Week 8
For lots of reasons and from lots of perspectives, we talked about poverty often this week. And so I have contemplated the idea of "plenty" from that standpoint.
Stephanie Hutchinson (19 February 2010)
Plenty
Plenty.
Define plenty.
Define enough.
Define impoverished.
Are we considering money or emotion or contact or potential or stuff?
Do people have a point where they have sufficient?
Or are we destined to constantly want the more, the newer, the bigger, the brighter, the novel?
Is it part of the natural human condition to be less than satisfied?
Looking at half a century of life,
The best parts are sitting with family and friends
In quiet or animated conversation.
Do such moments have to be proceeded by a gourmet meal
Or is it enough to not be hungry?
Do such moments have to be in a well decorated room with overstuffed chairs
Or is it enough to be together out of wind and weather?
Do such moments require electronics
Or do laughter and tears fill the space and the soul?
Work to do, Food to eat, safe Shelter,
Books to read, Friends to see,
Children to talk to,
Health or
Money to cover the bills for all of this.
And Worship. Remember prayers are free.
Is that plenty? Is it just barely enough?
Can we have too much?
Friday, February 19, 2010
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Week 7
I am proving to be a bit unreliable on timing. Maybe having this blog update on Fridays was a bad plan. Oh well.
Stephanie Hutchinson (14 February 2010):
Foundations
Foundation. Stone. Permanent.
Boring.
And yet …
Comfort, constant, reliable
Can also be
Warm and boundless.
A platform from which
We can fly, surprise, experiment.
Stable segments of living
Make possible the leaps and the colors.
I am proving to be a bit unreliable on timing. Maybe having this blog update on Fridays was a bad plan. Oh well.
Stephanie Hutchinson (14 February 2010):
Foundations
Foundation. Stone. Permanent.
Boring.
And yet …
Comfort, constant, reliable
Can also be
Warm and boundless.
A platform from which
We can fly, surprise, experiment.
Stable segments of living
Make possible the leaps and the colors.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Week 6
Lately, if it is Friday, there must be a storm in Elkin, NC! We woke to about 4 inches of snow. Sometime after it rose to about 9 inches, it turned to rain. So now it is very wet and slushy. At work, George could not get his truck out of the lot. The company sent him home (whewww!). While I worked three days this week, we only had students on one day! And I did not hold any Seminary classes due to the black ice.
So here is my poem for the week. George likes this one.
Stephanie Hutchinson (5 February 2010)
Silly Window
The chuckle starts way down deep in the chest.
It bubbles up and explodes out
As the mouth opens and stretches across the teeth.
Sometimes there is sound,
Sometimes delighted silence.
You can never be sure what will be the trigger.
Almost every person has different keys.
Is there a reason why idiosyncratic
Begins with the word “idiot”
As in that idiotic feeling when your joy button is pushed?
Pie in the face,
Word games,
Tickles, tastes, images,
Stories,
And songs.
“Never on a Sunday.” Okay, forget the subtext.
Indulge in the smile, the wonder, gratitude, blessing.
A gaggle of grandchildren
Burst with laughter at the lyric:
“You can kiss me on a Monday, a Tuesday … but never, never on a Sunday...”
Is it anything but fantabulous
When children are so cosseted,
So warmly wrapped in family love,
So secure in parental affection
That the idea of no Sunday kissing
Brings forth spontaneous hilarious giggles, sustained for days?
[Lyrics: http://www.lyrics-top.com/187919-114078/Never-On-Sunday/Chordettes.html]
So here is my poem for the week. George likes this one.
Stephanie Hutchinson (5 February 2010)
Silly Window
The chuckle starts way down deep in the chest.
It bubbles up and explodes out
As the mouth opens and stretches across the teeth.
Sometimes there is sound,
Sometimes delighted silence.
You can never be sure what will be the trigger.
Almost every person has different keys.
Is there a reason why idiosyncratic
Begins with the word “idiot”
As in that idiotic feeling when your joy button is pushed?
Pie in the face,
Word games,
Tickles, tastes, images,
Stories,
And songs.
“Never on a Sunday.” Okay, forget the subtext.
Indulge in the smile, the wonder, gratitude, blessing.
A gaggle of grandchildren
Burst with laughter at the lyric:
“You can kiss me on a Monday, a Tuesday … but never, never on a Sunday...”
