Facebook as Funeral Home

On Tuesday, I got a Facebook message asking if I knew about the death of our favorite English professor and if I knew what had happened.  Then I got another message that directed me to the professor's Facebook page, where I learned that it looked like our professor had a stroke just as she was taking her dog out before turning in for the night.

There was some memorializing happening on our professor's page.  Yesterday, I wrote a post in tribute to our professor.  I posted a link on my Facebook page, and I tagged most of my undergraduate friends.

I was amazed at how many of them wrote tributes of their own--and only one was a fellow English major.  Friends talked about how she inspired their love of reading that continues to this day.  One of my female friends remembered this professor as being the first to tell her that she was smart.

And like I said, most of them weren't English majors.  But they were profoundly impacted and some thirty years later, they could bring up specific memories.

I don't have as much time to write today, but I wanted to note this phenomenon for all of us who teach.  Most of us who major in English (and other disciplines in the Humanities) will go on to teach primarily non-majors.  We may wonder if we're making a difference.  We may feel like we've wandered far away from what we intended to do.  Perhaps this feeling is one that's common to any of us who are thinking, feeling adults.

But in any given day, we have an impact on at least a dozen people, if not a hundred or more.  It may not be a lasting impact--but it might.  We can smile more and turn the day around for many folks.  We can be kind.  We can treat the passions of other people with respect.  We can choose to respond without rancor to those angry people we encounter--and if we're spiritual people, we can pray or send healing light their way.

We can think about our Facebook posts.  How could we provide hope to others?  How can we be a light, and not a source of snarkiness?  How can we maintain our connections?

At it's best, Facebook is a place of solace and sanctuary.  This week I've been thinking of Facebook as a funeral home, but in the best sense of that word.  Facebook is the place where we can gather to be reminded of our best selves and to remember those who have helped shape us in that direction.

On the Passing of My Beloved English Professor

On the day before Ash Wednesday, I found out that my favorite undergraduate English professor, Dr. Gayle Swanson, had died.  She was buried on Feb. 27, so it was sometime last week, I'm thinking that she died.  The details are sparse, but the thinking is that she had a stroke as she was taking her dog out before turning in for the night.

I feel strange in all sorts of ways.  There's the realization that we're all dust, and we'll be returning to dust in short order.   Plus, both Dr. Swanson and my mother had gone to Newberry College years earlier than I did.  My mother was about 4 years ahead of Dr. Swanson.  So there's the terror of realizing that if Dr. Swanson could be felled by a sudden stroke, so could my mother.

So could any of us, I know.  But most days, I don't dwell on that fact too much.  I try to dwell on what brings joy, not terror.  I try to live in gratitude for all the good gifts raining down on my head.  So let me remember all the ways Dr. Swanson shaped me.

I can approach a piece of literature from any variety of ways, using any number of lenses.  Dr. Swanson showed me the practice of New Criticism.  We didn't spend much time on an author's biography.  We thought briefly about the historical time period in which the work was written.  But we spent weeks, working through a poem or a short story, line by line, sentence by sentence.  By the end of my undergraduate days, there were works, primarily great poems of the Romantic and Victorian age, that I knew inside out.  Her training formed a great base for grad school.

She was the first who encouraged me to go to grad school to get an advanced degree in English.  We didn't spend any time talking about what I'd do with a degree--those were different days.  She saw that I had a talent for analysis.  She saw that I loved to read.  She saw my dedication, even when the literature demanded more of us.  She told me that I simply must go to grad school.  I did.

I wanted the life that she modeled, at least the part of it that I saw.  I could imagine nothing more thrilling than training young minds in how to read great works of literature.  Of course, I didn't imagine reading all those essays in the first year class.  I imagined one semester immersed in the works of Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron and Keats, followed by the next semester diving into Tennyson, Browning, and Arnold.

It still sounds wonderful to me.

During my first year at Newberry, Dr. Swanson and the English department brought some South Carolina poets to the campus for a reading, a mini-festival.  I'd been writing poems for years, but that reading was the first time that I saw living poets reading their work and talking about it.  That community, too, became one I yearned to join.

Dr. Swanson encouraged that ambition.  Along the way, she introduced me to the woman who was in charge of the public relations department for the school--that woman hired me.  I wrote articles about students, and she sent them to the students' hometown newspapers.  Those newspapers were happy for the copy, and I was thrilled to see my work in print--and I was paid for it!  Ah, for the days of dozens of small, hometown papers with column space to fill.

Along the way, I learned to write a variety of ways, and I learned to do it quickly and efficiently when necessary.  I learned the value of being on time.  I got many an assignment because the PR head knew I could be counted on to deliver.

