The Temperature at Which Paper Burns

Ray Bradbury died yesterday, after a rich, long life.  You may think of him as a sci-fi writer, but he was so much more.

In this post at the NPR website, Peter Sagal says, "Heinlein, Asimov and Bradbury; they were the tripod (invasive, moving, with lasers) on which my science fiction education was built in the 1970s."

For me, it would be Clarke, Asimov, and Bradbury, and I liked Arthur C. Clarke and Ray Bradbury much better than Isaac Asimov, but Bradbury was my favorite of them all.  I haven't returned to those authors much, but ten years ago, I did read The Martian Chronicles again.  I found the collection just as awe inspiring and heart breaking as I did when I first read the book in my younger teen-age years.

Other sci-fi I checked out from the library.  I bought Ray Bradbury books.

To understand what this statement means, you must understand my teen-age economy.  I baby-sat, I saved my allowance, all to do my favorite thing:  to go to B. Dalton books and allow myself to buy anything I wanted.  I would go home with armloads of books.

I did the same thing at the library, but when I was younger, there was a magic to actually owning the books.  I was the kind of reader who consumed books and reread them again and again.  I made mental notes and wrote my own stories and wanted to do what my favorite authors did.

Ray Bradbury did so much, from creating imaginative works set on other planets, to writing plays and screenplays, to writing works of realism verging on nostalgia that remember his childhood hometown, to advice to other creative writers.

Now Bradbury would object to being called a sci-fi writer.  He considered Fahrenheit 451 (named when he called the fire department to find the temperature at which paper burns) his only sci-fi work.

I'm sure there will be future graduate students who return to his work and write dissertations that show how much of what he wrote about came to pass.  But his real accomplishment came in not letting the sci-fi part swamp the human part.

This story in The Washington Post includes this wonderful quote:  “'Bradbury took the conventions of the science-fiction genre — time travel, robots, space exploration — and made them signify beyond themselves, giving them a broader and more nuanced emotional appeal to general readers,' said William F. Touponce, a founder and former director of the Center for Ray Bradbury Studies at Indiana University-Purdue University Indianapolis."

Later, in college, I would discover feminist science fiction, and my world would change again.  But I'll always feel grateful to the guys, as I think of them; I mean both the generation of men who wrote the stories and the sci-fi geeks at my school who extolled their virtues.  I'm a sucker for a book recommendation; if you extol the wonders of a book, I'll likely pick it up.

I still enjoy a good sci-fi book, although my tastes do run to dystopian fiction:  life after the apocalypse.  The Martian Chronicles fits that bill nicely.

It's also perhaps the first book of linked short stories that I ever read.  I was fascinated with that form right from the start, and the fiction project I'm working on now is a book of linked stories.  That form--linked short stories (no matter how tenuous the link)--is so flexible and adaptable.  At the time, I remember being both puzzled and intrigued as I realized that the stories could stand alone--indeed, many of them had been published as stand-alone stories in magazines, but that they worked well together.

I was also amazed at Bradbury's ability to create a masterful short story, a masterful novel, whatever he attempted to do.  Even at a young age, I realized that few writers have the skills to work masterfully across genres.

Bradbury is one of those writers who made me want to be a writer.  I have this vision of Ray Bradbury and Adrienne Rich in Heaven--what a rich conversation they would have.  Are they bothered by Earl Scruggs and Doc Watson who are off making music in that corner?  Or are they all singing, making new celestial songs that we can hear, as if a distant star sent music back to us?

Here are some Bradbury quotes to inspire you to be the best creative person you can be:


“We are cups, constantly and quietly being filled. The trick is, knowing how to tip ourselves over and let the beautiful stuff out.”



“We are an impossibility in an impossible universe.”

“Your intuition knows what to write, so get out of the way.”


“First you jump off the cliff and build your wings on the way down.”



“I don't believe in colleges and universities. I believe in libraries because most students don't have any money. When I graduated from high school, it was during the Depression and we had no money. I couldn't go to college, so I went to the library three days a week for 10 years.”

My Not So Big Job Announcement

Some day, I dream of having a really big job announcement:  a wonderful teaching position in an MFA program or being the creator of a program that will infuse more creativity into seminary/divinity studies or some community program where I'll bring the joy of creativity or spirituality (or both!) into the lives of regular people.  Some day, I'll be telling you about the forthcoming publication of a book with a spine that I wrote.

