We may need to reconsider everything we have heard about Original Sin. I suspected this when my Bible Study Ladies read Lost Women of the Bible, by Carolyn Custis James. This collection of linked essays begins with Eve’s story, and I disagreed with James’ interpretation. My questions sent me back to a poem I started years—maybe decades—ago. Furious about the way many use the garden story to condemn women, I threw in everything I associated with the Judeo-Christian creation myth and came up with a self-pitying feminist rant. Soon after reading that disappointing poem, I tried to revise it into something interesting and mature to share with my group. I looked up the poorly remembered, tossed-in references to the Bible and John Milton’s Paradise Lost. By the time I found everything and turned the poem into a confused list, I realized that we might misunderstand the story. Our first parents were not destroyers responsible for everything wrong with the universe; they were heroes. Why? They eventually admitted their wrong and chose to produce the generations that would lead to Jesus. We all learn that Jesus defeats Satan and thus redeems our first parents’ big mistake, but we forget that Adam and Eve began the process by trying to right their wrong. That makes them human heroes, not epic failures.
Unfortunately, I looked up the place where Milton writes that he wants to explain God’s ways to man, saw a line about evil entering the world, started reading the footnotes, and realized that I can’t just argue my ego-driven opinion about one man’s interpretation of a myth we have all heard since we were four. Many people have no idea that Paradise Lost was so famous and authoritative that it used to sit beside the Bible on millions of bookshelves. I need to consider Milton’s life, 17th Century cosmology, all twelve books of the poem, and formal scholars’ ideas. All of that indicates more than a few days’ work.
My personal quandary with the Eden story also figures into this project. A few years ago, I presented a paper comparing Eden to Zora Neale Hurston’s “The Gilded Six Bits.” Way before that, I wrote a story about a scorpion running rampant in a woman’s body. Several years before that story, I went to Graduate School and started asking questions about God, evil, and mercy. One of my first professors, John Shawcross, edited all of Milton’s poetry, and his book was our text. I was completely lost in that class; my Paradise Lost paper was so bad he didn’t even grade it, and my book had almost zero marginalia. All of this means that Adam, Eve, God, and the serpent have been eating my lunch for a long time. My opinion, requires knowledge and logic. What began as emotional vomit now suggests a journey through a labyrinth of text and memory. The result may be a clear, referenced argument; this writing aims to share the hike.
For the last three years, I have been paying for this site but writing nothing except my daily journal and documents for my job. Change has arrived, however; the dry spell ended. I want to share new images, questions, and insights, but a couple of failed pieces from the past come back to haunt me. So many years have passed that they seem new. Rewriting this one from my drinking days helped me see with honest eyes.
This peanut butter and honey sandwich on one piece of folded bread
might absorb the vodka and wine in my stomach; they made me stagger
Walking the dog meant gripping the leash for stability.
Showering required holding onto the wall.
Squeezing honey into my tea made a huge spill.
He came into the kitchen, pale, thin-lipped, staring.
"How did you get so drunk?" he asked as he cleaned up my mess.
How did I get so drunk?
Please help me stop
(begun in 2010, one year before sobriety date #2)
This is probably the last day I will be appointment-free for the foreseeable future. Every day contains at least one commitment. A trip to North Carolina for a convention–fun for me, work for my husband– comes at the end of next week. ( I might be able to write while he goes to meetings.) The week after that is the third summer visit to my hometown. My mother is living with dementia, and the other family members need as many breaks as I can provide. Then it’s back to school, short sleep, hope, love, frustration, crammed-full days, and all that goes with teaching.
I am supposed to have finished a big project by the time the teachers’ meetings start, but it is a bunch of cut-and-paste work, and maybe no one will actually want it for a while. Today, then, went for working on a blog entry or essay (how do you tell the difference???). It is about two weddings, one two years ago and one three days ago. This writing began after the first wedding–and it’s too complicated to finish today. That is frustrating.
Let me just say hello and love to all of you. May we all have the patience to let the work of our hearts take as long as it takes. May we forgive ourselves for the need to show something for our efforts before it’s time.
This may well be a picture of a mesquite flower. It was growing outside the motel I occupied while visiting family out west. Passing through the flat, flat land of West Texas and living under that big, big sky for a few days reminds me of a story I wrote a long time ago and might redo. It featured a tiny house in the middle of a field. Now I know that the house has to have at least one tree nearby because real houses in the actual fields we passed often included trees for shade. Let me return to the snapshot though. If I find out that this is a different plant, I will come back to this post and change its name, just like I came back to this site and changed the name from Writing Practice to Sarah’s Blog. A poet friend once said that writing is never finished, and she is right. Besides, many people know me from work and my long life, so maybe we will share through this blog that actually uses my name instead of the anonymous Writing Practice. I do wonder how many other people named Sarah use this title–it will be interesting to learn.
After two years of improvising, I plan to work through the WordPress tutorials and try to figure out how to actually use pages, indexes, and interesting layouts. An essay or long post is brewing–it will relate my latest front-yard (“garden” for my English friends) adventure complete with birth imagery and a meditation on sweat. My old big sky story requests a reading just to see if there is anything to resurrect; so does an essay about why I sometimes wear a cross. For now, however, it feels wrong to mess around with the underpinnings of this blog without sharing a few words.
God bless, and we’ll see. Over the last couple of weeks, I have been warming up with many pages of free writing. For that, I put on some ambient music, sip black coffee, chew cloves, and, for about 45 minutes, write everything that comes into my mind. Stopping, thinking, and crossing out are not allowed. At the very least, it gets some of the garbage out of my mind. Sometimes the exercise produces an idea or lets me work out a problem. It is always worth the time. Try it–maybe just for ten minutes if you’re not used to the practice–and let me know what happens.
