Thankful Thursday: Good Television?

It's raining here, and snowing there, and freezing somewhere else, maybe where you live.

On this Thankful Thursday, the weather has turned wintry and I'm snuggling up to the television. It's been years since I've watched traditional tv — sitcoms and cop dramas — and now even my cable favorites have devolved into immature skit humor (I'm talking to you, Jon Stewart).

While I read a great deal, the mind sometimes needs a break from the page, and so on this Thankful Thursday I'm grateful for smart, sharp writers who create quality viewing:

David Simon and Eric Overmyer, the writers behind The Wire and Treme, have changed my perception of what television can do. And they prove that good writing illuminates, informs and entertains.

The Wire is a crime drama series set in Baltimore, Maryland. The show centers around the city's inner-workings: the illegal drug trade, the seaport system, city government, the school system, and the print news media. Forget formulaic scripts and tired tropes; The Wire is an unusually deep and intense exploration of urban life.

 

Treme refers to a neighborhood in New Orleans, and this show begins three months after Hurricane Katrina as residents try to rebuild their lives, their homes, and their unique culture after one of the worst natural disasters in U.S. history. The cast is sharp, the characters complex, the music lively, and the stories unfold with skillfull nuance. With each episode I'm left a bit haunted, wondering, "Why weren't these stories told? How did we look away?"

Both shows originally aired on HBO and are now available on DVD and Amazon Prime.

 

Call the Midwife is a BBC drama series about a group of nurse midwives working in the East End slums of London in the 1950s. Based on the memoirs of Jennifer Worth, the show follows young midwives who live and work alongside medically-trained nuns. Each episode reveals the gritty post-war conditions of poverty, mixed with hope in new beginnings.

The series airs on PBS and is available on Netflix.

 

Stories We Tell, is a movie, not a television series. This personal documentary explores family stories while showing "the truth depends on who's telling it." Writer and director Sarah Polley has been called both filmmaker and detective as she interviews family and friends to get to the truth of her mother and herself. The film is poignant and provides fresh insight into story writing and telling.

"When you're in the middle of a story, it isn't a story at all but rather a confusion," says the filmmaker's father, "a dark roaring, a blindness, a wreckage of shattered glass and splintered wood, like a house in a whirlwind or else a boat crushed by the icebergs or swept over the rapids, and all aboard are powerless to stop it. It's only afterwards that it becomes anything like a story at all, when you're telling it to yourself or someone else."

Stories We Tell is available on DVD and Netflix. (See also Sarah Polley's previous film, Away from Her, a tender film about a couple navigating Alzheimer's.)

 

What are you watching? And what are you thankful for today?

 

On Sunday: From the wreckage


I wonder if now when we think of “sweat and tears” in poetry what we mean by that is diligent crafting.

But there is another form of this – the experience that went into the poem in the first place, the sweat and tears of everyday living. And the sweat and tears of that which you need not search for, life experience, which seems to find you, wreck and ruin you, and then expect you to get up in the morning.

And so many people are simply at the mercy of the way the world makes them feel, they don’t need deaths or love affairs to feel a little wrecked.

— Katie Peterson
from an interview at How a Poem Happens


Please write in this book

Forget the scorn and scolding. These are the new rules: You have permission to write in books. Pick up an old book and make it new.

I love altered books — the idea of expansion, of taking one form and enlarging the canvas.

• One of my favorite works is from Karen Hatzigeorgiou, an artist creating contemporary art in the form of altered books and collage. Her work, The Art of Happiness, was created from a 1935 book of the same title. The result is a journal of striking color, collage and poetry.

The Art of Happiness by Karen Hatzigeorgiou“The Art of Happiness is sometimes a book of sadness, disillusionment, and discontent,” she  explains. “Still, it's important to note that it is also a book with an underlying current of optimism. And in that way, it has become much more of an altered book journal than I ever intended.”

• Mary Ruefle creates spare and elegant erasure books that feel beautifully distilled.

Melody: The Story of a Child by Mary Ruefle
"I use white-out, buff-out, blue-out, paper, ink pencil, gouache, carbon, and marker," she says. "I have resisted formal poetry my whole life, but at last found a form I can’t resist. It is like writing with my eyes instead of my hands."

• Valerie Savarie is an artist reinterpreting old books with skill and precision. She uses tattered tomes as canvas and turns each into a three-dimensional piece by cutting, sewing and painting. The result is a striking layered collage that leaves most of the book intact.