Is it anything but fantabulous
When children are so cosseted,
So warmly wrapped in family love,
So secure in parental affection
That the idea of no Sunday kissing
Brings forth spontaneous hilarious giggles, sustained for days?
[Lyrics: http://www.lyrics-top.com/187919-114078/Never-On-Sunday/Chordettes.html]
Monday, February 1, 2010
Week 5 (Really!)
We had tons of snow on Friday and Saturday. I had to rush at work and get home before it started. This is one of the pitfalls of living in the south, we totally forget (if we ever knew) how to deal with snow.
And since the theme for the week was "cleanliness" and snow covers everything, it seemed a good plan to write on the experience. This is the first time George has read my poem before I published it. It is not his cuppa... and he thinks it is too long. I got him back by putting his 2 cents here....
George Hutchinson (1 February 2010):
Cleanliness is next to snowliness.
Stephanie Hutchinson (1 February 2010):
Waiting for Snow in a North Carolina Life
Four Days Out
Might be a storm this weekend.
Storms never arrive when the weatherman says.
Have you checked the reports today?
Projections are only mostly accurate seventy-two hours ahead.
Ignore it all and get back to calculating, reading, cleaning, shopping, playing.
Two Days Out
Looks pretty definite.
Coming Friday.
Ice? Don’t like the sound of that.
What time? What time? What time?
Turn the TV on. Click on the Internet. Bring up the radar.
Day Before
Don’t plan to be home. PLAN to go on as normal.
But pick-up some cold cuts and potatoes.
Chemicals on the roads. Bring in wood.
Guess someone is expecting something.
Not ice. Snow. Click, fast forward, click. Ten inches?
Day
Look out the window. Flip porch light on. Nothing yet.
Pull on clothes, leggings, layers. Pack lunch.
Wrap on coats, scarves, gloves, hats. Grab bags.
Hold Seminary. Feed students warm breakfast.
Check window. Nothing yet.
Who wants time out? Will cut into Spring Break.
Have a good day at school.
Hello? Small load. Out of Virginia this morning.
Blue sky all around. Want help with shopping after swimming?
No worries. Will get home safe.
Key in the lock. Prop open library door.
Hi, hi, hi. Any word? At least we are here so far.
Will they send us home early?
Thanks for the book. Just renew next time, skip being overdue.
Click. Radar shows it is moving.
Look at Oklahoma City. Whew. No ice here, please.
Is Paducah in the path?
Students, books, make a handout.
Train eyes on the parking lot. Nothing.
Send on a page, change a layout.
Twenty done, twelve pages to go.
Look out the window.
Make a call. Arrange the Spelling Bee.
Walk to the glass. Clouds.
Drape on coverings. Grab bags. Drive. Switch buildings.
Hi, hi, hi. Any word? At least we are here so far.
Will they send us home early?
Nothing yet.
Drop bags and plans, carry purse.
Traipse to the big building.
Hi, hi, hi. Any word? At least we are here so far.
Will they send us home early?
Here is my card; change to my company; buy our books; would
you like a pen?
Copy the handout, open email, check bank balance.
Click on weather radar. Closer.
Is the pink on us or below? Looks like South Carolina, maybe Statesville.
Outside again, back to basement classroom.
Look up. Heavy clouds. Sharp wind.
Please, snow, please, no ice.
Bells, students.
Fix this clipart. Find a better picture. Index the names.
Who is on staff here?
First name, last, job, place, twenty minutes, over fifty-six people.
Show the page. Read for grammar. Random box on page thirty-two.
Call the publisher.
Check the window.
Twenty minutes up. “I got fifty!” Great. Now gather and expand list.
Window. Radar. Nothing.
Project the whole staff directory on wall. Correct you paper. Quiz
on Monday.
Monday? Window. Or Tuesday.
Bring four pictures of students and snow.
Bell. Window. Blue-purple clouds resting at six stories up.
Return to the computer.
Publisher. The new picture is not taking, call back.
Okay. Done. Forty pages off.
Window.
ID cards? Window.
Call home. Nothing. Want to come home.
Come on. Bring it all home.
Pack car. Crate of files, card printer, laptop, tub of papers to
sort, bags, lunch box, water bottle.
Thirty-five minutes of highway. Radio. Scan sky, windshield.
Left turn on Northwood.
Down, down, down the dirt road, through the tree bower, into our
garden of grasses, weeds, trees.