Today, my announcement is much smaller.  Today, I let you know that I'm the Arts and Crafts director for this year's Vacation Bible School.  I'm both excited and terrified.


One of my spin class buddies advised me to give them what they don't get at home: glue and glitter. They get crayons, but not glitter.


I joked that if I give them glitter, I'll never be allowed to be arts and crafts director again.

I waited a long time before volunteering for the position. Our pastor kept sending out lists of available positions. I wanted the arts and crafts director position, but I thought that surely someone else would want it, and I didn't want to be too greedy.
Finally, after several weeks I volunteered, but offered to step aside if anyone else really wanted it. We are in one of those VBS years where we barely have enough people to do everything, so my volunteering was greeted with relief.

We buy one of those pre-packaged VBS kits, and this year, we're not using the one from the Lutheran publishing house. It was chosen by the woman who was going to be the VBS director before life intervened and she had to let go of that responsibility. The kit that we bought doesn't come with very much--oh no, they want you to buy more, more, more.  What a racket.

We will not be buying the arts and crafts projects and kits from them. I looked at the projects that they offer, and they baffle me. They're more science fair than glue and glitter.
We will be making noisemakers, because my husband will be doing fun things with drums and noisemakers, and we don't already have enough of those. We will decorate t-shirts. We will make butterflies or empty tomb gardens or other things to remind us of Christ's resurrection. We will do things with paper mosaics, perhaps. Maybe we'll collage if I get enough old magazines.

My fear is that I have twenty minutes--what if the projects take too much time? What if they don't take enough time?

And then there's the fear that lurks beneath: what if the kids think the projects are stupid? And by extension, what if they think I'm stupid?

Creative folks everywhere are probably familiar with fears that run along these lines: what if I can't pull off what I'm attempting to do? What if I'm just stupid? What if I never have a good idea? What if I think I'm brilliant but everyone else knows I'm not?

I'm hoping that if I approach each night with joy and enthusiasm, it will all be just fine.  I'm sure it will.  I'm always amazed at how much the kids love Vacation Bible School, no matter what we do.  To me, it feels too much like real school, with classes and a schedule that keeps them moving from activity to activity and food that's rather institutional.  But children love it.  And so we do it.  And each year, we do it again.

The Radiant Ways of Margaret Drabble

Today is the birthday of Margaret Drabble--how I have loved Margaret Drabble!

I first read her slim book, The Millstone, in a grad school course on the modern British novel.  Most of the books in that course seemed modern, in comparison to the Victorian Literature which also consumed me, but also curiously not modern.  The Millstone was no exception.

The book has a narrator who's deeply conflicted about sex:  modern or not modern or post-modern?  She decides to have a child out of wedlock, which shocks her sister:  modern or not modern or post-modern?   She tries not to tell many people about her pregnancy, so that she can keep plowing through grad school studies and doing what she considers to be important work in the field of literary criticism:  modern or not modern or post-modern?

The language seems rooted in the early 1960's, but the issues weren't unfamiliar to us back in the late 80's, when we took the class.  Some of them seemed just as daunting, if not more so:  work/family/lifestyle choices still stymie so many of us.

I liked Drabble's writing, so when I saw a copy of The Radiant Way at the remainders table in a mall bookstore, I bought it.  What a revelation!  It continues to be one of my favorite books.  It depicts the 80's in a realistic way that still takes my breath away.  Yet, Drabble is also doing fun things with figurative language.  And what a great trio of characters.  This book continues Drabble's exploration of the issues that both delight and bedevil modern women.

I don't always love her more recent novels, although I did love The Sea Lady.  Perhaps it's because her later novels explore what it means to be a woman growing older in our society, and those issues terrify me--and her books don't always offer comfort.  Most of us will not escape the ravages of age, no matter how much money we have.  Even if we travel through the landscape relatively unscathed, the ones we love or the ones to whom we have obligations, will not be so lucky.

The other day I wandered through the public library and found myself saying, "There's nothing here that I want to read."  Maybe it's time to return to my own library.  I've bought books for just this day.  Maybe it's time to return to The Radiant Way--and then the sequels!

My Third Skin Cancer--in Poem Form!

Yesterday I wrote this post about my third skin cancer, complete with photo (non-gruesome since my skin cancer is quite small).  I wrote about the genesis of a poem coming to me in the parking lot of the dermatologist when I was done.  Here's the original that inspired my poem, at least in the rhythm of the first line.