With Age Comes Greater Reach by Valerie Savarie
“I am adding another chapter in the lineage of storytelling," says Savarie. In the past, "stories were communicated verbally and passed on from person to person, with each storyteller adding their own twist. This is my way of passing on that tradition — creating a visual from the written and then allowing the viewer to create their own story from the images and words that they see."

 

Do you write in books? What altered books have caught your eye, stirred your mind?

 

Thankful Thursday: Nagging mothers

Gratitude. Appreciation. Praise.

Please join me in Thankful Thursday, a weekly pause to express appreciation for people, places, things and more. Joy contracts and expands in relation to our gratitude. What are you thankful for today?

I've barely had coffee this morning when my mother is on the phone asking, "What's your Thankful Thursday?"

"I'm not feeling it," I say.

She blusters and I fluster and we move on to more pressing topics, such as the weather.

But she's right.

Even in the dark days, the short days, the too-hard, nothing-is-happening days, there is always something, some small thing, some big thing, some thing for which to be thankful.

And so, chin up, step up, look up.

On this Thankful Thursday, I don't like yard signs, billboards, obnoxious ads, and much of what our political system has wrought, but and yet, I am extremely grateful — giddy, even — to vote.

From city council seats to state measures to national elections, I am thankful for the right, for the privilege, to put my opinion and voice into action.

I vote, and I'm so very thankful.

 

Month I clung

Drew Myron photo

Winter arrived last weekend, already. Soaking rain and thrashing wind. By Monday the air hung still, having exhausted itself through the long night, and the night before.

This is the hangover, the weather inside me.

Last week, a neighbor died. Three suicides, three men, in less than a year. Not close friends but people with whom I waved, and talked, and said how-do. Maybe it was love or work or vague despair. Maybe they heard the low rumble of this winter ocean, the way it can echo every no.


In October

     “Month I became the thorn.”
                 —  Sandy Longhorn

Month I clung
to sun, to bird song,
to long shadows.

Month of first chill, fire
and furnace clatter.

Month of chanterelles
and decay, understory
and apples. Of early nights,
early dinner, deep sleep.
Month of soup, squash.

Month I begged
for more time, begrudged
socks, searched
mothy sweaters.

Month I reached  
for bread and blades,
cursed the metallic sky,
my small heart, slow limbs,
my inability to rise.

Of false frights and deep fears.
Of grip and wish. Month of
the first long prayers.

- Drew Myron
Kestrel, Fall 2014



Find your wilderness + a free book

I've got a big appetite for books. The only thing better than reading a good book is asking friends about their favorite books.

And so I started 3 Good Books.

It's a feature on Push Pull Books (my publishing company) in which I invite writers and artists to share their favorite books. Not just any beloved book, but those on topics related to their own work.

For example, writer Lisa Romeo shares her favorite books on personal essays by women. Poet and fisherman Henry Hughes recommends books on fishing. Artist Tracy Weil suggests books related to artistic play.

Like sneaking a peek at your neighbor's medicine cabinet, or eyeing up the grocery cart of the guy in line with you at the market, we get a glimpse into the reading lives of others. With each installment, my reading list grows. And that's just the point! Because when we read, creativity stirs, and when we create, our lives expand.

This week at 3 Good Books, we're talking about wilderness and giving away a copy of the Wilderness Ranger Cookbook, a robust collection of recipes and a celebration of the 50th anniversary of the Wilderness Act.  Go here to win!


Read on. Check out these previous features:

Eduardo Gabrieloff on Latino Writers

Henry Hughes on Fishing

Lee Lee on Un(Natural) Resources

Mari L'Esperance on Mixed Heritage

Reb Livingston on Oracles & Dreams

Lisa Romeo on Personal Essays by Women

Penelope Scambly Schott on Strong Women

Ann Staley on Past & Present

Hannah Stephenson on Artists

Tracy Weil on Play

Allyson Whipple on Roadtrips & Realizations


On Sunday: Beneath the din


Sometimes we go to beach church. Coffee in hand, we drive toward water and light. There, in our church without walls or rules, prayer is sometimes a poem, or, the quiet.

____


A friend says she knows the exact moment our friendship took hold. We were at the park and I shared a poem with her (A Secret Life by Stephen Dunn). And, I, too, remember the hush like an opening of trust.

