threads to be woven later...

Homage to Linda Pastan's "threads to be woven later".

my mother
who never forgave me
for looking like my father

my brother
who could make me laugh like no other
and frighten me like no other

my grandmother
whose finger's absent-mindedly flew
around the tatting shuttle between rounds of
feeding gossip to her sisters' bird-like open mouths

my dad
whose big bear hugs i'll never feel again
but need every day

my soul
the first year it went to Scotland
and fell in love with mull's amethyst thistles
brighter than the purple fog wrapped around
rocky green mountain tops

my son
at 42 who still has his boyish giggle
and that trickster gleam in his gray-green dark lashed eyes

my head
full of characters
who wake me in the dark morning hours
demanding i tell their story

my island
with its gypsy water flowing toward the ionian shore
as it moves from azure to marble blue to steel gray

my son
whose eight-year-old hand drew
an anatomically correct valentine heart
surrounded by words of love for his dad and me

my elven-year-old self
pretending no one could see me
as i basked in the magical aroma
of grandpa's old spice and cherry pipe tobacco
while i sat in his chair
reading his saturday evening posts


rebekah for the poplar grove muse

Tiny Day of Service and Renewal

 

Last month, 15 women gathered at the Poplar Grove Schoolhouse for a time of communal cleaning and renewal of the space. Our efforts were offered as a giving-back to an organization that has bestowed  so much upon each of us, and an intentional focusing-in on a treasured and transformative home for our writing community. The additional blessings came in how renewed and enriched we all felt by our efforts, as we once again experienced the mystery of how, in giving, we so often receive more than we give. 

Built in 1923, the schoolhouse has seen many transformations/inhabitants/uses over its years of humble service, before its recent rescue and rededication as the home of Women Writing for (a) Change (as well as several practitioners of other healing arts). This summer, our beloved space was violated by trespassers who, perhaps drawn to its welcoming presence, loitered in the off-hours, helping themselves to the wi-fi, congregating on the porches and picnic tables, disturbing the peace of the place, both literally and metaphorically.  Our community, whose basic tenet is “Presume Goodwill,” felt under siege.

The gathering was an inspiration and a celebration. I arrived to a bustle of energy and action already in progress—women lovingly wiping sudsy mugs and scouring appliances in the kitchen, dusting every surface of the place with ingeniously-bristled wands and rarely-seen balletic moves; the fresh scent of cleaners wafting through the brightly-lit rooms; the antisocial roar of two ancient vacuums roaming floors up and down to the accompaniment of doors closing at their approach; the quiet concentration of several brave souls who sorted, organized, and culled nearly 10 years of papers (from a prolific writing community).

As one of the intruding vacuum wielders, I rediscovered in each outside corner of the building two sparkling crystals, a clear pendant and a rounded violet stone, placed there as a blessing upon the building at its opening; polishing them lightly, I returned them to their vigil poses. Vacuuming is a noisy, cumbersome chore, yet I felt awash in an aura of caretaking, and found myself making the effort to move furniture away from walls, take the extra stroke with the massive machine, dig into the corners in pursuit of every cobweb (as I do not always do in my own home).

The festive mood put me in mind of communal cleaning in my distant past—primarily in church settings, where women who shared years of common weddings, baptisms, funerals, and offerings of service to community have gathered for millennia to work together for a common good (so much larger than the feeding, or cleaning, or assisting a family in need that was the immediate origin of the collective action). There was much talk of how we should get together to help one another in our homes (a long-held, rarely-voiced wish of mine), yet the shadow of a shaming fear at revealing one’s less-than-perfect homekeeping certainly crept into my mind.

Afterward, we gathered to do what we do most joyfully—write in community. The talk was of the joy to be found in having every surface touched and made conscious. I offer a few lines inspired by “readback lines” from our circle: invisible specks and clouds and motes; make invisible work visible; summon the companionable spirits; cleaning like worship and ritual; where I can be in any state and be all right; order and calm; this, our home for words and spirit.

Blessings bestowed and received, once again, in community.

Mary for the Poplar Grove Muse

The Traveling Journal

The Traveling Journal

Iona                                                                                       

May 13, 2012

 

Someone said the weather is very passionate today. Aye, that it is, wind and rain, wave erasing wave. I like dramatic weather, as long as no one gets hurt, so I don’t think it’s the weather that’s causing me to feel unsettled, not sure what it is. I feel like the heron gull, totally controlled by the wind, buffeted this way and that, not able to make headway, find direction, not really able to focus. I want to be like the guillemot, who sees her target beneath the water, dislocates her shoulders, locking her wings against her body, she dives like a needle between the waves, spears her prey and heads for the surface. As they say in Scotland, done and dusted. 