My Last Duchess


By Robert Browning


That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
'Frà Pandolf' by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Frà Pandolf chanced to say 'Her mantle laps
Over my lady's wrist too much,' or, 'Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat:' such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart – how shall I say – too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace - all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men - good! but thanked
Somehow - I know not how - as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech - (which I have not) - to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, 'Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark' - and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
- E'en that would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

I copied the poem into a Word document and then separated it chunk by chunk to make it less intimidating.  And then, line by line, I wrote my version.  I even tried to keep a rhyme scheme in the lines where a rhyme scheme exists.

I had fun writing it, but I'm not sure that I'll do much more than post it here.  But then again, who knows?

My Third Cancer


That’s my third cancer, lurking near my neck,

Looking as if it were harmless. I call
This spot a harmless one: I spent years
Out in the sun, and now I’m marked.
Feel free to observe closely. I said
“Harmless” by design, for even
Strangers picture scars and scalpels,
As they look (once I’ve pointed
Out my scars, this one here, and here, and now here)
And seemed they would ask me, if not rude,
How such a scar came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus.
Sir, ‘twas not
The way it once was, sunscreens applied
Before we left the house: perhaps
It was the childhood summers spent outside or poolside
Sunning smeared with baby oil and tracking
Time spent on each side for an even tan: such stuff
Was normal, we thought, and cause enough
For loving summers outside. We had
A view—how shall I say?—of beauty bronzed
And gold; we loved that glow,
The burnished skin, and for it, we’d do anything.
Sir, ‘twas all one! A teenage tan,
A noonday run across the decades’ span,
A careless afternoon at the beach that led to sunburn
Or a tanning bed, no lessons learned
From every exposure – all and each
We loved because we thought it made us look healthy
Or , at least. We approved, -- good! But approved
All efforts -- it seems strange now-- as if we’d escape
The ravages of the radiation of the sun’s rays
Like our ancestors did. Do you forget we thought
We had an ozone layer? Even had we known
The results -- (which we did not) -- the cancers
Dotting our bodies, the age spots
Down the road; possible damage
To our eyes -- yes if we’d known,
We’d have ignored the facts or assumed
That we would be the exception, not the rule
-- E’en then we’d have needed sunscreen; which I choose
Never to use. Oh, sir, I spray occasionally, no doubt,
During the rare beach outing, but who doesn’t
Sporadically? If out, do I go to the store?
I do not. Will ‘t please you rise? We’ll gather
Our picnic together. I repeat
We’ll have a shelter at the park along with trees
So that we can eat and enjoy the breeze
Although along with bugspray we’ll take this lotion,
With an SPF of 70, our modern magic potion,
Allowing us to go outside. OK, we’ll go
To the park together, sir. Notice, though,
My shirt of woven mesh, my predilection,
Which in any weather gives protection!

My Third Skin Cancer

First, let me stress that my 3 skin cancers have all been the non-life-threatening kind.  No melanomas yet.  I also feel lucky that they haven't been on my face.  I've had 2 on my left arm, the arm that hung out of the window for years while I drove under a relentless Southern sun.  And now, a basal cell cancer on my collarbone, also on the left.

There it is in the picture above, between pearl and pencil eraser.  It first appeared a few months ago.  I know the drill:  any new, mole-like thing deserves a visit to the dermatologist.  It seemed to grow, but it didn't get crusty and/or bloody.  I've had people tell me not to worry, that it's just some kind of tag-like thing, that I can expect these as I age.

I ignored these people.  Still, it was a bit of a shock when the dermatologist said, "Yep, that's a basal cell cancer."

I'm used to my dermatologist saying things like "Nope, that's a freckle."  "Nope that's just an age spot."

But occasionally, the dermatologist takes things off my skin, sends them off to be biopsied, and I come back for a bit more scraping.  As recurring medical conditions go, I could have worse problems.

It's interesting to me to see people's reactions.  Some people are horrified at the idea of a cancer of any kind.  Even if I explain that it's not life threatening, I can still see the pity on their faces.

But frankly, I've been on the lookout for skin cancer my whole life.  I'm the first generation to grow up aware of the lack of an ozone layer.  And yes, I spent years tanning anyway.

Before that, I spent my childhood being sent outside to play.  My mom was a big believer in the values of fresh air and sunshine.

They say that one of the predictors of skin cancer is a blistering sunburn.  I can't even count the number of times I've had a blistering sunburn.  And then there are all the sunburns that didn't blister . . .