____


This morning, I opened a book and went to "church," poet Mary Ruefle presiding:

Short Lecture on Prayer

James Fenton puts forth the idea that poetry happens when one raises their voice. I agree, but I also believe that poetry happens when one lowers their voice. In the first instance, the raised voice, we have the street hawkers, the singers, the storytellers, the priests — anyone who wants to be heard over the din — but in the second we include the tellers of secrets, the lovers, the password keepers — all those who want to be heard beneath the din, not by the din itself but by one singular other who is part of the din, as when in the middle of a concert we lean to the person next to us and cup our hand around our mouth, forming a private amphitheater, a concert within a concert, connecting ourselves to one the way the concert is connection itself to everyone. And I was thinking about prayer, and those who must raise their voice in order to be heard in their emergency and desperation — O lord out of all those who are vying for your attention at this moment please hear my prayer — and I think actually those raised prayers are directed toward the gods, in the plural sense, which would be a din, the din of gods, caretakers of all the multiple things that can happen to us. But the prayer of the lowered register no longer has a chance of being heard, has abandoned that chance — "given up," we say — yet retains the desire to speak, and I think these are the prayers addressed to god, who has become a singular absence: there is no one in the next seat; the ether becomes an ear.

Cries and whispers. A bang or a whimper. Whatever the case, if we want to be heard, we must raise our voice, or lower it.

— Mary Ruefle
Madness, Rack, & Honey: Collected Lectures

Against Immensity

On the beach in Yachats, Oregon. Photo by Drew Myron.

I'm feeling small.

The ocean grew tall this weekend, waves curled at 10 and 15 feet. The sea was centerpiece, a beautiful low roar of large, and the sky stood steady and blue.

And later, in afternoon light, I turned east, walked deep into forest. Stood small against massive old growth stumps and gazed up to taller trees reaching for light. Sun filtered through thickness and fell on a floor of moss and fern while branches cracked beneath my feet.

Nature offers powerful reminders of perspective. I am small today, and that feels true.

 

Unless you

visit the dark places, you’ll never
feel the sea pull you in and under,
swallowing words before they form.
Until you visit places within you
cloistered and constant, you will travel
in a tourist daze, wrought with too much
of what endures, depletes.

If you never turn from light, close
your eyes, feel the life inside, you’ll leave
the church, the beach, your self,
knowing nothing more.

Unless you are silent, you will not
know your urgent heart, how it beats
between the thin skin of yes and no.

- Drew Myron
from Thin Skin


B**#!*t Things Writers Say


In a writing workshop recently, we were deep into pontification.

Line by line, we parsed and considered, and just as I thought I couldn’t bear any more intellectualizing, the instructor said, “That’s a bullshit writer phrase.” 

I could have kissed her in relief.

Yes, we take ourselves too seriously. Yes, I’m talking to you, and me, and the writer three seats back with a laborious way of saying a long draw of nothing. Writers of the world, please give these phrases a rest:

What’s at stake?

Did you earn that ending?

I believe the author’s intent . . .

Where’s the arc?


As writers and readers, we naturally desire to go beyond the surface. Of course. We want to dig deep. We want to learn — how did they do that? what works? what doesn’t? how can I apply this to my own writing? — and that’s good. But too often we drain the life out of the pure and joyful act of reading and writing. 

Sure, it’s a fun intellectual exercise to contemplate the placement of a comma — fun, if you enjoy root canals and, say, a conference of engineers — but at some point you gotta get out of analytics and into the actual act of your very own writing.

This isn’t a call for less intellect. This is a plea for less pretentious pondering.


Are you with me here? 
What b**#!^*#t phrases are wearing you down?

 

Thankful Thursday: Assortment


my new mantra: "i am on the verge of a breakthrough not a breakdown"  •  my husband's coffee  •  autumn's low-angle light  •  laughing with my mother  •  a really good book that takes me out of myself  •  cheery customer service  •  the quick trust a small group of writers form  •  whole milk in my cereal. after using 2% for years, i'm giddy with the simple extravagance of full-strength milk  •  an email from a faraway friend  •  the other day, a woman i barely know gave me the gift of four words: "i like your heart."

 

It's Thankful Thursday. Please join me in a weekly pause to express appreciation for people, places, things and more. What are you thankful for today?

 

Heart and soul, without zealots and sap


 Most of my prayers are like drive-by

 shootings. Please help me. Please save her.

 Thank you for the parking spot.


— Julie Price Pinkerton

from What is My Life About?
a poem in Rattle, No. 45


It’s tough to write about faith — without seeming a zealot, a dimwit, or a preachy platitude.