Everyone in our group is so excited to be here, rushing around outside in gale force winds, happy ducks in a blustery puddle. I seem to be quite content to sit here in the sunroom at the Argyll Hotel and stare at the constantly changing water.  I don’t feel like writing or being productive. It’s been a hard winter and I think my body is telling me to Sit Down for Pete’s sake. Don’t feel guilty. I don’t have to do anything. I don’t have to be constantly productive. I’m finding it hard to stop the momentum of the last nine months. I’ve spent nearly every day coordinating this writing retreat on Iona, sort of like a gestation period. I’ve given birth, the baby is healthy and now it’s time to let it thrive on its own. 

When I get home, I will start organizing my move toward retirement, so maybe my brain, body and gut are telling me I had better rest up while I have the chance.

My world has changed forever with the losses death created this winter. I need to stop minimizing that and not move out of the grief too quickly. Iona is just the place for that. She lifts her veil and removes all boundaries, requiring you to be who you truly are, where you truly are. So I’m just going to sit here for however long it takes and let Iona work her magic. Give her time. Give her time.

Rebekah for the Poplar Grove Muse

Changeling

This piece is based on a conversation I had with David Clemson who was co-facilitating a retreat I attended on Iona in 2009. As I think of my return to Iona in 2012, I thought it might be appropriate to share Changeling at this time. The bench in front of the Arygll Hotel is where this conversation took
place.

Someone changed me. Forever. In a way so profound I feel as though my DNA has been altered or a chromosome has mutated. I know how to handle hurt. I can kick disappointment in the ass.  I know what to do with passive-aggressive behavior aimed like a gun at me while the aimer wants me to guess if it’s loaded. It’s always loaded. I’ve learned how to disarm those manipulators.  I’ve overcome my fear of abandonment. I know how to grieve and move on with comforting memories held in my heart. I can set boundaries and keep toxic people out of my life.

But it appears as though I have never learned how to accept a sincere compliment, a compliment praising something that is at the core of who I am, My Writing. When someone says, “I like your hair, earrings, glasses, fruit salad or purse,” I can easily reply, "Thank you," and move on with my life. But when someone who has no agenda, who only knows me through my writing, who doesn't love me, who is a teacher and an accomplished poet gives me, in all sincerity, a compliment beyond anything I've ever heard before, it's hard to absorb. My first reaction was to say “Yeah, right," and giggle nervously. Then this person says, “I’m not kidding. You are the best writer who has come through this course in the eleven years that I’ve been teaching it.” When I first arrived at this retreat in Scotland in 2009, I had felt way out of my league, just as I did on my first retreat with Women Writing for a Change. The creativity and the honesty were almost overwhelming, but at the same time inspired me to reach higher. So maybe because I'm sitting outside the Argyll Hotel on Iona and because the sun is shining for the first time in ten days, I start to glow. After a brief stint of denial while telling myself it only sounded important because it was said in an English accent, I'm back to glowing. 

So what has really happened here? What's happened here is the bar has been raised.  It doesn’t matter if what this person said is even close to being true. What matters is that it was said in truth and I feel a pressure to live up to that belief in me. Not because I don’t want to   disappoint another, but in order to not disappoint myself. And do what I truly know I am capable of as a writer. Dammit. This means I need to turn the TV off, quit being distracted by shiny objects, stop talking about writing and write. Just write. 

Rebekah for Poplar Grove Muse

WWfaC Writers in Print

Every once in a while it is nice to take a look around and applaud the women and men of our circles who have published written work. Although this list is by no means all inclusive, we are excited when we see the name of someone we know in print. Often the poems and stories that make it into real magazines and chapbooks are part of the circles in which we all participate.

I love knowing that the poems I read in a circle last month or the story I discussed with a writer, are now part of the public eye. Being part of the great ebb and flow of the written word is satisfying in so many ways.

Last summer, perennial WWfaC writer and co-editor of Women with Wings, Lauren Bryant published her first chapbook of poetry. Now Comes the Petitioner arrived in my mailbox in the full heat of the summer. I pulled up a chair, got my glass of cabernet, and enjoyed discovering and sometimes rediscovering some fine poems. You can order it straight from the publisher at finishing line press or of course on Amazon.

This past month, Kim Evans, facilitator in the Young Women's program, and long time WWfaC writer had a piece published in the anthology, The Moment I knew: Reflections from Women on Life's Defining Moments. Kim's essay, What I Gave to the Fire, is a beautifully rendered account of grieving and loss. This book is available from Amazon or from Sugati Publications.

