Letter to No One, Someone, You

What tools do you use in your writing practice, she asked.

I write letters to a friend, I said, on paper and in my head. 
  

1.
Death is not a crisis.  

A friend said this years ago, and we built a book around the idea — Sweet Grief.

She painted through the death of her husband and I wrote poems alongside her experience. We took the show on the road, packed up paintings and poems and travelled to galleries. See, we said, this is death but it’s not horrible. It’s a passage in pretty pictures and poems.

But what did I know? How tender it now seems, how naive. Because now I’m in a storm, and all around is pain and grief that swallows, spits and keens — and that feels a lot like a crisis.

After the swirl of events and activities, the meal train, flowers and full fridge, life turns inward, turns still. Sadness works into the crevices, lodges deep. We don’t want to go home. And we don’t want to go out. This is what the living do, and the dying too: wait, cry, wait.

The house is quiet, she tells me, and sad. 

2.
Don’t get me wrong.

I knew death. Before this, I knew illness and loss. Friends, neighbors, grandparents, grief. But each loss is fresh, and old, and resurrected.

Don’t get me wrong, I know nothing.

3.
Years ago, my neighbor was “poet laureate” of her church. Each week she would share a poem with her congregation. When she was dying she gave me her poetry books — a stack of Mary Oliver and David Whyte, and several others that I took home, placed lovingly on my bookshelf, and forgot.

Last month I opened one, a thick anthology, Cries of the Spirit. And I've made it my own. Dozens of pages are now marked, lines rising to meet me:


Prayer is

circumference

we may not

reach around,


space for all we cannot hold,

the rim of Love toward which we lean.

 

- excerpt from Nothing So Wise
by Jeanne Lohmann
 

4.
Pray until you believe, my mother says.

Each in our own way, we're crying, feeling, praying. Isn't it all the same? I want to make this suffering beautiful, our sorrow poetic, but it’s not. It’s eating too much, sleeping too late, talking and not talking. It is lashing out and curling up. It is, at turns, loud and hard, soft and slow. It is never quite right.

5.
Not long ago, my husband and I paddled our boards across the Columbia River, against wake, wave, wind and swirl.

Confused seas, he called it, a sailing term to describe current, wind, and wake at competing angles. Well that’s a metaphor, I said, and a few moments later my jaunty aside turned to tears, and he scrambled across waves to comfort me as I screamed, no, no, no, you’ll tip me. And so, as a barge passed, fishermen fished and sailors sailed, we sat on ours boards in the center of the river, and I sobbed.

Because everyone is sick or dying. Because sadness is no excuse, not tool or aid. It does not act. It does not do. Because it is not enough to absorb and feel. Because one must do and help and sometimes fix. Because I cannot fix. Because grief immobilizes and I want to do good, do better, do something.

6.

 
    Let me be tricked into believing

    that by what moves in me I might be saved,


    and hold to this. Hold

    onto this until there’s wind enough.

 

- excerpt from To a Milkweed
by Deborah Digges

 

 

 

Thankful Thursday (on Friday): Kindness

Photo by Rajah Bose/Gonzaga University, via On Being

It's been a rough week and my defenses are low. Sometimes a poem arrives just when you need it. One of my favorite poems and poets popped up this week. 

Naomi Shihab Nye was recently featured on the radio program On Being.

First, the poem: 

Kindness

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

- Naomi Shihab Nye

 

And the interview (transcript and podcast): here.

There are so many gems in this interview. Here are a few nuggets:
 

Writing things down, whatever you’re writing down, even if you’re writing something sad or hard, usually you feel better after you do it. Somehow, you’re given a sense of, “OK, this mood, this sorrow I’m feeling, this trouble I’m in, I’ve given it shape. It’s got a shape on the page now. So I can stand back, I can look at it, I can think about it a little differently. What do I do now?” And very rarely do you hear anyone say they write things down and feel worse.

 and:

You could write a little and still gain something from it. You don’t have to be spending an hour and a half to three hours to five hours a day writing to have a meaningful experience with it. It’s a very immediate experience. You can sit down and write three sentences. How long does that take? Three minutes. Five minutes. And you're giving yourself a very rare gift of listening to yourself.

 and:

And so I would get in a little trouble, and my mother would say to me — her charge to me — “Be your best self.” And I would think, “Wow, what is that self? Where is it? Where is it tucked away? Where do I keep it when I’m not being it? And are you your best self? Is my teacher her best self?”

That was just something intriguing to me that we had more than one self that we could operate out of. And I think one nice thing about writing is that you get to encounter, you get to meet these other selves, which continue on in you: your child self, your older self, your confused self, your self that makes a lot of mistakes. And then find some gracious way to have a community in there inside that would help you survive.