And so, it is with great relief I read the latest edition of Rattle (Fall 2014, No. 45). Presenting “poets of faith,” the journal offers work from over 40 poets with a range of honest, authentic and complicated voices. From drag shows to religious leadership, these poems are powerful because they are rooted in everyday experiences in which the writers reach, seek and struggle with doubt, hope, faith and more.

"I’m often troubled by the label ‘Christian’ and the way it has come to mean intolerance and, sometimes, hate. . .” writes Laurie Uttich, in words that echo my own feelings on faith. "I believe in living as Jesus taught: feed the poor, house the homeless, care for the imprisoned, speak for the marginalized."

(Thankfully, rather than list the literary achievements of each poet, Rattle allows contributors to provide backstory to their poems).

With this issue, Rattle proves that spiritual writing can be touching and tender and also irreverent and sharp.

And this statement from Dan Nemes feels especially spot-on: “The act of writing poems cracks me open. Being faithful, being a poet of faith, means, for me, trusting in the slow and painful, rapturous and joyous accumulation of life, knowing that bearing witness to the suffering and joy in myself, in others, and in creation, is redemptive.”

Perhaps my favorite part of Rattle is the featured “Conversation” between publisher and poet. This issue features Chris Anderson, a college professor and Catholic deacon who lives in Corvallis, Oregon. The interview is a lengthy and comfortable exchange in which Anderson, an unusually down-to-earth religious leader, shares his perspective on poetry as a form of prayer:

“Stanley Kunitz says that poetry, all poetry, is a form of spiritual testimony; it comes in the form of a blessing. And for me that’s how poetry works," says Anderson. "See, the struggle with poetry — the attraction to poetry for me spiritually is its obscurity, its hiddenness. There’s less temptation to ego in that sense, but that's also the struggle . . . And even when you publish a book, or publish a poem in Rattle, nobody knows about it, or if they do, they don’t know what to say about it. And about half the time that depresses me and it feels pointless. And the other half of the time it feels freeing, like an invitation to keep dying to myself: 'Okay, I’m going to keep doing this anyway,' sort of a barometer of my faith.”

Fear not, believers and non-believers and maybe-something thinkers, poetry of faith is not poetry of proselytizing. These writers demonstrate that poetry written from a place of wonder and search offers far more substance than sap.


_____

Some of my favorite writers are seekers, searchers & believers. Browse through my archives:

Help, Thanks, Wow - Anne Lamott

The Closest to Love We Ever Get - Heather King

Where Silence is Sacred - Pico Iyer

A God in the House: Poets Talk about Faith - Jane Hirshfield

After the Ark - Luke Johnson

Concerning the Prayer . . . - Jane Mead

 

Writing Groups: 10 Guidelines

When a writing group is good, it's really good. You feel the beautiful zing of creativity and connection.

When it's bad, it's really bad. You feel the swampy buckle of endless muck.

I've taken part in all sorts of writer get-togethers, from cozy gatherings to sprawling groups. From weekly to monthly. From brand-new to long-established.

I've bumbled through and left discouraged. And, I've come alive, feeling energized and encouraged.

Because writing groups come in many sizes and shapes, I quickly learned to know what I want before wading in:
A group in which other writers critique my work? A group in which we generate new work through writing prompts? A discussion group, in which we would share literary news and ideas?

And how much group do I want: An on-going commitment, or an occasional drop-in? Weekly, monthly, quarterly? Or ditch the face-to-face and "meet" digitally?

Time and trial have taught me that three ingredients are crucial for writing group success: structure, expectation, and ground rules. No amount of enthusiasm can save a writing group if it doesn't carry a practical purpose and clear direction. 

Writing Group Ground Rules
(or, how to be a kind and helpful writer in a group setting)

1.
You are allowed to write junk. This is a supportive environment. What you write (or share, or critique) may become a stunning poem, a short story, or it may be the jumpstart needed to roll into the next great work. There is no pressure to be “good,” just to open up the writing mind.

2.
When critiquing the work of others, read the piece (story, poem, novel) at least once. Read first to get a general feel (for form, plot, and flow) and then again for a more thorough examination of details. 

3.
Underline elements you like for their sound and content. 

4.
Note places where the piece flows, and places where it feels forced.

5.
Circle typos. If you spot some, correct them quickly, quietly, kindly.

6.
Keep your comments respectful and useful. If there is a place in the piece that doesn’t make sense to you, underline it and ask a clarifying question. You can do this by talking about specific parts of the piece, rather than general terms. "I don't get it," is not a helpful comment; gently noting areas that caused confusion is a more useful response.