Stephanie Lemmons Wilson longtime WWfaC writer and original blogger for the PGM, who moved to the West Coast last year, recently had an essay about friendship published in A Tea Reader: Living Life One Cup at a Time, edited by Katrina Avila Munichiello. Steph's essay entitled A Teacup of Friends celebrates the friendships she has made over a cup of tea. I look forward to receiving my copy of the book very soon. It is officially in the bookstores on October 10th. You can find it on Amazon or at a tea shop near you.

Shane Haggard a sampler and workshop participant who some of you may know from his featured blog Ramblings of a Caffeinated Acupuncturist added an essay about quilts to Crazy-Quilted Memories, his brother's recent book about quilting. The essay called A Story of Creative Inspiration from the Imagination of My Brother lovingly introduces this beautiful book on quilt making.

Last but not least, my own short story, Tulip Trestle, will be published in December in Bloom Magazine. I was excited to win third prize in their first fiction contest. Pick up a free copy somewhere around Bloomington in December.

Women Writing for (a) Change celebrates all people who chose to write and share their stories whether through publication, or simply read aloud at a read-around, or shared quietly among friends in a small group. Please post a note below if you have recently published something and would like our readers to know about it.

Amy C for the Poplar Grove Muse

Dreams and Determination

I’ll admit it. For many years, I have harbored the fantasy of being a guest on Oprah. I imagine myself sitting on stage in her modern upholstered guest chair, smiling out at the audience, discussing my new book. I feel the glory of applause and gratitude in response to my words. I enjoy the sense of connection, joyful that my creation has touched others. Oprah hugs me, not unlike she hugged Elizabeth Gilbert, and my book, now blessed with her Midas touch, becomes a best-seller.

This story could take on a sarcastic tone at this point. I could exaggerate Oprah’s influence, or poke fun at my fantasy. However, I write this in all earnestness. For many years, Oprah has represented a pinnacle for me, a goal to strive for, a sense of hope for my story being seen and heard by a wide audience.

The ironic thing is that, as of last Wednesday, her show has ended. Yet my dream of writing a book is still alive. My dream didn’t die with the Oprah show.

I believe in my mission, and it seems that universal forces do too. This might sound strange, but I found it necessary to receive the blessing of my maternal ancestors in order to proceed. I come from a lineage of hard-working, salt-of-the-earth women, who gardened for survival rather than enjoyment. I had to confront my guilt around “indulging” in an artistic pursuit when what I really “should” be doing is hoeing the soil to feed my family. But I realized that writing is MY way of working the soil, and my generation is the first in our family to have this option from birth. Once I explained that to my great maternal grandmother, we came to an understanding. No, I’m not a rotten apple on the family tree.

I have carved out time to write beginning June 21. I have divided my word count goals into days. I am not going to let anything stop me. This amount of determination, I’m discovering, is what it takes to write a book. I’ve confronted the “who do you think you are” whispers that have held me back. I’m daring to be more selfish with my time for awhile. I’m ready to roll.

Over the next six months you may find me rolling in self-doubt or reveling in happiness as I pound out a manuscript. I share this with you because good, bad, or ugly, I trust the process of creating something is worth documenting. I’m fully aware how declaring my intentions may be setting myself up for failure. I don’t care. I dare to fail. I'm encouraged by others I've seen do the same, and dammit, I want my daughter to witness me in this process.

So thank you, Oprah, for providing a chair for me to dream into. Thank you creative spark, for sticking around even after that chair has been removed from the stage. Thank you ancestors, for your blessing, and thank you WWFAC for providing me a sense of community to lean on. I’ve got a story to share, and I’m determined.

-- Kim for the Poplar Grove Muse

It’s National Poetry Month again! To the founders of this celebration, April seemed like the perfect time to celebrate poetry—no all-consuming holidays (if you don’t count April Fool’s Day, the birthdays of yours truly or Amy Cornell (a founder of this very blog), or Easter), no school exams, no snowstorms if we’re lucky—and income tax preparation just cries out for artistic distraction . Not too much happens in the thirty lengthening days of this season of transition, where the weather can vary wildly from day to day.

Here is some background on the celebration and its origins in 1996.

April 14 is “Poem in your Pocket Day.” “The idea is simple: select a poem you love during National Poetry Month then carry it with you to share with co-workers, family, and friends.” If you like, The Academy of American Poets will sell you a little volume filled with poems to tear out and share; this year they’ve added another volume for kids.