When my second chapbook was coming out, Dr. Swanson's name and address was on my publicity list.  She called me to tell me how proud she was of me.  I felt like I should have done more by that point in my career--at least one or two books with spines.  She, on the other hand, was thrilled to realize that I was still following my first passions, the ones she had ignited.

Yesterday, I spent some time with T. S. Eliot's "Ash Wednesday."  I played with some lines of poetry, Eliot's and mine.  This morning, I read parts of some books of theology and wrote a poem that works on interesting levels.  In so many ways, I'm still on the same road that I first walked beside Dr. Swanson.

And then I wrote to some of my online students, even though we're on Spring Break.  Like Dr. Swanson, I pointed out the strong parts of their writing, while giving them suggestions on how to approach the weak parts.

It's been a long apprenticeship/discipleship in the same direction, to use a variation on a title of a book by Eugene H. Peterson (his book, A Long Obedience in the Same Direction:  Discipleship in an Instant Society, is a delightful and approachable book of theology).  I am so grateful for the early mentorship and later friendship of Dr. Swanson.  I can only hope that I am offering something similar to as many fellow travelers as possible through the years.

Rust, Ash, Dust, Smash

Today is Ash Wednesday, the day in the liturgical year that reminds us that we are dust, and all too soon, we'll return to dust. Those of us who go to Ash Wednesday services will have a cross smudged on our foreheads, a cross of ash ideally made from burning the palm branches from the previous year's Palm Sunday. We hear some variation of these words: "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."

You can call yourself a creature made out of the ruins of stars (true!), but you're dust all the same.

I'm not always in an Ash Wednesday frame of mind, but this year, I've been sinking into Ash Wednesday for weeks, what with bad health news from colleagues, and just yesterday, the news that my favorite, undergraduate English professor died last week.  I'll write more about her in a later post.

It's the time when I feel my creative self shifting.  Once, I told myself I had plenty of time.  I could write whatever I wanted.  Now, I find myself asking, "If you can only write one book and have it published, what should that book be?"  I'll still work on a variety of projects, but my aging affects what I'm thinking about in terms of pursuing publication.  And of course, technology affects my thoughts of publication too.

Today I was looking at the texts to which I often return during parts of the liturgical year:  Girl Meets God by Lauren F. Winner and Things Seen and Unseen by Nora Gallagher.  Both women have gone on to write books that explore their doubts, their maturing faith, their faith falling away.  I wonder if it's painful for them to see these books, these testimonies to faith communities of which they are no longer part.

I am wrestling with profound sadness this year, a sadness which is both part of the human condition (everything we love will be lost!) and unique to me (colleagues gone, teachers gone, houses and offices gone, writing projects slipped away, lonely, lost, lonely, lonely, lonely).

In his book The Lie That Tells a Truth, John Dufresne says, "But death is the central truth of our existence--the sadness at our core. Everything we love will vanish. We can't hold on to anything. It is this tragedy that accounts as well for the beauty and nobility of our lives because in the face of this knowledge, we go right on loving, trying to hold on to what we cherish, defying death with hubris and with faith" (page 61).

As always, Ash Wednesday provides powerful impetus to poetry.  I've been writing a series of Ash Wednesday poems, many of which I've posted on this blog.  Here's one I haven't posted here, although I have given a link.  It was first published in Hobble Creek Review.


Ash Wednesday in MiamiBury me in a Southern field,
free of coffin, free of clothes.
Let me meld into the mulch,
turning the red clay into rich dirt.

Do not let me rot beside this Southernmost
sea that grows more acidic
by the day.  I do not want
to fertilize the asphalt and the concrete.
I do not want to wait
for rising seas to consume
my final resting place.

No, bury me in the humid
swamp of a sunny, Southern day.
Let me fertilize the corn and squash.
Remember me when you salt
that perfect tomato sandwich,
sweet with Duke’s mayonnaise
and memories of me.

Mardi Gras Meditation on Bread Baking, Past and Present

Today is Mardi Gras.  When I've asked my students about the historical roots of Mardi Gras, they've given me a blank look.  So, good teacher that I am, I explain:  in medieval times, most Christians would give up all sorts of luxury items for Lent, luxury items like milk, eggs, and alcohol.  So just before Lent came the using up of the luxury items because you wouldn't just throw them away.  Hence the special Mardi Gras breads and treats and the drinking.  For more on the history of Mardi Gras, Shrove Tuesday, and Lent, see this blog post on my theology blog.

