Claim me

The world reaches up around me
place limit
the dirt grabs my ankles
pulls me in
lift my feet, bend my knees
offer my fingers instead
I push seeds in soil
offer the dirt
fetal roots
ask for more time
leave my body in the air
for a bit

Writing childhood scares me more than writing death

During the Power of Words conference, I took a wonderful workshop called "Self-Elegy" lead by the lovely & grounded, Joy Jacobson.  Joy offered a variety of pieces written by authors near death or directed towards their future dying selves.

I attended because I want to talk about death.  I've recently had an intense desire to craft a living will and a final will.  Death doesn't feel scary to me.  It's presence makes me feel more alive.  I appreciate boundaries and limits and I want to shed light on what feels dark.

Joy invited the participants to write from her prompt: "I see you child..."  From the first prompt, we took one line, and let that prompt more writing.  This process continued until we had four short pieces.  These are the lines I took from the exercise:

You'll discover that a tightness in your
heart will remind you to feel it beating.
Find asylum in the land of those who know.
You are an exile among exiles, drafting
a new covenant of how to hold
your own.
Diminish memory-- let it inhabit
smaller corners of your body.
Until you outgrow it.

Interestingly, I found myself becoming more frightened and triggered by writing about my childhood than writing about my potential death.  I guess it's exactly what I'm supposed to do!

The piece, unedited:

I see you child, looking to escape, and scared
of breaking free.  You will find the door.  You
will slam it shut.  And then you'll sit on the
other side, defiant and devastated.  It will
make your chest feel crumbled.  You'll
discover a tightness in your heart will remind
you to feel it beating.  You'll watch other
beating hearts.  You'll place your
hands on other shuddering chests.  You'll
find other refugees.  You'll find asylum in the land of
those who know to build themselves
out of pain.

Find asylum in the land of those who know.
You are an exile among exiles, drafting a
new covenant of how to hold your
own.  In your mind's eye, the door is
always closed.  And that is what scares
you the most-- to go back.  To open the door
and to say to those on the other side-- those
who hurt you, those who were hurt--
I love you.
It's terrifying.  How do you love yourself
and those who crushed you?  How are you
worthy of love when you are the blood & bone
of those who put hurt & oppression into the world?
How do you love the oppressor & escape the
oppression?  How do you ally with the
disposessed & love the thief?  How do you
straddle & not break?  That is the call that
scares you.

You are an exile among exiles, drafting a
covenant of how to hold your own.  You each know
passage.  There is a silent, shared knowledge of
dark, lonely nights and plotting to be
released.  There is the unspoken, known
truth that your life is worth living.  You will
be in the world, with pain in your eyes and a
quick laugh.  Your joy will be more satisfying.  It will
go deeper in your belly, because your body
remembers absence.  You will always be far
from home.  Re-define home.  The default is
home is where pain lives.  You broke out.  Accept
sanctuary as home.  Know that you belong.
Make every day a haven.  Diminish memory.  Let it inhabit
smaller corners of the body-- until you outgrow it.

Diminish memory-- let it inhabit smaller corners
of the body until you outgrow it.  Flex muscles
new with strength.  Open joints fresh with possibility.
This body sheds, renews, sheds.  It lives on firm
ground, toes unclenched, spread heels.  Unbind.
Let go.  Make room to write yourself into the
next story.  You know a gilded cage and a slowly
dug tunnel out.  Wash the dirt from your nails.  Blink
into the sun.  Roll your shoulders, sore from crawling &
climbing.  Believe.  Believe that you are on the other side.
You will not be caught.  You have proven that
you will always bring yourself into the day.
Stand with the light on your face.

Past My Nerve: 2013 Power of Words Conference

About a year ago I saw an ad for the Power of Words conference, sponsored by the Transformative Language Arts Network.  The conference's sub-themes were Narrative Medicine/Healing Stories, Right Livelihood, Social Activism, and Engaged Spirituality.

