Poetry Thursday-Rivers

Rouge River~Lola Valley Park, 2006

River Visit

I’ve come to think of you

As my own personal river,

Running as you do

Through this park

Where I’ve walked each day

For most of my life.

~

Your solitary sojurn

Mirrors my own,

Searching as you are

For the sea

Where you might spill yourself

With ease

Into something far greater

Than you could ever be.

~

Mostly I stand and stare

And let you do the talking,

Knowing as you must

More truth than

My few years

Could teach me.

~

Your sweet babble

Confiding secret dreams and sage advice

Reminds me I am not alone,

Running as I do

Searching as I am

Knowing so little about life

Yet continuing with joy

To flow.

~

A small section of the Rouge River runs through the park right across the street from my house. The Rouge is a 126 mile river which eventually empties into the Detroit River. It served as the highway and water source for the Woodland Indians back in the mid 1700’s. In the 1800’s, French traders used it as an entry point into Detroit.

Industrialization took it’s toll on the Rouge. It’s not a pretty river, in fact it’s gritty and hardworking, like most of the people in this city. But I still like to stand along its banks and listen to it as it runs underneath the roadway. When my husband was a child, he ice skated along it’s banks, and picked his way across it on a stone bridge on his way to school. My son delighted in standing beside it and throwing rocks into shimmering pools.

It may not be beautiful, but its mine.

Write on Wednesday-Filling the Well

Just a few weeks ago, I was bemoaning the fact that my writing seemed to be blocked, I couldn’t come up with anything to say, and my creative juices were all dried up. There were some wonderfully comforting comments from readers. Deirdre advised me to “trust the silence to show me other things,” and Mardougrll assured me that my writer’s voice would “come back, if you just keep putting words to paper, words to paper.” Bella said “I know that you will be back with words that flow like a soft stream, just give it time. It cannot be forced.”

Guess what? They were right. For the past couple of weeks, I can’t seem to get my fingers to move fast enough on the keys, or find enough time to write all the ideas that are in my head. I find myself scribbling away on my lunch hour, while sitting in line at the bank, on airplanes, and on the backs of napkins in coffee shops (where is that notebook, anyway?)

What’s up with this rollercoaster ride of creativity? Why is it that sometimes the writer’s well is full to overflowing, and other times the dipper comes up with nothing but sludge?

I think it’s all a matter of balance. In that period of time when I was “blocked,” my life outside of my writing was a mess. I was involved in a huge work project which had me sitting at my computer for long hours deciphering medical records, and I had a major vocal competition to accompany. In moderation, activities like these can be grist for the creative mill. However, these were all consuming events, leaving me no energy to process anything remotely creative.

In the past few weeks, my “real life” has returned to a pretty even keel, so I’m free to wander about, both physically and mentally. I’ve taken some long walks in the park, sat under my big red maple tree reading books and sipping iced tea, and last night I got my bicycle out and went for a long ride, loving the cool breeze whipping through my hair.

In Right to Write, Julia Cameron says that “if we lead chaotic lives, it is difficult to write smoothly and steadily. If, on the other hand, we lead lives that are too regular, too sterile, our voice as writers will also go flat, leaving us straining for effect in an attempt to manufacture interest.”

In Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott says that those times when the words won’t come aren’t about being “blocked” or “stuck,” they’re about being “empty.” My creative well sometimes gets sucked dry by an overload of obligation and reposibilities. Whatever the reason, our creative spirits occasionally need restocking, and each one of us must find our own ways of doing that, of refilling the well. For me, it involves time~to walk, to read, to notice the world around me and to revel in it, to spend time with the people I care about and really listen to them. And yes, it also means working and pursuing the activities I love ~but all in moderation.

How about you? How do you restock your creative well?

One Deep Breath-Common Ground

universal language

transcends words

into melodies of peace

In 1999, conductor Daniel Barenboim and Palestinian scholar Edward Said co-founded the Israeli-Arab Youth Orchestra (also known as the West-Eastern Divan Orchestra) as a cultural tool for bringing together Israelis and Arabs. Young musicians from both nations attended workshops in Spain, and then traveled the world giving concerts to promote cultural awarenss and harmony.