Teachers are especially encouraged to celebrate the month in their classrooms; the idea is to bring poetry to life, even for the dubious: Scholastic and ReadWriteThink are two sites with suggestions for working with kids. (I’ve just learned, belatedly, that in 2006, the Poetry Foundation named Jack Prelutsky the inaugural American Children’s Poet Laureate. Who knew?)

Here’s a fun list of activities, one for each day of the month, if you are so inclined. I especially like the suggestions for advocacy—lobbying elected officials for arts funding or asking the US Postal Service for more stamps commemorating poets. How about exploring the Favorite Poem Project initiated by one of my favorite Poets Laureate, Robert Pinsky?

Saturday, April 9th is a day of poetry at Women Writing for (a) Change, Bloomington. From 10am-Noon "Poetry Detectives" will discuss poems. Check them out. From 1-3pm, Beth Lodge-Rigal and Nancy Long offer a free sample class for writers and aspiring writers of poetry.

Here's a highly ambitious observance of National Poetry Month—join those attempting to write a poem a day as a participant in NaPoWriMo. “How do [you] participate in NaPoWriMo? Easy! Just write a poem a day for the month of April. You can post them on the internet. You can hide them in a notebook. You can make up a special book just for yourself out of them. Really, all you need to do is write a poem a day for the month of April.”

Enjoy the month! And share with us what you come up with to celebrate poetry in April!

Mary for the Poplar Grove Muse

Summer Camp at Poplar Grove

Summer Camp at Young Women Writing for (a) Change provides a special opportunity for girls and young teens to enjoy being themselves through many channels of creative exploration. A day at camp is a day in paradise for girls and young teens who love to write. Camp is held in mid-July at the historic Poplar Grove Schoolhouse, a building that served eastern Monroe County as an elementary school in the early 1900s. Poplar Grove now houses offices and writing space for Women Writing for (a) Change, a writing program in Bloomington since 2004, offering youth programming since 2009.

A typical day of camp begins with writers gathering in a circle formed by comfortable pillows and chairs around a center cloth. Facilitators open the day by reading a poem, often followed by an invitation for writers to dive into their first short burst of writing. In these “fast write” exercises, emphasis is placed on writing freely, keeping the pen flowing, and turning off the inner critic who insists on perfect grammar, sentence structure, and spelling. The result is writing that holds depth and insight, with interesting associations that arise from the non-analytical side of the writer’s mind. Participants are given the opportunity to share their writing fresh from the pen, in varying ways. This might include partner sharing, reading out loud in small groups, and large group. Careful attention is given to how writers listen and create safe space for one another, and it is always honorable to pass if a writer chooses not to share at any given time.

One way young writers learn to listen and respond to one another is through the recording of “read back lines” which are resonant words or phrases captured by listeners and read back to the writer at the end of her sharing. Hearing one’s words echoed back is an affirmation to the writer, contributing to an “acoustics of intimacy” that strengthens a writer’s connection to her voice. This support of authentic voice is the underlying mission of Young Women Writing for (a) Change. The added benefits are self- confidence, a sense of belonging, and deep engagement in the creative process.

Camp is led by trained facilitators, and a low teacher-student ratio of 1:5 is maintained. Leaders participate in writing exercises and share their writing alongside students. Hands-on craft activities, music, movement, and visual writing prompts are often incorporated, as well as writing outdoors under the shade tree in the large back yard. At the end of each day, participants reflect on their experience before closing the circle for the day. At the end of the week, camp culminates in a special read-around for parents and friends. One parent reflected, “This was a beautiful experience…these girls are courageous and creative. You do a phenomenal service for them in providing a safe place for them to be brave.”

For more information about Young Women Writing for (a) Change, or to register for camp, please visit www.womenwritingbloomington.com.