I've been thinking about how much I don't bake anymore.  Sure, I make a coffee cake once in a while, a batch of cookies when I have an event to attend, but I'm baking just a few times a month.  I used to bake on a daily basis.  I was that person who brought goodies to work, but not because I wanted them out of the house.  No, I brought them because I'd gone a little overboard with the baking and needed to clear out the cookie jars.

In some ways, my lack of baking is a good thing.  Less baking means fewer cookies, cakes, and scones that I'm eating.

But in an essential way, I miss my breadbaking self.  I've written about my history with bread baking many times before in this blog; this post gives a bit of history about how I came to be a bread baker.

I started thinking back to my earlier bread baking days when I read this article by Adam Gopnik.  It begins by Gopnik's discovery of his wife's brief breadbaking days, which catapults him into a breadbaking journey of his own.  It's a hilarious article, but also full of details that make me want to bake. 

And it's full of details that make me think about bread in a different way:  "The tasty bits of your morning toast, I realized, are all the tombs of tiny dead creatures--the Ozymandias phenomenon on a miniature scale.  Look on my works, you mighty, and eat them with apricot jam" (p. 69).

A few weeks ago, when we had one of our brief cold snaps, I thought about baking bread, but it seemed so time consuming.  I really wanted a Christmas bread, but it seems time to put those recipes away and move towards Spring.  I thought about pumpkin bread or the orange-cranberry bread that's amazing, but even the thought of a quick bread made me tired.

Then I remembered one of my Christmas presents.  My parents had done all their shopping in Colonial Williamsburg, and amongst my wonderful gifts were some packages of mixes that would lead to baked goods.  I quickly whipped up a batch of sweet potato muffins.

Along the way, I thought, this is why people use these mixes.  It was quick; five minutes and muffins were in the oven.  It was easy, and even though I forgot to add the egg, it turned out OK.  I recognized all of the ingredients.  Maybe it's an expensive way to buy flour and leavening, but I see why people do it.

I have a tiny kitchen, so I don't have room to stockpile mixes.  But it's been good to have a window into new possibilities.

In past years, I might have made a special Mardi Gras bread today.  I might have made pancakes, in tribute to the Shrove Tuesday feasts of my childhood churches.  I'd have felt sad, eating pancakes alone on Shrove Tuesday.

I've had a few weeks now, of eating with abandon, especially last week.  We ate massive burgers on Monday, a Chinese food feast on Thursday, with fried foods at both restaurants.  Last week, I ate an orange scone at Panera not once, but twice--and you may shrug, but each scone has over 500 calories.  There were yummy salads from the Publix deli, and I don't mean green, leafy salads.

Yes, last week was a Carnivale week of eating to be sure.  Time for the soberness of Lent.

But if you're not ready for penitence yet, I've discovered an easy yeasted bread.  See this blog post for directions and pictures.

Happy Mardi Gras, everyone.  May you have a nourishing, creative day.

Working in a 12 x 12 Structure

On Thursday night, I went to a reception for the 12 x 12 show at ArtServe.  It's a cool show for artists:  the regulations stipulate that every work must be 12 x 12, but that's the only major limitation.

So, a maker of jewelry could create something and affix it to a canvas or a shadowbox.  Below, in the upper right, you'll see just such an approach:

We saw several interesting pieces carved out of wood:

And there were interesting assemblages made out of all sorts of castaway stuff:

Most of the entries were paintings, along with some photography:

I don't have a picture of the fiber piece that made me say, "Oh good heavens, I could do better than this."  But that response made me think seriously about taking up that challenge.

What would happen if I made a 12 x 12 creation each month?  At the end of a year, I could choose the best and enter the competition.  You get to enter 3 works for $60.  Each work is priced at $200, and the artist keeps $150 of that.  Obviously, the risk is that no one would buy the work.  But you'd only have to sell one piece to pay for the fee and the materials and make some money.

It makes me feel inspired.  It makes me want to break out my art supplies, diminished as they are.  Let me see what emerges in the coming year.

Six Million Dollar Men, Six Million Dollar Cell Phones, and Other Transfigurations

--Today is Transfiguration Sunday in some Protestant churches--Catholics and other Orthodox Christians celebrate the Feast Day on August 6.  In Protestant churches, Transfiguration Sunday is the Sunday before Lent begins on Ash Wednesday.  For more on this Sunday, see this post on my theology blog.  It has a poem for your Transfiguration Sunday.

--I have been thinking about transfigurations and transformations of all sorts.  I loved this post at the Lofty Ambitions blog about the old TV show from the 1970's, The Six Million Dollar Man.  It's a fascinating piece about the ways that show stayed true to NASA.