Nothing.
Fill arms with stuff, carry along the stone walk, up …
Oh. One miniature flake.
Not ice.
Twist, look, scan.
Few, far, spaced.
But coming, dropping, flying.
In. Snug. Light fire.
Begun.
And since the theme for the week was "cleanliness" and snow covers everything, it seemed a good plan to write on the experience. This is the first time George has read my poem before I published it. It is not his cuppa... and he thinks it is too long. I got him back by putting his 2 cents here....
George Hutchinson (1 February 2010):
Cleanliness is next to snowliness.
Stephanie Hutchinson (1 February 2010):
Waiting for Snow in a North Carolina Life
Four Days Out
Might be a storm this weekend.
Storms never arrive when the weatherman says.
Have you checked the reports today?
Projections are only mostly accurate seventy-two hours ahead.
Ignore it all and get back to calculating, reading, cleaning, shopping, playing.
Two Days Out
Looks pretty definite.
Coming Friday.
Ice? Don’t like the sound of that.
What time? What time? What time?
Turn the TV on. Click on the Internet. Bring up the radar.
Day Before
Don’t plan to be home. PLAN to go on as normal.
But pick-up some cold cuts and potatoes.
Chemicals on the roads. Bring in wood.
Guess someone is expecting something.
Not ice. Snow. Click, fast forward, click. Ten inches?
Day
Look out the window. Flip porch light on. Nothing yet.
Pull on clothes, leggings, layers. Pack lunch.
Wrap on coats, scarves, gloves, hats. Grab bags.
Hold Seminary. Feed students warm breakfast.
Check window. Nothing yet.
Who wants time out? Will cut into Spring Break.
Have a good day at school.
Hello? Small load. Out of Virginia this morning.
Blue sky all around. Want help with shopping after swimming?
No worries. Will get home safe.
Key in the lock. Prop open library door.
Hi, hi, hi. Any word? At least we are here so far.
Will they send us home early?
Thanks for the book. Just renew next time, skip being overdue.
Click. Radar shows it is moving.
Look at Oklahoma City. Whew. No ice here, please.
Is Paducah in the path?
Students, books, make a handout.
Train eyes on the parking lot. Nothing.
Send on a page, change a layout.
Twenty done, twelve pages to go.
Look out the window.
Make a call. Arrange the Spelling Bee.
Walk to the glass. Clouds.
Drape on coverings. Grab bags. Drive. Switch buildings.
Hi, hi, hi. Any word? At least we are here so far.
Will they send us home early?
Nothing yet.
Drop bags and plans, carry purse.
Traipse to the big building.
Hi, hi, hi. Any word? At least we are here so far.
Will they send us home early?
Here is my card; change to my company; buy our books; would
you like a pen?
Copy the handout, open email, check bank balance.
Click on weather radar. Closer.
Is the pink on us or below? Looks like South Carolina, maybe Statesville.
Outside again, back to basement classroom.
Look up. Heavy clouds. Sharp wind.
Please, snow, please, no ice.
Bells, students.
Fix this clipart. Find a better picture. Index the names.
Who is on staff here?
First name, last, job, place, twenty minutes, over fifty-six people.
Show the page. Read for grammar. Random box on page thirty-two.
Call the publisher.
Check the window.
Twenty minutes up. “I got fifty!” Great. Now gather and expand list.
Window. Radar. Nothing.
Project the whole staff directory on wall. Correct you paper. Quiz
on Monday.
Monday? Window. Or Tuesday.
Bring four pictures of students and snow.
Bell. Window. Blue-purple clouds resting at six stories up.
Return to the computer.
Publisher. The new picture is not taking, call back.
Okay. Done. Forty pages off.
Window.
ID cards? Window.
Call home. Nothing. Want to come home.
Come on. Bring it all home.
Pack car. Crate of files, card printer, laptop, tub of papers to
sort, bags, lunch box, water bottle.
Thirty-five minutes of highway. Radio. Scan sky, windshield.
Left turn on Northwood.
Down, down, down the dirt road, through the tree bower, into our
garden of grasses, weeds, trees.
Nothing.
Fill arms with stuff, carry along the stone walk, up …
Oh. One miniature flake.
Not ice.
Twist, look, scan.
Few, far, spaced.
But coming, dropping, flying.
In. Snug. Light fire.
Begun.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)