What?!

I promptly submitted a workshop proposal.  I had crafted "Awaken the Muse: Yoga to Unleash Creativity" a short time before.  I'd offered it at yoga studios, but never to writers, and never at a conference.  I felt like an absolute fraud, but I also feel like people will make opportunities for you if you express interest.

And they did.  My proposal was accepted.

Crap.

I re-worked, re-developed, and fine-tuned the workshop.  I cut it down to fit the allotted 90 minutes.  In a moment of panic, I completely reworked the physical movement, when it was pointed out that there might be a huge range of mobility and people likely wouldn't wear yoga clothes.

And then I considered backing out.

Instead, last Friday I drove out to Pendle Hill and participated in the opening ceremonies.  My friend, Taina Asili and her partner, Gaetano Vaccaro, were there to perform.  I don't get to see those two frequently, so it was great to hang out and soak up their cherubic two-year old daughter.  I still felt nervous but I also felt resigned.  It will be what it will be.

Yesterday, I gave my workshop.  The participants were so present and warm and wonderful.  The response was overwhelmingly positive.  All of the sudden, I felt known but also close to all these dynamic people.  I learned about participants teaching poetry at Hunter College to nurses.  I met a woman who offers creative healing to veterans returning from war.  I met Poet Laureates and activists and writers.  And they were all so crazy vulnerable and humble.  We talked about how hard it is to do the work you feel drawn to and make a living.  I learned about letting everything I do be a story.

Today, I'm saturated.  But I'm also inspired.  I truly encourage you, reader, to attend next year's conference.  And to do something scary.  And to be vulnerable.

Sacrified & Clarified: Editing with Caits Meissner

Last night I participated in a free tele-class with acclaimed poet, Caits Meissner.  I came across Caits' writing through my beloved high school friend, Jen Mazer.    I'm loving Caits' work.  It's vibrant, bright, and juicy.  She's also an excellent instructor, as I learned last night.

The course focused on editing poetry-- a skill set where I'm in dire need of support!  I rarely edit and given this habit, I miss out on an opportunity to hone and sharpen my work.  Caits offered some great concrete tips to figure out the power of the poem & to shed anything that obscures its light.

In advance of this tele-class, I'd shared a poem that was recently published on Rebelle Society.  Caits used this piece & a few others that were submitted by various writers, to demonstrate some of these editing tips in action.

In Death, I place you in the dirt and ask you to Live

Memories in plant shape, I can't

call you so I tend.  Water your

roots or watch your growth.  Now, we 

commune under the sun, as we did.  You've

shape-shifted & haven't I too?  In every 

moment and breath becoming a evolving

version of myself, unraveling from the 

tapestry of what is, trying to define from

the whole.  Me, holding watering can, a version

of woman, place, time, context, story, passions,

and vice.  You, no longer responding in voice, now 

leaves, greenery, stems, and roots as place-holder--

no, as life, drinking in sun, waving in wind-- a reconfiguring

of the what is.  

It would be a loss if you were simply the void.  But

I seek the void.  I ask to be swallowed whole.  I meditate

to loose my name, my tongue, the obsessions and doubts that haunt.  

I seek gurus and teachers who tell me to let go, release my

grip on my name, on me.  

You were flesh and known.  You were named and held.  You

were in conversation, in flow, in life.  You ceased.  The void 

opened and offered you dispersal.  And I don't know what you chose.

I chose to find you again, in a cutting of a tree.  Rooting, planting near me.  

I say you are matter, shaped in green and texture.  Your stem is firm and lined, 

your leaves are bright, serrated, sun-sucking.  I say you have roots footing deeper 

and wider into soil.  Soil that may have claimed your skin, muscle, bone.

Claimed the physical of what I knew.