 

It's Thankful Thursday and I'm filled with gratitude for poems that move me to my soft self, my best self. 

And you — what are you thankful for today?


Thankful Thursday: The Past is Now

It's Thankful Thursday.

Please join me in a pause to express gratitude for people, places and things that bring joy. 

1.
I like lists. 

I fill scraps of paper — from post-its to journal pages to the empty space on envelopes — with things to do, buy, be. Long after the writing, I find these reminders at the bottom of my messy purse, under the area rug, between couch cushions. 

In these forgotten essentials I discover eras: a burst of good health in which I listed calorie counts and exercise routines; ideas for poems and stories; website addresses for jeans I must have (and never bought); phone numbers for a hair salon, a great massage, acupuncture.

I find words I like and want to remember: belie, agronomy, citron . . . Yesterday when I ordered my coffee, the barista responded with "super!"

I commended her enthusiasm.

"I'm trying to find words to say instead of perfect," she explained. "I want to bring back the good words, like super and keen, words my father used."

And so I wrote down super. 

Writing makes it real, makes my intention stick, and helps me find my way amid life's distractions. 

2.
Sentimental journey: these shoes are as old as my marriage. Both have worn well. 

3.
Today I turned the clock to 1995 and rollerbladed through my past. No, really, I rollerbladed. 

When you were younger and at the park, did you see an old lady rocking the rollerskates and did you smile with a mixture of delight and pity? Well, I'm her! I'm rolling past your craft beer and coffee culture to give you a blast from my past.  

 

What's happening in your world? Are you in the here and now, or yanking at the past? What are you thankful for today? 


If You Love it, Share It

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hello Reader,

In this season of sun and shine, I'm writing today with gratitude. Thanks to you, 3 Good Books, my labor of love, is thriving.

The blog series now features almost 50 fabulous writers & artists and hundreds of book recommendations from a variety of voices, including Paulann Petersen, Jan Gill O'Neil, Tracy Weil and more.

Together we've explored Dreams, Divorce, Praise, Play, Resilience, Silence, Food, Fishing, and more.

Who cares? I do! You do! Because when we read, creativity stirs. And when we create, life expands.

Thanks for joining me in the expansion.

Read on,

Drew

 

Poetry in Action

The Poets Are In: Khalil Jazz Jenkins (left) and Kyle Sutherland work the Poetry Booth. Sometimes, too much of the time, I live in my head. Writing, reading, stewing. 

What a relief it is to come up for air. To find a world alive with good people and poetry.

I was recently revived at the Denver County Fair.  Now in its sixth year, this new-fangled fun has been called the "craziest county fair in America." It's a mix of old and new, with pies, pickles, drag queens, trick pigs and more. And amid the side-show antics, poetry shines.

As the Director of Poetry, I get to orchestrate all kinds of fun: a poetry contest, a poetry performance, and a poetry booth.

Winners of the Poetry Contest, from left: Carolyn Oxley, Emma Miner, Laurie Duncan.

The Poetry Performance featured Art from Ashes, a nonprofit literary youth organization that jolted us with a reminder of the power and purpose of creative expression; Jovan Mays, poet laureate for the City of Aurora, and instructor at Lighthouse Writers Workshop; and Judyth Hill, my mentor-friend, who years ago taught a writing workshop at the Taos Institute of Arts that turned my head and heart to poetry. 

Poet Jovan Mays performs at the Denver County Fair.

Judyth Hill shares her internationally-known poem, Wage Peace.

Nearby, the Poems-Write-Now table hummed with poets-in-action. Poets penned on-the-spot poems for "customers" (donations benefited Art from Ashes). This was poetry as verb. Sunday morning reverence meets freak show mystery.

"Jazz," an Art from Ashes poet, wrote a poem for my teenage niece. She provided limited info — her name, what was on her mind, and we wandered away to watch the bug eating contest. When we returned 15 minutes later, he had turned out a complete and surprisingly perceptive poem. In the busy hall, with its rumble and echo, we clutched together, bending in to hear his words lifted from page to ear, and we stood teary-eyed and awed. 

Sometimes I'm too much in my head. That day I was all heart.

 

 

What Divides Us

 

    If what divides us is fear —

and surely the root of hatred

and greed and the lust for

power over others is fear —

telling our truths and seeing

ourselves reflected in the

stories of the 'other' might be

not just the best answer

but the only answer.
 

— Bette Husted 

 

Bette tells it true, at 3 Good Books, a blog series I host. 