--I've also been listening to this wonderful Fresh Air interview with Neil DeGrasse Tyson, who is our modern equivalent of Carl Sagan, as he launches a new version of Cosmos.  He talks about the ways that space exploration has transformed our society.

--He says, "And so I've joked about let's go around and remove everything overnight from your home that was brought about or inspired by space exploration and have you wake up in the absence of it. So you'd wake up with poor vision, among other things...and you wouldn't have all your miniaturized electronics, and you can just go on down the list. And it's - even simple things, by the way. Do you know there are grooves in the curved exit ramps of many freeways? And that, of course, improves traction when the road is wet. You say, oh, that's a great idea. That came from NASA. It doesn't have to be high-tech to be a great idea. Why did it come from NASA? Because someone was more interested in the space shuttle landing and maintaining its course because it's not - a spaceship shuttle is not powered when it's landing. It's a glider. And you want that thing to sort of not skid off the runway coming in for a landing. So they came up with this grooved idea, which keeps the tires aligned. It channels out the water. And someone thought it up because they were inspired by NASA, not because they're inspired by cars on exit ramps from freeways. So, high-tech and low-tech creativity are stimulated by this kind of activity."

--And I also just finished listening to this interview with Bobby McFerrin on NPR's On Being.  He talks about the transformative power of singing. 

--He also talks about trusting his voice and the artistic process:  "There use to be a point where I would be afraid of making mistakes. I'm no longer afraid of making mistakes. I make them every night during a performance. Something happens: I meant for my voice to go right and it went left instead. I meant for my voice to go up and it goes down, you know. Wherever my voice goes, wherever it takes me I just follow it. I just watch it. It leads me to whatever, you know. I trust it."

--I'm expanding on his idea and trusting my creative spirit to take me to where I need to go.   I love the short story I've just written, but some part of me worries about the poems I didn't write this week because I was working on the story.  What would happen if I just did the project that poked me awake in the morning?  If I followed that daily passion, even knowing it would change?

--My fear is that I would never finish any project.  But maybe I would finish more.

--Tomorrow:  more on the project that's been prodding me all week-end.

Highlights from a Creative Friday

Yesterday was a wonderful creative day, in between various work tasks and meetings that were delightful not horrible.

I had trouble sleeping because I had a writing project due.  So, I got up and typed the rough drafts of all the prayers for the month of April for the devotion book Bread for the Day.  I e-mailed them to myself and printed a copy.

I also finished the short story I'd been working on.  I wasn't sure how I was going to get my characters to the end, but it came easily.  Then I wasn't sure how to end the story, but inspiration bubbled up too.

Then I went to work.  Mid-morning, I went to the fiction meet-up with writer friends at work.  My writer friends really got my story.  They offered good suggestions.  I felt bad for my Hindu writer friend; we had trouble with her story and ran out of time.  Were we having trouble because we're not familiar with the Hindu story upon which her story is based?  The characters changed gender, which is an interesting challenge in terms of pronouns--but she handled the physical change with masterful description.  Were we having trouble because our friend has to make revisions based on what her editor wants?  That's unclear.

Then we were off to our delightful lunch meeting.  Instead of meeting in the conference room, our friend who lives nearby suggested that we come to her house.  We had a great selection of food from the Publix deli:  chicken salad, wheat berry salad, sesame noodle salad, fruit salad--plus amazing bread and dessert from Gran Forno bakery.  Yum.  We talked about technology and teaching.

We also talked about a colleague who has been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.  What will happen to her body of artistic work?  Will her husband promote her paintings after she's gone?  And then, thoughts of mortality for us all--what happens to our stuff, artistic and otherwise, when say our final good-byes?

After lunch, it was back to campus to deal with some work-related e-mails and transcript evaluations and strategizing.

In the late afternoon, I returned to my prayer manuscript.  I did final word counts, one last read-aloud, one last proofreading and correcting, and then I sent it off.

This morning, I'm full of gratitude.  I'm aware of the gift of time.  I'm also aware of having an editor who isn't difficult.  I got an e-mail that says that everything looks to be in order with my prayers.  Hurrah!  I have friends who are not so encouraged by their editors.  Of course, they are working on book-length manuscripts, and the editorial feedback should lead to a stronger work--or will it be a work completely different from what they wanted to create?

But more than that, I'm aware of the gift of friends.  It's been a difficult work week, with the bad health news of colleagues sinking in, with strange e-mails and difficult meetings.  But woven throughout the week, with the highpoint being yesterday, I've been aware again and again, that I'm working with good people who have compassionate hearts and bright intellects.