-- Kim for the Poplar Grove Muse

Rinsing Her Panty-Hose for Christ

Writers are recipients of more gifts than anyone on the planet. We need only be constantly ready to receive them, aware of our world and the stories floating all around us. Perhaps, God has given us this talent so that we can tell the little stories of the unseen lives that deserve to be heard. All of them honored equally on a level playing field, the Nobel Prize winner, the nurse, the office cleaner, the firefighter, the actor and the mailman.
Last night I was given such a gift, the spark for a story, as I went to brush my teeth before turning in for the night, on a winter writing retreat at St. Mary of the Woods, enjoying the hospitality of the Sisters of Providence. We are staying in the residence of the sisters who so graciously share their living space, their home, with us. As I entered the sink room, I got a glimpse into a tiny moment of a sister’s life. I knew this was a gift meant for me to write about, this moment in a life that most people never see.
The sister was of medium height, slender and had short wavy, white hair, the kind of white hair that glows of its own accord, not from product. I tried to imagine her as a young girl giving her life to Christ. Choosing not to go to parties with illicit drinking and furtive groping, not to go shopping for trendy clothes with her girlfriends, not to marry a mortal and have little earthly children of her own some day, choosing to live in the bosom of Christ, rather than the bosom of her family. I admire her strength for listening to whatever voice guided her to make these difficult choices that result in a lifetime commitment to serve God and the world. Along with big choices comes the loss of little everyday choices, indulging herself at Starbuck’s with a coffee light frappucino while reading the latest Toni Morrison novel, dropping by her mother’s on a Saturday morning for tea and sympathy and to my mind the big loss: privacy. Sharing quarters her whole life, making her nest as cozy as is possible in one room, sharing a sink room, a lavatory and shower room, no leisurely bubble bath enjoying a glass of wine while surrounded by candle light, reading the poems of Neruda.
But, for women, some things are universal. Every month the sister sheds her blood, sloughing off the possibility of children. Children that Jesus has chosen to keep by his side in Heaven. Month after month, year upon year she bleeds for Christ, the fruit of her labor never seen. Perhaps she’s a professor of literature or poetry in the college here, guiding the children of others who have made different choices in their lives, her reward, honoring Christ by exciting the earthly children of others with the words of Longfellow, Shakespeare or Dickenson.
The years have stacked up and she is past the age of bleeding. Her white hair and peach fuzz skin glow in the dimly lit sink room. It is ten o’clock on a Friday night and while other women her age are watching their grandchildren sleep, or celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary with their husband in Hawaii, or baking scones for their Saturday morning poetry circle, this sister is rinsing her panty-hose for Christ because cleanliness is next to Godliness and that is her best offering on a bleakly cold, February Friday night.

Rebekah for The Poplar Grove Muse

Writing, A Solitary Process?

Writers who have a basic process always amaze me, especially those whose process doesn’t vary all that much. Of course, most of the writers whom I hear talk about how they approach writing are best selling authors, so who am I to question them? I have so many ways to write that I don’t even try to count them. The one I used most recently was writing most of the piece in my head before actually getting anything down on paper. On my last trip to my hometown to visit my parents I started writing an essay in my head on Saturday night. I didn’t get the piece into the computer until Wednesday afternoon at my desk during my lunch hour. For me, writing is not necessarily solitary. I was so into the process that I bordered on being rude to my co-workers; it felt all-consuming. Writing this way has produced some of the pieces I’m most proud of, but it only seems to work when the subject is extremely personal. I would like to share the essay that I wrote in my head with all of you.

Whistling in the Dark

It is 7:45 on a Saturday night and I’m hurtling through the night with my dad at the wheel. I look over at the dashboard to see how much over 100 he’s going, but the speedometer is only registering 35mph. I feel like I’m on the nose of a rocket heading through the darkness of outer space. Maybe it feels out of control because he seems so casual and oblivious to the other cars for someone who’s 90 and doesn’t see well after dark. He’s making that little whistling noise he’s always used as a stress reliever. It helps. I do that too.
We have just left the Lincoln Center Rehabilitation Wing where my stepmother has been admitted to help her get back on her feet after a fall that broke her C-3 vertebrae this summer. She hasn’t been the same since. Her neck has healed, but her personality did a 180: she’s grouchy, confused, argumentative and weak as a kitten -­ no muscle tone, just slack skin hanging on her long frame. Dad and I are worried that she has the beginnings of dementia caused by the trauma of her fall, that she won’t ever be her sweet self again. Life is out of control.
Dad pulls into Wendy’s parking lot and I take my foot off the imaginary brake. Ok. We made it half –way home. We’ll eat dinner and then just a few more blocks to safety. We order salads after bickering over who’s going to buy. I let him win. He needs a victory right now, even a small one. We sit across from each other and it’s like eating in front of a mirror. We pick at our salads the same way. Hunting and pecking, eating the “good stuff” first, wiping our mouths and taking sips of our drinks in unison. We organize the trash on our trays exactly the same, folding and smoothing crumpled napkins, folding up the paper off our straws into one-inch rectangles, making everything neat and orderly, even our trash, controlling the things we can control.
An acquaintance of Dad’s comes over to our table to chat. Dad jokes with him, asking him if he comes here often. Mr. Doyle replies that since his wife died he’s there every day. Then he says he’d better get home, doesn’t want to be late falling asleep in front of the TV. He and Dad chuckle half-heartedly; Mr. Doyle facing the reality of his life and Dad envisioning what his is becoming. We say goodbye to Mr. Doyle and head out the door. I brace myself for another Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, but it’s mostly uneventful, just one little bobble to the right, plowing through his neighbor’s leaves piled at the edge of the street.
Inside the house it feels safe and WAY too warm. Old People Warm. But we’re in the beautiful home that my stepmother so tastefully decorated, and it makes my stomach hurt to think she may never get to live there again, surrounded by beauty and Dad’s love for her.
I go to my room to change my clothes and when I come back to the kitchen, Dad is standing on a chair in front of the refrigerator taking the clock off the wall to change the time. It’s another thing I can’t control, my wobbly dad standing on a wobbly chair because he wants to do everything for himself.
Just as we sit down in the family room the phone jangles and it’s my stepmother crying and saying she’s scared because she can’t find her call button. She wants Dad to call the nurse’s station and tell them she needs to go to the bathroom and could he have me come over and sit with her for awhile. That I can do, sit with her and try to calm her fears, at least for tonight. Make a safe space for her like she did for me when my own mother disowned me. Dad says he’ll stay by the phone so I can call and let him know how she is.
I head back to the rehab facility. This time I’m driving, but it still feels like I’m racing through the darkness toward unknown dangers and the ugliness of getting old.