7.
In offering feedback, if you are just saying, "Good job," you are not doing a good job. (courtesy Jill McDonough)

8.
For groups that write together: After each writing prompt, share your work with the group. This is not a competition. We all come from different places and spaces. Some of us are working on poetry, on short stories, screenplays, nonfiction, or novels. Here, the form doesn’t matter — the act of writing is more important.

9.
You are not required to read your work, though I believe writing needs air. And writing is best enjoyed out loud, where you can hear the rhythm of your words, notice where it gains energy, and where it really works. 

10.
Lastly, what is read here, stays here. Just like Vegas.

 

What is your experience? Do you take part in a writing group? Why or why not?

 

Less cess, more fresh

If you want to write, practice writing. Practice it for hours a day, not to come up with a story you can publish, but because you long to learn how to write well, because there is something that you alone can say. Write the story, learn from it, put it away, write another story. Think of a sink pipe filled with sticky sediment. The only way to get clean water is to force a small ocean through the tap. Most of us are full up with bad stories, boring stories, self-indulgent stories, searing works of unendurable melodrama. We must get all of them out of our system in order to find the good stories that may or may not exist in the freshwater underneath.

— Ann Patchett, from This is the Story of a Happy Marriage

Have you read this book?

Don't be fooled, as I was, by the title. This isn't an annoying book about the beauty of marriage, or an ironic title for a depressing book about the sad state of love and coupling. Instead it's a collection of essays by novelist Ann Patchett.

Who knew that long before penning the best-selling Bel Canto, Patchett wrote nonfiction for the New York Times, Vogue, Outside, and other mags? Not me! She's got heart, wit, pace and style; she's a writer you want to befriend.

I've underlined countless passages, dog-eared pages, and finally just photo-copied essays to give to friends. But really, I want to buy this book for all my writer-friends, and everyone else with a heart and head that hurts and yearns and still keeps trying to better live and love.


Thankful Thursday (on Friday)


I’m steeped in the why bother?

It’s a fugue state — maybe you know this place — somewhere between ennui and fatigue in which the answer to every question: want to write? run? see friends? get out of bed? is met with two debilitating words: why bother?

Mired in this action-less funk, I consume more than produce. This week, I lost myself in books: a wonderful collection of essays (This is the Story of a Happy Marriage, by Ann Patchett), an engaging novel, (Astonish Me, by Maggie Shipstead), a brutal novel (An Untamed State, by Roxane Gay), an odd novel (We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves, by Karen Joy Fowler), a poetry collection (Aimless Love, by Billy Collins), another poetry book (Tender Hooks, by Beth Ann Fennelly), and a variety of newspapers, magazines, cereal boxes, junk mail, and college course catalogs. If it has words, there’s a good chance I’ve read it.

And so, in this fog in which I’ve traded my life for the pulse of print, I was encouraged when I found this nugget:

“Oh, who cares,” we sometimes think at our most blue moments. “I am boring and it is boring and writing about it all is boring too.” At times like these we need to imagine that we are writing to someone who listens to us with the rapt attention of a new lover. Someone who wants to discover all there is to know about us, all we think, all we have thought, even all we might soon think.”

— Julia Cameron, from The Sound of Paper

Remember Julia Cameron? Twenty years ago she wrote The Artist’s Way, a powerful book that gave me (and thousands of other mopey writers and artists) permission to explore our creativity — despite the outcome, despite the quality, despite all the despites.

I’d forgotten Julia. The book went big, she got popular, and she wrote more of what I thought was the same great book, just repeated and diluted. I moved away, found other fabulous books that encouraged me to keep on (What books? I’m glad you asked: Traveling Mercies by Anne Lamott, poemcrazy by Susan Wooldridge, to name just two).

The other day I was wandering through the library in that wonderfully receptive mood in which all good books are found and discovered The Sound of Paper, a Julia Cameron book published in 2004. Yes, much of it echoes The Artist’s Way but it turns out I needed a voice from the past to bring me back to myself:

“And so, the first act of loving kindness is to start from scratch — the scratch of a pen to paper. The filling of blank pages without specific likes and dislikes, our heartfelt and regretted losses and sacrifices — this is the beginning of being someone and somewhere again. When we ignore ourselves for too long, we become exhausted and weakened from trying to get our own attention. We become disheartened—without a heart. The gentle pulse that we are meant to attend to, the ear-cocked, mothering side of ourselves that listens to a newborn and springs into action on its behalf, must be mustered now to come to our own rescue. But the rescue begins with the act of writing. Writing is how we “right” our world.”