This could be a game I play with myself, to bind you to prakriti 

when you are purusha.  Maybe one day I will recite mantra, close eyes,

see everything.  Maybe I will find the universe in the mouth of a child and follow

it, follow everything.  On my wall, as a child, "Where did you come from

baby dear?  Out of the everything and into the here."  Embroidered, hung

as manifesto and written behind my eyelids like endless sheep on a slow slide to sleep.  

So one day, as taught, as instructed, I follow the way back.  Body,

relinquished.  Name, hushed.  Aversions, tendencies, wants, renounced.  Hovering

in the place near sleep, like twilight, and absorbed.

Dispersed.  Into the everything.  Mingled with you again.  The roots ripped

up, the leaves blown, matter diffuse.  No more memory.  No more.  Just

light and air.  No shape to shift.  

Is that where it ends?  Where it begins.  That is where the seeking

stops.  The mourning ends.  No more sadness, loneliness.  No

more memories of childhood mantra.  No more me without you.  Just

energy.  Sunlight, illuminating us as particles on a beam

through an open window.

While wholly encouraging, Caits offered me the constructive feedback I need.  Her main concern was the wordiness.  She felt excess words weighed down the message, feel, and imagery of the poem.  It's not the first time I've heard this!  I remember in college, my best friend, Annie, took her scissors to everything I wrote.  The end result was stronger, clearer writing.

With Caits' edits:

In Death, I place you in the dirt and ask you to Live

Memories in plant shape, I can't

call you so I tend.  Water your

roots or watch your growth.  Now, we 

commune under the sun, as we did.  You've

shape-shifted & haven't I too?  In every 

moment and breath becoming.  Me, holding 

watering can, you, now 

leaves, greenery, stems, and roots.

It would be a loss but

I seek the void.  I ask to be swallowed 

whole to loose my name.

I chose to find you again in the cutting of a tree.  Your stem is 

firm and lined, your leaves are serrated 

and sun-sucking.  Roots footing deeper 

and wider into soil that claimed your muscle and bone.

This could be a game I play with myself, to bind you to

prakriti when you are purusha.  Maybe one 

day I will recite mantra, close eyes,

see everything.  Maybe I will find the universe in 

the mouth of a child and follow

Dispersed.  Into the everything.  Mingled with you again.  The roots ripped

up, the leaves blown.  

Is that where it ends?  Where it begins.  That is where the seeking

stops.  Sunlight, illuminating us as particles on a beam

through an open window.

Caits, your keen eye sharpened my work.  Thank you for blowing off the dust, clarifying my vision.

Community is needing each other

Last week Kevin & I sat around our friend's South Philly living room, balancing plates of home-made spaghetti on our laps, reflecting on a talk from Michelle Alexander heard earlier that night at Penn.  The conversation began wandering back into our own day-to-day lives and Kevin related how we'd found ourselves so reliant upon community when the landscaping truck broke down.  Both of us are still trying to work our ways, mentally, into the shared space of needing people.  There's so much latent individualism lurking in the recesses of our mind.

Our friend shared an exchange that happened with her CSA a few seasons ago.  An older Italian farmer was in attendance-- like real farmer-- she clarified.  Not a young urban bearded dude in flannel, but a man with broad hands and a history in land.  The collective was sitting around discussing building community.  They talked about a variety of events they could host to get to know one another, projects they could take, duties they could share.  The Italian farmer scoffed and voiced his lone opinion for the night: "That will never work.  You only have community when you need one another."

At the time, our friend, a Left-y historian with a focus on class, took this as eye-rolling at middle class liberals.  We began discussing his point in the context of our truck incident.

It's so true.

Community is built out of need.

Kevin & I have floated the idea of not having certain tools that we use regularly & instead sharing with a neighbor.  And reciprocating by purchasing something they might borrow from us.  Not an unheard of practice-- many communities historically and throughout the world either pool resources or are comfortable with sharing.  Kevin & I often resist this for probably the same reasons many others do-- it's more convenient to have you own thingamabob ready when you want it & it's much simpler to not worry about caring for someone else's precious doohickey.