Please join me there, go here. 

 

 

Send Supplies!

By Warsan Shire, from "What They Did Yesterday Afternoon."


Sheesh, cut us some slack!

I'm not sure to whom I'm addressing this plea, but please may I jump to the front of the line?

I'd like to return this era. Okay, exchange. I'm not even asking for money back.

I'm not swearing (too much), or crying, or even sulking. I'm mostly wandering and sad. 

But, really, who's in charge here, and how do we get out from under this heavy rock of reality? 

It's a rough season, and we're crashing about in the wreckage of politics, killing, and manuevering and manipulation. We're trapped in a mashup of House of Cards meets Veep, with a splash of Real Housewives.

(Yes, I've found escape in the world of television, and it turns out life is mirroring make-believe. There's just no escaping the crazy).

And it's a season of personal sickness and loss. Some seasons are long, and even while flowers burst and the sun shines criminally bright, our hearts remain heavy. 

And yet this is the stuff of life, the swirl and the sink. 

And so, dear readers and friends, how to keep on? Where do you turn? Words, books and poems?

Please send replies and supplies — and quick! 

 

 

Baffled, Flustered, Intrigued

So much of life is slots. This fits there. This doesn't. 

The mind likes to sort and file. And so, when we bump into a person, or a poem, that doesn't fit neatly into our definition, we are baffled, flustered, and then, ideally, intrigued.  

That's how I found Sarah Sloat, in the pages of her unusually titled book of poems: Excuse Me While I Wring This Long Swim Out of My Hair. 

Are these poems experimental? ironic? confessional? post-modern something or other? I don't know. I just know her lines lured me in, and I paddled about with, yes, an initial fluster, that expanded into a lovely backfloat of appreciation.

And so, I invited Sarah to take part in 3 Good Books. There, she offers her favorite books that defy category. 

I think you'll like the book suggestions, and Sarah too.   

 

What I Carry

A friend shares a prayer. A son holds a photo. A mother reaches for a batter-spattered recipe. I carry words.

Last night, saying goodbye to a friend, these words rise in my mind: "You never know what may cause tears. . . "  

You never know what may cause tears. The sight of the Atlantic Ocean can do it, or a piece of music, or a face you've never seen before. A pair of somebody's old shoes can do it. Almost any movie made before the great sadness that came over the world after the Second World War, a horse cantering across a meadow, the high-school basketball team running out onto the gym floor at the start of a game. You can never be sure. But of this you can be sure. Whenever you find tears in your eyes, especially unexpected tears, it is well to pay the closest attention.

They are not only telling you something about the secret of who you are, but more often than not God is speaking to you through them of the mystery of where you have come from and is summoning you to where, if your soul is to be saved, you should go to next.

— Frederick Buechner
 Whistling in the Dark: A Doubter's Dictionary 


I first read this passage 20 years ago, on a roadtrip through the New Mexico desert, looking for my life. Years often pass in which I don't recall the words, don't think about tears or what pulls me. But the sentiment surfaces, without will, and I listen. 

What do you carry? What rises to comfort when you need it most? 

 

Thankful Thursday: People Tell Me

 

Thank you for spending Thankful Thursday with me, for keeping me accountable, appreciative, and grateful for things big and small. Attention attracts gratitude, and gratitude expands joy, and my gratitude grows when shared with you.

Some days are more difficult than others, to find the good, to comb through the junk. Here's what I've found to appreciate this week:

1. 
Two Kids Reading
I'm not a fan of the Fourth of July. All the "rockets red glare, bombs bursting in air" leaves me jangled. But I did attend a parade, and I clapped and cheered and demonstrated a festive spirit.

After the parade, amid the clamor of brass bands, hot dogs, and a mass of people wandering about, I spotted the best thing I'd seen all weekend: two kids sitting on the curb of a parking lot, reading.

Amid all the chaos, they were absorbed in their books. The young boy, at one point, stretched out on the asphalt to get more comfy. The girl was so focused not even adorable dogs and ice cream could pry her from the pages. This made my heart sing. I couldn't stop smiling, and days later, I'm still recalling the scene. 

2.
Having It Worse
Dorothy had a stroke, leaving her face immobile. But, she tells me, she's grateful. Her neighbor had a stroke, and is now unable to talk. "Can you imagine not being able to talk to anyone, to tell someone to pass the ketchup, to turn the channel?" she says. "Sometimes when I get down, I just remember that some people have it much worse."   

3. 
Sweetpeas
Thriving along fences, roadways and vacant lots. Wild, rambling, pink. The beauty of the unplanned, a quiet joy. 