Barenboim once told a reporter that “Everyone should become active in the way that they are most suited – music is my way!” The orchestra now has it’s home base in Seville, Spain, and continues to use music as the common ground to illustrate that Arabs and Israelis can work together peacefully.

photo credit

Lest We Forget

price of war~

each white stone

a solemn reminder

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

in memory of those who have paid this price in the course of our nations’s history

and in constant hope for peace in every corner of the world

photo: Arlington National Cemetary, July 2004

Sunday Scribbling-Simple

‘Tis the gift to be simple, ’tis the gift to be free,
‘Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be…

Simple Gifts, Shaker Hymn, 1848

I’ve always loved this hymn tune. The Shaker’s, one of the first religious groups to participate in a communal lifestyle, believed practicing a life of simplicity was the key to happiness on earth, as well as eternal happiness in Heaven.

But life is never simple, is it? I’ve been trying to make a decision about my life, one that would actually simplify it greatly. Yet I’m constantly torn between doing what I know is sensible and logical, and following the desire of my heart. Not simple at all.

My life in general often seems much too complex, and yet I admit that when I don’t have a lot going on, I feel restless, unfulfilled. In the midst of running here, there, and everywhere, I find a great deal of satisfaction in crossing items off a long “to do” list.

As with everything in life, balance and moderation are the key. The Shaker’s, well known for their innovations in lifestyle, farming, and carpentry, went to extremes in their social practices. Procreation was prohibited in this religion, so, not surprisingly, there are no Shaker’s left!

The key to life, simple or complex, lies in the last two stanza’s of the hymn…

And when we find ourselves in the place just right,

‘Twill be in the valley of love and delight.

For more Simple thoughts, look here

Poetry Thursday

Habitual Conversation

In the habit of long years
I turn to him and say
More coffee?
Remember your medication
Wear a warm coat
I love you

In the habit of long years
He replies
Yes, please
I will
Allright
Love you, too

In the habit of long years
Familiar words
Set each day in motion
Quiet whispers
Like the gentle tick
Of ancient clocks
Mark life
With simple phrases
Of unstated devotion
Nourished
In the habit of long years

There is a definite shorthand in the conversations between people in long standing relationships, a pattern of speaking and response that devlops over days and years of repetition. The other morning, it struck me that Jim and I repeat a certain dialogue on a daily basis. At first, I felt dismayed at the banality of this revelation. However, I then realized that beneath the trite question-response, there was an unspoken dialogue of caring and concern based on deep understanding of the other’s needs, both practically and emotionally, an understanding that develops quite remarkably “in the habit of long years.”

For more poetry, click here

Write on Wednesday-Branching Out

“Tell me a story!”

How often have you heard that from your children, your grandchildren, nieces and nephews, or even your students, if you happen to be an elementary school teacher. I think all children love stories, the more outlandish and unbelievable the better. Story telling has been around since the beginning of time. Those famous cave paintings – weren’t they probably the first “graphic novel”? Stories provide us with entertainment, sure, but they also shed meaning into our lives, helping us answer some of those eternal questions about the whys and wherefores of our existence.

I’ve never outgrown my love of stories, and I always make time for reading them, no matter how crazy my schedule is. Fiction ~the marvelous stories of other people’s lives, loves, and adventures~is my passion. A well crafted novel is better to me than the richest chocolate or the finest wine (although I’m certainly not averse to enjoying any combination of all three!)

Until very recently, I’ve never tried writing any fiction. I’ve always considered myself a non-fiction writer- I like having a set subject, based on fact, research, or opinion, that I can write about or perhaps shed a new light on.

Lately, though, I’ve been branching out into the realm of make believe in my writing, trying my hand at some short fiction based on prompts from Sunday Scribblings and other writing sites. I’ve purchased the Gotham Writers Workshop Practical Guide to Fiction Writing, and I’m working my way through articles and exercises on generating ideas and developing character and plot. I’m learning to observe people and events in different ways, looking for the extra edge or touch of whimsy in characters and events that could develop into a story. Sometimes even a fragment of conversation can set a story idea in motion.

It’s a little nerve wracking, this business of making people and events up from thin air. But it’s also exciting to try on new writing styles and formats, kind of like playing dress up as a kid. Sometimes, I get going on a roll with an idea, or a character pops into my head from out of nowhere, begging for a story. I start writing things down, and before I know it, I’m out of control, typing crazily almost as if possessed, with my poor unsuspecting character careening down some dark and unknown pathway.

That’s one of great things about the practice of writing. With only word play and my imagination, I can create entire worlds, peopled with all sorts of interesting characters working their way through life. In the process of leading them on their journey, I inevitably learn something new about myself as well.