Rebekah for Poplar Grove Muse

Hello from Portland, OR

Actually a little west of there, but only a letter-writing train ride and a few short blocks away from Powell’s bookstore in downtown.
Life here is full of complicated contrasts. The up-and-outwardness of exploring a new city and coast, the down-and-insideness of feeling my tender and recently-torn roots.

It’s taken me four months to seek out another writing community. I clearly know why – nothing can replace what I had with you.
It’s been easy to ignore my writing practice. The sun has been shining (mostly) all summer and into the fall . I go out and play. Find cool things, go for long bike rides, enjoy nature. I do some writing in my blog and journal. Yet I don’t write with process or ritual and I don’t hear my words back from others. I don’t have the accountability or the support of other women. I even put off the invitation to do a blog update.

This is a happy story, though. The happiness is that I know, deeply, how much the WWF(a)C Bloomington community has touched, and continues to enrich, my life. And with that gift, I tune in to my new home with renewed spirit. I take a risk. I run my first Google search, “women+writing+Portland.” That’s a start, a good start.

What I Don't Do

Those who know me, know that I keep pretty busy. I work full time, am the mother of two, read and write, and carry on a full life of friendships and community activities. I frequently get asked, “How do you find time to write? I can’t believe all that you have written.” Every time I get asked that question, I feel like I have to defend myself. When do I write? Where do I find the time?

Of course, the short answer to the question is that I don’t write as much as people think I do. In fact, compared to people who actually publish their work, I write zilch. When was the last time you saw my novel on the shelf at Barnes and Noble? But I do read a bit and manage to squeeze out a blog post or two every week. I write letters and poems and participate actively in WWfaC.

With anything one chooses to do, one chooses to do that thing over other things. Even if we are not aware of it, we are constantly prioritizing. If I am reading or writing, I must not be doing dozens of other things. Here is a short list of what I don’t do:

• I don’t iron. Hate ironing. Once, when I deigned to iron, my 10 year old son stared at the funny device in my hand and asked what it was. He had never seen an iron before.
• I don’t clean. Between my husband and I we manage to load and unload the dishwasher, do laundry and take out the trash. Everything else I let go of or ask my housekeeper to do. She comes on Monday. If you come to my house on Sunday—you’ll understand.
• I don’t have an elaborate morning routine. I shower and moisturize and get dressed. Makeup, hairstyling and accessorizing are for a different woman.
• I don’t shop. Yes, I buy groceries and cook dinner, but I don’t go to the mall and I don’t shop for clothes. I don’t spend hours picking out greeting cards. I don’t go to hobby stores.
• I don’t craft, sew or keep scrapbooks. I appreciate my friends who do those things. I sometimes dabble, but for the most part, my craft supplies and sewing machine collect dust.
• I don’t watch TV. Well, I watch TV selectively, which means generally, first run shows that I am interested in. I usually follow two or three a season: the ones that rise to the top of the critics’ lists. I don’t let the TV run and watch all the time.
• I don’t rake, mulch, mow, plant, prune, or shovel. That’s one of those things I would do if I had a yard conducive to gardening, but I live among the trees, so I let my husband and son do the little mowing we have. Everything else goes wild.
• I order pizza a lot.
• I don’t sleep a lot. Six hours is about as high as I go. Sometimes I can go as long as seven, but that is rare. I never nap.