4. 
My Sister, Laughing
"We try to laugh, but there's not a lot to be happy about right now," my sister tells me. I listen, nod, agree. A bit later we share a giggle about nothing at all, and a relief washes us. 

People tell me to pray for a miracle, but what if laughter is the miracle?  

 

Please join me in Thankful Thursday, a weekly pause to express appreciation for people, places, things. Big or small, (sweet)pea-sized or profound. What are you thankful for today?

 

Fast Five with Shaindel Beers

     I’ve gone to college; I have two graduate degrees,

but I’m from a farming and factory town with one

traffic light where people know that you wave

hello at someone driving a tractor. That’s just 

 good manners.


Because a few questions can lead to great insight, I'm happy to present Fast Five — interviews with my favorite writers, and chances to win great books. (To enter the drawing, simply post your name and contact info in the comments section below).

Raised in a small town in Indiana, poet Shaindel Beers has lived in remote regions and major cities and has found home in the high desert, eastern Oregon town of Pendleton. She is the author of two poetry collections, the poetry editor for Contrary magazine, and an instructor of English at Blue Mountain Community College. 

How did you come to poetry?

I wrote my first poem, unprompted, as a natural reaction to something when I was ten. I learned that my cousin had shot my dog. I remember I cried so much, and then I found a notebook. Poetry has been how I emotionally process ever since.

Your first poetry book, “A Brief History of Time,” offers a direct and down-to-earth voice that we don’t often see in poetry. Is this a conscious choice, a reflection of your personality, or something else?

When I was a younger writer, I was always drawn to blue collar poets because they felt familiar; they made me feel like I, too, could be a writer. This wasn’t anything I tried to do; it’s more a part of who I am. I’ve gone to college; I have two graduate degrees, but I’m from a farming and factory town with one traffic light where people know that you wave hello at someone driving a tractor. That’s just good manners. I’ve tried to broaden my vocabulary, but using words that don’t seem natural to me always seems like putting on a false front. I completely agree with what Stephen King says in his memoirOn Writing:

“One of the really bad things you can do to your writing is to dress up the vocabulary, looking for long words because you're maybe a little bit ashamed of your short ones. This is like dressing up a household pet in evening clothes. The pet is embarrassed and the person who committed this act of premeditated cuteness should be more embarrassed."

Your latest book, “The Children’s War” takes an unusual tack in exploring global and domestic violence. What prompted this poetry project?

I happened upon this article one day, and it was so powerful, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I started studying the artwork of child war survivors and the history of art therapy for children during wartime wherever I could find it. I ordered books online, I scoured online galleries. I wrote authors of studies. It was an obsession, one of those projects that basically writes itself.

But then midway through, I hit a wall. The big question for me was if I was supposed to write an entire book of children’s war poems or if I should include other forms of violence. On the one hand, I didn’t know if anyone could read an entire book of poetry about child war survivors. On the other hand, I didn’t want to seem selfish by including personal narratives with war narratives, but I decided to treat the collection as a study of violence in general. Violence in the home and in the community eventually becomes global violence. It is all borne of the same motivations – for one party to oppress and dominate another party.

What’s the best writing advice you’ve received?

There’s so much terrific advice out there that I’m not sure I can narrow it down, but I really believe that if you feel you’re supposed to write something that in some way is supposed to help someone, write it. Write it, and keep sending it out into the world until someone publishes it.

Life can be trying, as evidenced by your work. In the face of difficulty, what keeps you going?

Last year, I was at the Quest Writer’s Conference in Squamish, British Columbia, and a bunch of us were sitting at a table outside the dining hall soaking in the magical view of the Tantalus Range. One woman said, “You know how you become one of those older women you admire? You just keep going. You just wake up the next day, and keep doing what you’re going to do.” It was so simple, but it was an epiphany. You just wake up the next day and start over again.

Bonus Question: I’m a word collector and keep a running list of favorite words. What are your favorite words?

Most of the words I like have to do with the interesting sounds in them rather than the meanings of the words. I love the sound of the word coagulate because I love the weirdness of those vowels shifting into each other. In the language of the local Native American tribe, good morning is Tahts maywee. It sounds so cheerful. You can hear some of the language here in Roberta Conner’s TEDTalk, and it’s a great talk on the importance of indigenous languages. I also love the word chartreuse. It’s a beautiful color, too, but the sound of the word is lovely. 

 

Win this book! 

Enter a drawing to win The Children's War and Other Poems by Shaindel Beers. Simply add your name and contact info in the comments section by July 15, 2016. I'll randomly choose a name from the entries, and the winner will be contacted via email.