Day 19 (August 2): Worship and Work

The one day when we did not have to rise early to make our 8:30 session, and of course I could not sleep in. The worship service at Gilfillin Memorial Church began at 11:00, so I had plenty time to shower, take my notebooks down to the breakfast room to work on poetry, and then walk to the parking garage a quarter mile away, just to check that our car was still there and no one had stolen it. (It was. There, I mean; not stolen.)

Worship was a delight. I think our Scriptoria crowd doubled or tripled the usual congregation, which is mostly elderly and very friendly. A church that was once filled to overflowing in the early 1900s has now dwindled, as have many in the UK, and there is such a deep sadness about that.

A special treat awaited us for lunch: haggis! And not only haggis, but a bagpipe procession and a formal presentation of the amazing haggis (cow or sheep’s organs cooked in a sheep’s stomach membrane). 

Even the teddy bears were dressed for the occasion.

Tables were decorated with black watch tartan. 

From left to right: haggis, mashed potatoes, and

 winter squash.

In the afternoon, we listened to Gary and Cynthia discuss the challenge of writing about hard things: death, divorce, grief, broken relationships, poverty, injustice, and all the dark things that this world. 

Then, in the evening, a number of us read stories, poems, or essays that we have been working on. I was delighted to hear so much excellent writing. I did read a poem that still rough but dealt with some themes that Gary and Cynthia in the afternoon. I wrote this a few days before leaving for the UK, in the middle of a hot summer afternoon.

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For lunch, a slice of sharp Vermont cheddar 
and cold kombucha. 
What could be better? 
The day with heat but inside is a glorious 76°
with no variation or shadow of turning. 

Nestled in my leather armchair, 
I contemplate my flight to Scotland 
and consider what clothing to pack. 
Two pants or three? 
Hiking boots, or just the new trainers? 
Of course the new L.L. Bean raincoat and swimsuit. 

As the last cool swallow slips down my throat, 
chasing the cheese, 
another infant dies in a faraway village, 
while his sister trudges the weary road to water 
under the cruel sun. 

My world and theirs collides for a moment. 

I stare helplessly at the girl, 
no more than six years old, 
balancing buckets on her shoulders. 
Can you forgive me, I whisper, 
but the heat turns my words to ash 
and she takes another step 
away.