have waxed too enthusiastic about Emma Thompson, saying, "If Emma Thompson came through that door right now and said, 'Come away with me right now, and we'll make wonderful movies,' I would leave without a second thought.  Would I go get my purse?  Yes, probably."  And then we talked about big name British actors of the 1990's for a few minutes, and then I turned our attention back again to the work of the course.

I feel very lucky to be teaching this next generation of students at Spartanburg Methodist College.  They give me hope for the future.  They have a wide range of interests:  I'm thinking about my Brit Lit students who had a great conversation about musical theatre when I asked them about the direction of theater after "Waiting for Godot."  They've been good sports about my cell phones in class ban.  They're respectful, even as they question what the larger world wants them to believe.  

I've got one more class day, today, wrapping up three classes, and then it's on to Thanksgiving and exams.  I don't need to report to campus for exams, another aspect of life that makes me feel very lucky.  So much gratitude here in this week as we dash to Thanksgiving and beyond!

Book Buyers on Campus

On Friday afternoon, I noticed a stranger in the office suite.  No one seemed alarmed, so I thought maybe he was expected.  He wore slightly better clothing than our usual student visitors.  A job candidate, perhaps?  But surely not on a Friday afternoon, which is not a high traffic time on campus.  A former department member?  Maybe--but it would be going way back, because I hadn't heard of an older white man as a former department member.

In the end, he turned out to be a book buyer, the kind who goes from campus to campus, looking for old textbooks to buy.  The business model used to be that he'd buy them for slightly more than one could get at the campus bookstore.  Now campus bookstores have a much smaller footprint, and many college teachers are using online textbooks, open source material, or no text at all.  

I'm a little surprised that there's enough of a market that someone would still put on their better clothes and trudge from building to building with a rolling suitcase for the books to be bought.  But I'm also happy.

And yes, I realize all the reasons why this shadow economy is bad for book writers and students and textbook companies.  But I'm also happy.

Homespun and Spinning of All Sorts

My writing time is about out--but happily, I've written a rough draft of Sunday's sermon.  And I didn't have a unified blog post in mind.  Let me just collect some fragments.

--I've now had two days of commutes back home with construction and 2 days of commutes back home without construction.  The days without construction feel like I fly home.

--The local (Anderson, SC) classic rock radio station, 101.1, has a promo going from Nov. 17-21, where they are playing classic rock, A-Z, with songs from each letter of the alphabet, along with an obligatory contest (each time the alphabet letter changes, one can text for a chance to win tickets to a concert).  So on my Monday commute home, I heard Steely Dan's "Deacon Blues," and on yesterday's, we were to the G's, with the Who's "Getting in Tune."  These are songs that I haven't heard in decades, and yet I can still sing along.

--I realize that radio stations these days have programming done from a central location, but it still makes me happy to listen to a list like this one.  It makes me happy to have a d.j. who says, "This one is my favorite Steely Dan song" and goes on to give some human sounding reasons and memories.  I am guessing that in the future I'll be hearing a chatbot pretending to be a human in the not too distant future, if there are any radios with d.j.s at all.

--We've been watching the new Ken Burns documentary about the Revolutionary War; we've finished the second episode.  It's not all brand new to me; I went to K-12 schools that spent a lot of our time in history classes studying this time period.  But it's put together in interesting ways with intriguing synthesis and analysis of what it means to us today.  

--As we've been watching, I've been sewing by hand, putting scraps together into log cabin patterns.  I have numb finger tips because I've been sewing a lot more this week.

--As I listened to the segment on the resistance of colonial women who decided to weave their own cloth (homespun!) and take themselves out of the King's economy, I thought about the gorgeous fabrics moving through my hands.  I feel like there should be a poem there, but I'm not sure, so let me record it.

--Today is an easier day at work--it's a writing day for my students, which can be done in class or outside of class.  I'm available in my office.  It's an approach that I've adopted from my colleagues, so I'm not going to be seen as slacking off.  Most places where I have worked would not have approved of the need for this kind of "let's get caught up" kind of day.  I'm glad to be here.

--And there's a Town Hall in the middle of it, the monthly update from the president, the meeting that has coffee and food beforehand.  I am so happy to be at a place that keeps us updated and keeps us fed and caffeinated along the way.  I'm so happy to be at a place that trusts faculty members.

Various Patricia Smiths and Various Strands of a Life

I have spent some time this morning listening to Patricia Smith's acceptance speech for the National Book Award for poetry; another poet pasted it in a Facebook post.  I went to the website where one could watch the whole ceremony (here), but instead, I'm listening to Ezra Klein's interview with Patti Smith--the more famous Patti Smith, the godmother of punk, the author of Just Kids, along with more recent books.

Back to the poet Patricia Smith, who was the only poet of all the nominees whose work I had read (go here for the full list).  I hadn't even heard of the poets nominated until they were nominated.  Some years are like that.  But happily, I have heard of Patricia Smith; I remember a presentation she did at an AWP conference, probably as far back as the one in D.C. in 2011.  I probably wouldn't have discovered her book Blood Dazzler on my own without hearing her talk about it at her presentation.  It showed me what poetry could do, and I'm glad she's now gained wider recognition for her poetry.

And now I've done what I've always done:  I looked up her birth date.  She's ten years older than I am.  I read her whole Wikipedia entry, and of course, she had a lot of writing history before Blood Dazzler.

This morning before I got up out of bed, I was thinking of my novel idea that I had earlier this year which I wrote about in this blog post:  " a new narrative that might weave the voice of an older woman in seminary, a younger woman teaching section after section of freshman comp in a community college, a middle aged woman struggling to write poems around the edges of her administrator job--and yes, they would all be me."

Because I've been rereading The Hours and teaching Waiting for Godot, this morning, even before I got out of bed, I was thinking about that idea, about a poet who is closer to the end of her life than the beginning (age 60-70), who finally gets big recognition.  Maybe her first and only book with a spine is the one which wins the big award (a Pulitzer or a National Book Award, something bigger than publication alone).  Different life phases could represent different theological/philosophical positions on life.  For example, the administrator job is the Waiting for Godot existence, where so much seems meaningless.

Some things I might include (but not saying too much here, so as not to lose my writerly interest):  the young poet, pre-chapbook-publication, reading May Sarton's journals and marveling at her envy of other poets despite her own success.  The late life poet, getting ready for the awards ceremony, trying to decide what to wear, and she remembers long ago how she had planned out what she would wear should Oprah chose her book for Oprah's book club.  All that "manifesting," but no one tells you how long it might take for a dream to actually arrive.  A book of photographs of writer's studios or that book of interviews, Parting the Curtains, and feeling jealous of the amount of time that writers in the book have--and then, 30 years later, realizing that she has carved out time for much of her adult life by getting up at 3 or 4 in the morning.  Reading Kathleen Norris and wanting to go to a monastery, and all the other more rigorous religious traditions contemplated.

Could I weave these strands together in a compelling way?  Will I?

These days I am feeling my writing time drained away not by non-writing tasks, the way I did when I was an administrator.  These days, my writing time is drained away by things like sermon writing.  Let me turn my attention to that.