So writing and reading are my priorities. I enjoy those activities. You might prefer having a clean house or an ironed skirt. When my kids go to bed and I have a free hour, I rarely scrub my kitchen floor. I would love to know what activities readers prioritize. What don’t you do in order to get your writing done?

--Amy for the PGM

I'm making a list

In a few short days I will leave for St. Mary of the Woods on the annual Women Writing for a Change-Bloomington summer retreat. I will get two whole days, and two partial days to spend in the company of myself and fellow writers while reading, writing, and thinking. I am thrilled at the opportunity to honor my writing life in this quiet, contemplative place.

In my busy life now, I take almost no time to write which is my favorite activity aside from reading good books. Writing takes careful time, and it takes a clear, well rested brain, neither of which I possess in much abundance right now. One thing I do have is a laptop and a list. While I am doing laundry or schlepping kids to the pool or looking for batteries for the Wii, I think of writing puzzles or memories I would like to explore or an idea I want to further or a turn of phrase I think would be great in a poem. I grab my laptop and jot it down.

This list has become pretty long over the past few weeks, and I intend to explore as much of it as I can at the upcoming retreat. It feels comfortable knowing I won’t set myself up in a cozy writing corner and feel the dull hammer of writer’s block. No, not this writer; I’ll have a long list of prompts waiting for me to explore. Here’s item number one on my list: why I hate numbers.

What’s on your writing to do list?

Amy for the Poplar Grove Muse

Sculpting the Words

I am currently reading The Gargoyle by Andrew Davidson. The main character has been horribly burned and disfigured in a car accident. During his time in the hospital a mysterious sculptress named Marianne Engel appears and intimates that they have a past history together. That's the launching point for the book, but that's not what I want to write about. I want to write about writing and how that process is different and yet the same for all of us.

On one visit to the hospital Marianne is describing to the protagonist her process when she is ready to begin a sculpture of a gargoyle.

"When I'm about to work, I sleep on the stone," Marianne Engel began, with a deep breath, "for twelve hours at least, but usually more. It's preparation. When I lie on the stone, I can feel it. I can feel all of it, everything inside. It's... warm. My body sinks into the contours and then I feel weightless, like I'm floating. I sort of —lose the ability to move. But it's wonderful; it's the opposite of numbness. It's more like being so aware, so hyperaware, that I can't move because it's so overwhelming. I absorb the dreams of the stone, and the gargoyles inside tell me what I need to do to free them. They reveal their faces and show me what I must take away to make them whole."

This passage reminds me of what it's like for me before I begin writing something new or am stuck on a certain part of an ongoing project. I've heard other writers say and it is also true for me, that ninety percent of writing is in your head. That is the "sleeping on the stone" part. My non-writer friends have said to me that I seem distracted or they ask me if I'm upset with them when I'm in that writing in my head mode. My writer friends know exactly what's going on. I think for most writers the stone is the blank page and we have to sense, feel or intuit the words that will go on the page. And sometimes we add or take away the wrong word so we just keep chipping away at the stone/page and eventually the page begins to take shape. And then the process starts all over again for the next page.

I like the idea of "sleeping on the stone" and will probably conjure it up each time I'm preparing to write.

Rebekah for Poplar Grove Muse

For Browsing and Being Inspired

I'm feeling a little low on the writing scale today, so instead I’ll share a few sites that I visit when I want to give my brain a creative or inspiration boost.

Ordinary Courage
“Adventures in truth-telling, soul-making, and twinkle-lighting.”
“No matter what gets done and how much is left undone; I am enough.”

Read the I’m pretty. Pissed. post

Daily Affirmations by Louise Hay

Kelly Rae Roberts
I’ve followed Kelly’s blog from its early days and watched her manifest her dreams of being a full-time artist and “possibilitarian.” I’m a fan of her whimsical and yet deeply touching style of collage art and painting.

Shutter Sisters
A website that highlights the power of images. And images + words.

Angry Chicken General crafty stuff and a wicked sense of humor!

Colette Patterns
If you like to sew and enjoy vintage styling and patterns.

Mondo Beyondo
“An online class about dreaming big.”
I wasn’t able to take the WWF(a)C class this semester, but I find myself at a transition point and in need of some guided creative/processing time. One week into the class and I’m enjoying it. We’re focusing on naming our passions and dreams, no matter how big or small.

Your turn! I’m hoping you’ll share your favorite sites that inspire your creativity! Leave us a comment if you have one (or two or three...) for us to check out.