When my dermatologist first met me, he said, "Why are you living here?"  For a moment, my mind reeled at the existential questions in the dermatologist question.

But of course, he was wondering why I live in a place that placed me at such risk of high exposure to dangerous UV rays.  The whole planet poses that kind of risk, of course, but the closer we get to the equator, the more days of dangerous sunshine we'll likely experience.

And I'm blonde and fair-skinned and freckled. 

So, the fact that I get skin cancers shouldn't exactly surprise anybody.  And yet, it's still a bit of a shock each time I find out that I have one.

Not so much of a shock that I can't write poems.  Tomorrow, I'll share my new poem that's based on Robert Browning's "My Last Duchess."  In case you want to play along, I've pasted the Robert Browning poem below.  My first bit came to me in the parking lot after my visit with the dermatologist: 

"That’s my third cancer, lurking near my neck,"

My Last Duchess

By Robert Browning


That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,


Looking as if she were alive. I call

That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands

Worked busily a day, and there she stands.

Will't please you sit and look at her? I said

'Frà Pandolf' by design, for never read

Strangers like you that pictured countenance,

The depth and passion of its earnest glance,

But to myself they turned (since none puts by

The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)

And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,

How such a glance came there; so, not the first

Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not

Her husband's presence only, called that spot

Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps

Frà Pandolf chanced to say 'Her mantle laps

Over my lady's wrist too much,' or, 'Paint

Must never hope to reproduce the faint

Half-flush that dies along her throat:' such stuff

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough

For calling up that spot of joy. She had

A heart – how shall I say – too soon made glad,

Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.

Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast,

The dropping of the daylight in the West,

The bough of cherries some officious fool

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule

She rode with round the terrace - all and each

Would draw from her alike the approving speech,

Or blush, at least. She thanked men - good! but thanked

Somehow - I know not how - as if she ranked

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name

With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame

This sort of trifling? Even had you skill

In speech - (which I have not) - to make your will

Quite clear to such an one, and say, 'Just this

Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,

Or there exceed the mark' - and if she let

Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,

- E'en that would be some stooping; and I choose

Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,

Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without

Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;

Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands

As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet

The company below, then. I repeat,

The Count your master's known munificence

Is ample warrant that no just pretence

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;

Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed

At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go

Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,

Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Come back tomorrow for the rest of my poem!

Transforming Youth into Poets

Last night, at a planning meeting for a new kind of worship service we're launching at church.  We want a more interactive experience, something that gets the children and youth more involved.  For more on this initiative, today's post at my theology blog will give you more insight.

As we talked last night, we talked about the experimental/family service that our pastor designed for Easter Sunday.  The "children's sermon" fascinated me, and it seemed to have larger applications.  I particularly loved how it might start young people down the symbol/metaphor road.

Our "children's sermon" time is traditional in that it has part of the church population come forward.  It's non-traditional in that parents often come up, as do adolescents of all ages.

For Easter, our pastor had a basket of everyday objects.  Each child participant chose an object and went back to the pew to discuss what this object could teach us about God and about the Easter message.  Then 10 minutes later, the participants came forward to report.

For those of you who are having trouble picturing this, here's an example:  one child took a roll of tape back to the pew.  What does tape have to do with God or Easter?  Easter is the event that sticks us to God.  That's one possibility.

It seems to me that this exercise would have secular applications too, a great way of teaching metaphor and figurative language.  And it would work with everyday objects that you have around the house/school/office.

Here are some prompts:

--what does this hammer have to teach us about vacation?  (any object could take the place of a hammer, and of course, you could fill in that vacation side of the metaphor with anything you like:  love, family, social justice, addictive behavior . . .)

--what does this object have to teach us about history?  about modern life?

--if this object was a religious object, describe the religious rituals that could spring up around it.

--choose 2 objects and come up with some connections.  Once you've written down the obvious, go deeper.

--if you wanted to go down a different road, an object could lead to reports of all kinds, to research papers, to oral history projects.

My Essay in "Her Circle"

You may have thought that I couldn't possibly have more to say about Madeleine L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time, but you'd be wrong.

I've written an essay  for Her Circle which explains what this book has to teach us as individuals, as activists, and as artists--and much more cogently than past blog posts.

I'm so impressed with the photos and pictures that the magazine used with my essay.  Let me give credit where credit is due:  I wrote the essay, but other talented people did the layout and found the accompanying photos and illustrations.  What a beautiful presentation.

I hope you'll go here to read my essay!