I am working on a portfolio we have to submit every semester at the college where I teach. It would take a boringly long time to explain everything that goes into it, and this writing is a big chunk of procrastination already. Roses and pansies bloom on this gently warm day. The breeze feels like my grand baby’s fingers stroking my cheek. The flowers are choking on weeds, and the little tomato plants will stay spindly unless they get more water, but everything is still alive. I’m tied to the desk today, but if I finish this project today, I will garden tomorrow.
Yesterday I took my computer to our deck to copy-paste scores of documents into the monstrosity, and after a few hours, the dog and I went running. Today I have to scan student papers and other images that support my claim to continued employment. The speakers on the desktop computer aren’t working–I wasted about an hour trying to fix them–so everything is happening in silence.
All the same, gratitude has its place. My complaints belong to the First World. Third World folks would love to share my issues. Too many of them are dodging bombs and trying to get enough food to stay alive while I am suffering in great comfort, even throwing the tasks aside long enough to put some words on paper. Things could be worse, but they are bad enough. Playing around with this post is just prolonging the agony, I know, so it’s time to stop and get back to work. Yuk.
It’s over a year since I have put anything on this blog. Right now, I am supposed to be grading essays. I just took a minute to check my e-mail, saw that my WordPress money is due, decided not to waste the fee for yet another year, and here we are. The picture is one I took on a morning walk when I went to a Kentucky wedding two summers ago. I started an essay about the trip but never finished it, never even got a good start because it took me back to all sorts of childhood drama, and so on.
Though I write a journal nine days out of ten, I have not written anything “real” in years, maybe even since before I started this blog. It’s weird, but this sort of essay-type writing comes easily to me, maybe because I have taught composition for so long. When I talk about “real” writing, I mean stories and poems, but these years, even writing simple everyday thoughts is a treat. Writing assignments for my students and paragraphs for committees at work do not feel valid. Even the paper I gave at a conference this semester doesn’t feel like it counts, but that is not really true. Words on the page count. We have to start somewhere.
Here is hoping that I start again this summer with whatever presents itself, whether I consider it “real” or not. It’s really a matter of setting boundaries, saying no to some things and people in order to say yes to words on the page with all the joy and frustration they bring. Here is hoping that everyone who wants to write is able to start again and that those who are already disciplined can keep going with joy.
Now for those papers . . .
Shortly before they put me under for the colonoscopy, a huge dark-skinned black man wearing a shining white surgeon’s mask walked into the room. Built like a refrigerator, he carried a 60 foot long roll of thick black tubing. The nurse quickly covered my bottom (which she was lining up for the machine). “Who are you?” I asked the man. I was afraid he was going to say he was doing my “procedure,” but he said his name was Jay and he put the roll of black tubing in a closet (not in me, thank God). Then he left. The nurses said he was just passing through and, when they could stop laughing at the expression on my face, they apologized for his upsetting intrusion. “I’m not upset,” I said, also laughing. “Have you already started the drugs?”
I woke up during the exploration, and that was a surprise. Fortunately, I did not wake up to pain, just pressure and the sight of my innards on the television screen. I wanted to discuss the situation, but strong hands were pushing me around, trying to get me in the right position for whatever they or the camera was doing. The tiny nurse doing the hoisting said I was doing fine–and then I guess the other nurse put some more drugs in my IV because the next thing I knew was in “recovery.”
Here’s how the day went. First we sat in a waiting room with a bunch of people for over an hour, during which I went to the bathroom several times because the “prep” was still working. The bathrooms there have motion activated paper towel machines. Each time I washed my hands, I had more trouble getting the machine to give me towels. Waving my hands around to no effect made me so angry I wanted to scream and pull the machine off the wall, but I was so tired, hungry, and depleted that maybe small things seemed large.
Finally I went upstairs: no watch, no Kindle, nothing but me. This time I waited on a chair in a foyer. A woman from the miniature conference room came into the area crying hard, and I put my arm around her. She said she had to be strong, and I told her she didn’t have to be strong just then. One of the reception clerksgave her a box of Kleenex. Now I am worried about her and her family, wonder what her story is. She left, probably to put on a calm face while she delivered devastating news.
After a while a nurse took me to a toilet-equipped room, had me put on incredibly ugly baggy blue paper shorts, made the machine give me a paper towel, and started an IV. Then she parked me on a stretcher in a hallway beside another woman. (Someone brought me a HEATED blanket, which was incredibly kind.) I think my “hall mate” is the woman who hit my car last year, but I could be wrong. We were not at our best. She was waiting for a colon scan too. They had a small television on the wall playing a cooking show. Insensitive, that. At any rate, a nurse came for me while the fellow victim and I were complaining about the assembly line nature of our day at the hospital. I told the nurse that the other woman was there first, so it was her turn, but she said each doctor has his own room. Everything was so slow that I thought they had to share. I suggested that the doctors did not play well together. The nurse laughed and said that was true.
Unfortunately, the scan did show a polyp, but it is probably benign. Whatever it is, it’s gone.
I slept for almost three hours when we got back. Absolutely forbidden to drive the next day (which is today), I have a second day off. I wonder what will happen . . .
Devotionals on A COURSE IN MIRACLES, A COURSE OF LOVE, and THE WAY OF MASTERY . . . with Celia Hales
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