So, how about you? Are you branching out, in your writing life, or elsewhere?

One Deep Breath-Viewpoint

aloft among clouds
home remains
a distant dream

We fly a lot, commuting to Florida by air like some Michigander’s do to their summer cottages “up north.” I can’t say I like flying…I endure it, because it gets me where I want to go quickly. Tonight’s flight home was one of those particularly grueling ones. The plane was packed, the cooling system wasn’t working too well, they made us board really early, and a child screamed incessantly for about 45 minutes at the beginning and end of the flight.

From my vantage point, I could see the plane’s wing, skimming the tops of fluffy white clouds that floated endlessly across the horizon. On another night, I might have found more beauty in that sight. Tonight, I just wanted to be home, and it seemed terribly far away.

photo from here

more haiku here

Sunday Scribblings-Masks

Yesterday afternoon, I found myself surrounded by people in masks. Heaved unceremoniously from the ambulance stretcher to the hard emergency room gurney, doctors and nurses with little white masks dangling from around their necks quickly went to work to revive me from anaphylactic shock, an allergic reaction initiated by the stinging bite of one, tiny little red ant.

Fire ants, they call them here in Florida. And this isn’t the first dangerous run in we’ve had with them. The victim the last time wasn’t me, it was Magic, my then 2 year old shih-tzu. We were on our regular evening walk, when, as dogs will do, he stuck his nose into a mound of them. Suddenly, he started writhing around on the ground, rubbing his face on the cement. His face began swelling immediately, and then he started vomiting. We grabbed him up and raced him to the nearest emergecny vet where they dosed him with benadryl and cortisone.

I’ve been bitten a time or two since then, usually on my toes because when I’m in Florida I’m either barefooted or in sandals. These bites were itchy for a few days, but little more than a mosquito bite. Yesterday was a different story. Within seconds after feeling that sting on my toe, I was itching everywhere, and hives had broken out all over my legs, abdomen, and arms. Then I got nauseous, dizzy, and finally, just as the ambulance arrived, completely blacked out. And that’s how I found myself surrounded by a sea of masked faces.

Apparently, there are at least 100 people a year who die from reactions to fire ant bites. I’ve been armed with an Epi-pen and advised to carry Benedryl at all times. Luckily, I’m fine, other than a little tired and headachy. Thanks to all those people with little white masks dangling from around their necks.

read my other Sunday Scribble here

Write on Wednesday-Finding Your Voice

Writers often talk about “finding their voice,” that unique way of expressing themselves that identifies them as an individual. Whether it’s the way you construct a sentence, the point of view you favor, a persistent use of imagery, every writer is looking for that special something that makes their writing stand out.

In The Right to Write, Julia Cameron tells us to stop looking. “Your voice is already there,” she says. “Don’t focus on your “writer’s voice” to the exclusion of having something to say. If you enter into what you want to express, you will intuitively arrive at ways to express it.”

Apparently, the writer’s voice is like the singer’s voice. Before I started working with singers, I had the mistaken impression that you were either born with a singing voice or you weren’t. How wrong I was! Everyone can be taught the craft of singing. Of course, some people are gifted with a more beautiful voice than others, but everyone has a singing voice inside them. By following a tried and true method of instruction, you can learn to make that singing voice work. Yet every voice will carry with it unique qualities that cannot (and should not!) be changed. Timbre, tone quality, and range, are all unique to each person’s instrument.

So it is with each writer. Even in the writing I do for my day job, which is completely technical and quite formulaic, my boss tells me she can “immediately” discern which of the three writers in my department have written a particular piece. We each have our distinct way of putting words together that identifies us one from the other.

Yes, I can study the techniques and craft of writing, I can use Stunk and White’s Elements of Style as my “bible,” I can do writing exercises and revisions galore, and all of this will improve my ability to write. None of it will essentially change the writing voice that I was born with – it’s as much a part of me as my hair color (although that’s certainly changable!) Even though it’s fun to experiment with diffent shades, the “true color” is still there underneath.

“Let the song do the singing,” Cameron tells us. Writing is about passing along a message, something that moves us about a person, a place, a circumstance, a feeling. Those things that speak to our hearts are the stories we must concentrate on telling in our own unique voices.

So, how about you? Are you comfortable with your writer’s voice?

Postscript: If you haven’t read Right to Write, I highly recommend it. For me, it’s the best of all Cameron’s books, because it includes so many of her ideas in a very succinct format, with great writing exercises as well.