On the one hand, Kevin & I care for our belongings & make them last.  We don't purchase a lot of physical stuff-- we're more likely to purchase an experience, like a concert or a meal out.  However, we're hard on stuff.  And it drives us nuts to have something loaned be returned in a lesser condition.  We don't want to be bad-mouthed (yes, like we have at times bad-mouthed others) so we get nervous about borrowing.  So nervous, that when we do borrow, we often will try to return the thingamajig in better shape than we received it.  This might be a good practice & make us look good, but it's time-consuming, and ultimately makes us both want to be more isolated, less in the network of sharing.

We're working to just be more transparent.  And to not be so scared of work.  Maybe our fear over disappointing someone with how we care for their whooziwhatzit will make us stronger, more mindful stewards in multiple areas of our life.

But this is all very mild need.

We've all heard of communities forming and bonding in times of crisis.  There's nothing like shared experience to unite people.  But you can't impose that & we don't wish crisis upon one another.  And yet-- I think we all crave some sense of belonging & community-- that's why we try to create it again and again.

Is the practice again of just being more transparent?  Not being so isolated?  Letting the impact of life be seen and known so that there's room for others to support?  To share, swap stories, scoff, roll eyes, bad mouth, and ultimately know and be known?  To balance spaghetti on our knees, listen, and learn from one another.

Okra is blooming. I'm returning.

The view from the okra/strawberry patch in our front yard.  I'm falling in love with okra.  It's tall, regal stems.  It's sweet fruit spearing the sky.  The yellow blossoms spiralling open at leaf junctures.  There seems to be a lovely world at the feet of okra.  I imagine myself miniature, strawberry stained feet, eyes reaching upwards to okra blossoms, to life climbing.

I'm getting back on schedule.  Expect more frequent postings here.

I've even gotten fall seeds in the ground!  I was late to it, so warm footed plants went into the hugelkultur beds.  I'm hoping their internal heat might extend the cold crop growing season.  I may also experiment with some cold frames this year.

Nails are painted to mask the dirt beneath.  My cuticles are ripped up as I refuse to plant with gloves or a trowel.  I like to dig my fingers deep.  Let work be tactile.

Here's some of what I've been upto:

Tending the serviceberry tree.

Remembering a teenage fling.

Offering a yoga workshop to access creativity.

And wandering through the garden.  Building fires at night so that I wake with smoke-scented hair.  Rubbing my fingers on rosemary, persimmon leaves, feeling the soft underbelly of a tomato stalk.

Loving destruction

Recently, many things happened that weren't supposed to.

My husband thought he killed his friend.  Thankfully, his friend was fine.

Our small business relies on this truck daily.  We were in the middle of a job & booked through early October.  

The net result was that we relied on friends.  One friend loaned a truck for a few days so we could try to stay on schedule.  His truck wasn't the size of Kevin's, so then we were able to borrow a second truck.

Then that truck broke down.  

Our neighbor has been a miracle.  He helped us rectify the original mess within ten hours of the event.  He then helped us repair the loaner truck.  

We're seeing that our plans are less important than being present, calm, and in community.  I'm also learning that sometimes things have to get all busted up to then get clear.

I'm teaching yoga classes this month dedicated to the practice of Bhakti, loving devotion towards the Divine.  A fellow teacher said that Bhakti is often associated with Shiva, a holy representation of destruction.  I sat with that & tried to work out how destruction can be in keeping with loving devotion.  And then I observed my own recent days.  When the things I thought I needed-- a truck, a schedule, savings, what have you-- were suddenly blown up I had to devote myself to what is less tangible & more reliable-- community, vulnerability, trust.  My faith in the less tangible has grown immeasurably.  Kevin & I keep wanting to write country songs, but less plaintive and more grateful.  We're realizing what aspects of our life we try to shield and where we isolate ourselves.  We've been forced to be more transparent and connected.

When things fall apart there is room for something else.