So far, I've had a good week-end, my first full week-end here in my seminary apartment. I've had Zoom-like conversation with my spouse and my quilting group, along with instant message type written conversations, so I haven't felt lonely. I've done school work, I've read for pleasure (Hilary Mantel's Wolf Hall, which I started the week before Mantel died), I've cooked, I've gone on a quest for veggies, I've done a lot of walking.
Yesterday I walked a mile and a half to a farmer's market, but it was organic veggies, so they seemed very pricey to me. I want to support small farmers, but I don't want to pay $6.00 a pound for sweet potatoes, regardless of how they're grown. So on my walk back, I took a detour to Wegmans, a grocery store, and bought some cheaper veggies.
Yesterday evening, as the sun was setting, I walked to St. Columba's Episcopal Church. I had read about DC Art All Night, where various neighborhoods had a variety of arts events.
St. Columba's offered a walk in the indoor labyrinth (on a canvas) accompanied by music, an arts gallery/shop, and organ concerts.
I took part in all of those things, and then I walked the two blocks to Tenleytown to see the rest of the events. It was so crowded that I could barely make my way through the public library. So, hurrah for the library, but I walked on home. I felt safe from violence, but a bit worried about trip hazards. I didn't want to walk in the street for fear of being hit by a car, but the sidewalks were much more dimly lit. I walked on the sidewalks and took my time.
As I've reflected on last night, I thought about the process of slow walking. I had to take my time in the labyrinth too, but we expect that. The music was provided by overtone group Harmonic Introductions. I confess that I liked the musical parts that had just piano, harp, cello, and singing bowls best. The overtone singing was distracting.
I've also been keeping an eye on the glob of weather that's slowly becoming Hurricane Ian. I don't own property in Florida anymore, so you might wonder why I'm paying such close attention. Most of the reason is force of habit: I've always paid attention to storms, and I've always kept a wary eye on the weather. And of course, I still have friends who might be in the path of a storm.
I came across this sentence this morning from this blog post on the Yale Climate Connections site: "8 p.m. EDT Saturday: As this post was being prepared, Typhoon Noru was in the process of becoming one of the fastest-intensifying cyclones in modern Earth history, strengthening far more than expected while heading toward the Philippines." This strengthening happened during the same week-end that Canada was slammed by Hurricane Fiona, the strongest storm to hit that coastline ever.
It's made me think of a poem I wrote a long time ago, when I looked up at the pre-dawn sky and thought about how many astronomical objects are cold, hard rocks as far as we can tell. It led to this poem, which has become a renewed favorite of mine, after the spouse of a dear friend told me how it had stuck with him and made him think about the universe differently. It was published in my first chapbook Whistling Past the Graveyard.
Geology, the True Life Science
Our planet—warm, gooey corner
of a cold, lifeless cosmos,
a primordial ooze which forms
the perfect building blocks for life,
a miraculous exception to the universal
rule. The official astronomer’s story.
But perhaps God prefers rocks and minerals.
Why else create such a diverse abundance?
Maybe animals and humans are the experiment
gone horribly wrong, an accident of pumping liquids
surrounded by decaying flesh.
Bones calcify, kidneys form stones, arteries harden
with plaque—instead of medical disaster,
perhaps our bodies move towards their ultimate evolutionary
destiny, seeking God’s pleasure.
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