Play with words, I urge the writers gathered around the table. Eyes wander and pens hang listless from hands not yet gripped with drive. Attention puddles.
We’ve hit a rough patch at the nursing home. For two years, our motley group of elders has gathered to read, write, laugh and share. Before joining the group, most had not written much beyond shopping lists and infrequent letters, and yet they show up here eager and engaged as they read poems, share memories, and try new things.
But today, we’re not ourselves. We’re stuck in a rut.
It’s inevitable, really. It happens to every writer. You grow tired of your words, your self. You need shaken and stirred.
For many writers, daily life wears too familiar, and so nothing feels fresh. But for this group of seniors in their 70s, 80s, and 90s, who are grappling with various stages of dementia and numerous physical and mental challenges, writing at all is a terrific feat.
I have the words here, Betty says, flustered, all up here in my head, but they won't come out.
So we ease the pressure. We get crafty. Elbow deep in magazines, markers, scissors, and glue, we create cut-up poems. And collage poems. Found poems and declarations. We’re mining splashy headlines and glossy photos. We’re conjuring mess and meaning, finding the words that escape us.
Does it make sense? Does it matter? Is this poetry?
Yes, no, and sometimes. When we stop making sense, we allow fresh ideas to emerge and new paths to form. We are finding words beneath words, meaning beyond meaning.
That was fun, says Betty, buoyant after a slow start. I really liked that.
I nod, reminded once again of every writer’s wrangle: we are coaxing the words out of our minds and onto the page. With every jumble and confusion, we are stretching our understanding and expressing ourselves. In playing with words, we are claiming our creative lives.
A few days after our writing session, I find Betty visiting with a friend. She inches slow and deliberate along the hall. This one’s mine, she says, pride swelling as she shows her visitor the poem she made.
* Names and identifiers have been changed to protect privacy.