We hear what we hear when we need to hear it.

And so, here I am. Showered, dressed, writing. Just for now. Just one page. Just today. Why bother? Why not?

 

It's Thankful Thursday (ahem, on Friday). Please join me in a weekly pause to express gratitude for the people, places & things (books, music, and more) in our lives. What are you thankful for today?

 

You need to love words (and other advice)

Photo by Don Harder via Flickr Creative Commons

"You need to love words," says Nick Ripatrazone, a writer and high school English teacher. "You don’t need to love a certain type of book or a particular writer, but you need to love letters and phrases and the possibilities of language."

With 55 Thoughts for English Teachers, Ripatrazone offers wise advice. I'm not a high school teacher, but I do lead after-school writing programs and workshops for teens and adults, and robustly applaud Ripatrazone's  "thoughts."

It's a good, long list. Here are some of my favorites:

• Students can sense a lot of things.

• Speaking of poetry: they will hate the idea of it, but they already love and live the soul of it. Condensed narratives and emotions tucked in abstractions? Those are their existences.

• Write. Talk about your writing. Show them your drafts, your edits. Write along with them.

• Students want to know about you. Sometimes their personal questions are a clever distraction. Be more mystery than memoir, but never be cold.

• You may be the only person who will ever read their sonnets, or their prose poems, or their dystopian novellas. Don’t take that privilege lightly.

• Read aloud. Every day. 

• For some students, you are their only light.

 

Doesn't that last one just say it? Read the entire piece, published at The Millions, here. 

What's your favorite advice? Is there anything you'd add?

 

Are you a writer?

"The Written Word," Paloetic Photography, Creative Commons
Are you a writer, teacher, or both?

And which comes first?

"I used to consider myself a teacher who writes, now I'm a writer who teaches," says Ann Staley, who has taught for 40 years, in high schools, community colleges, universities, prisons, creative retreats, and more.

A prolific poet, she'd written hundreds of poems but didn't consider herself a writer until her second book was published, at age 68. “I do feel that I am a writer,” she said recently. “It really took the second book for me to feel that way.”

I met Ann-the-teacher years ago at a writing workshop celebrating the poetry of William Stafford. A good teacher leaves you wanting more, so I took her week-long writing workshop at Menucha - Creative Arts Community, and it was one of the best workshops I've attended.

And so I was surprised to learn that she doubted her place as a writer. Ann was a great teacher, so, of course, I saw her as a writer too.

Sometimes it seems we carry so many uncertainties, leaving us to wonder where writer ranks in our lives. We are mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, husbands, wives, givers, takers, teachers . . . But in the clamor is there time and space to be a writer first?

 

Love that line!

I've become stormy and difficult, mean and sad. If I was confronted with someone like myself I'd feel so sorry for them. Then I'd get bored by them, and then I'd hate them for their sad, sad story. Each day I start out wanting to do better, to be kinder. Each day I fail.

— from The Possibilities
a novel by Kaui Hart Hemmings

 

Thankful Thursday: Frivolous

On this Thankful Thursday, I am thankful for the frivolous fancies for nearly free (I'm also thankful for alliteration):

• Watermelon. Just $5 for fresh, crisp, summertime bliss.

• Tickled Pink lipstick. A pick-me-up at only $6.

• A card from a friend that made me sigh, then cry, then smile.

• Cashmere sweater in chartreuse by Neiman Marcus — at Goodwill, for $7! No holes! No wear!

• Sunshine, swimming, reading, a long stretch on a beach blanket — free, free, free, free.

 
The best things in life are (nearly) free. Yes, yes, I'm all cliches.

It's Thankful Thursday, and I'm counting the ways.

Please join me in this weekly pause to express appreciation for the big and small things in life — people, places, things and more. Gratitude generates gratitude. The more you see, the deeper the joy.

What are you thankful for today?

 

Do you know the Oracle?

Don't you love the Bibliomancy Oracle?

It fits all my criteria for fun: simple, immediate, poetic.

Try it! Just focus on a question or concern, and click the magic green orb for your "divine message."

Writer Reb Livingston is the creator of Bibliomancy Oracle, a site that offers over 2,500 prophecies divined from literature. She's also the author of the poetry-novel Bombyonder. Reb (short for rebel?) calls herself a writer without a genre, and I think the Oracle is uniquely inspired.

At Push Pull Books, I invite writers and artists to share their favorite books on a given theme. The latest edition features Reb and three favorite books on Oracles and Dreams.

Go ahead, get some divine inspiration, literary style.