Steph W, for the Poplar Grove Muse

On the Muses Summer Vacation

…kind of Algonquin Roundtable meets Outward Bound meets St. Barts. The muses lounge around all morning in their slippers and lacy robes, a dip in the pool, followed by a pedicure and a massage. Then after a lunch of dainty finger sandwiches and iced tea, they change into some rougher clothes, take a last longing look at the shining pool and head out into the world, unseen by humans. They gather inspiration food to feed us throughout the coming year. They witness glaciers melting and puppy mills and the officer issuing parking tickets. They go by twos to refugee camps and domestic abuse shelters and brothels and they cannot help but witness hunger which paints a hole on their soul that can never close. They watch the thresher take down big rows of wheat in the breadbasket of America and they watch the rice begin to blossom on the terraced steps of China. They watch winter spring summer and fall each take root and slough off the season that came before.

The muses especially like trees in full bloom and fireworks.

They like the sound of

ocean waves and clear black starry nights. They like to hear poetry and garage bands and Gregorian chant but they also fill up with sound of lonely crying and the dull thud of the printing press as it churns out a nights worth of the morning edition.

They arrive back at the pool where they are served a lavish feast of roasts and potatoes and cheese fondue and chocolate cakes frosted with butter cream and coconut. The feast bends and stretches the table it is served upon, but the muses, your muse, never eats a single bite. They simply desire all the food in front of them and it is that craving that keeps them alive and ready to fill you with creative impulse. In fact, on the years that your muse appears to be AWOL, he probably broke down and ate the beef bourguignon and forgot why he came. Like you, food does that to a muse.

And with that ache in their belly, they prepare to leave summer vacation, return to you and spend another year inspiring you to bare your soul, dig deep into your memory and rise up with poetry, sculpture, a new aria or simply great metaphors. If you are lucky enough to be invited on the muses summer vacation you might be asked to stick around for their closing cocktail party where you often hear the muses make comments like this:

“I cannot come up with one more metaphor for love. Why can’t humans just get over this love thing? Once Elizabeth Barrett Browning counted the ways that should have been enough.”

“…so dense. I have been knocking and waving and whispering and he still thinks he is an accountant. I think I am going to have to drop an impressionist painting on his head. What does it take?”
“I am all for giving muses of poets special privileges. I would never want that job. Special people those poetry muses. All that dreck. One artist’s teen years would have me in a straight jacket.”


Perhaps you are frustrated when your muse leaves you.

Perhaps you beat your head to your keyboard begging her to return, say hail Mary’s to the blank sheet of paper, get your haircut, drink too much peppermint schnapps and puke in the toilet. Know this dear writer, your muse loves you and wants to be there for you, but sometimes she needs a little vacati

on: a chance to run in daisy fields and drink absinthe by a roaring fire. Take a lesson from the lowly muse.

--Amy for the Poplar Grove Muse

On your mark, get set, go...

It is November 1st and you know what that means! It is time once again for NANOWRIMO. We would love to hear from fellow writer's out there in NANO land who are attempting to write their novel in just one month--30 days.

If writing a novel in one month seems too daunting...how about blog posting in one month? You can also participate in NABLOPOMO. (I understand that this is no longer strictly limited to November anymore.)

If you would like to blog about your manic novel writing experience or you just want to shout out that you are working on it...let us know. Contact Amy at: amy@womenwritingbloomington.com

Get ready to write...GO!

Amy for the Poplar Grove Muse

Passing the Baton, er, Pen

I guess you could say my youngest is a charter member of Young Women Writing for (a) Change. She has been to every class or sampler yet offered. She loves the program, she reveres it, she truly “gets” what is being explored at a deeper level below the surface. She even gets the upper and lower case, and parentheses, right in the acronym for the organization….

After her very first sampler class, she came home, and wanted to host her own “sampler” class. (At that point, I think she thought “sampler” meant something like “writing,” an adjective modifying “class.”) She wanted to find a perfect vessel to hold soul cards and another to shelter a candle. She gathered a few friends together, and they wrote and talked and laughed (she has since learned not to invite the gigglier among her friends, having an innate sense of which friends are capable of sharing her reverence for this process, and which are not).

Last week, she wrote this for her weekly class school newsletter:

Young Women Writing for (a) Change
By Anna
I love to write. The words just flow out of my pencil onto the paper. And now, I have discovered a place where I can write with other people who like to do it. We do crafts and write and talk and eat snack! It’s really fun and that place is called Young Women Writing for (a) Change in the Poplar Grove Schoolhouse. It is run by supporting women from the women’s class called Women Writing for (a) Change. It’s great to be there with people who enjoy the same things as you and support you and your writing. I love to go there and just let the creative juices flow. Pick up your pen and choose a prompt or write whatever you want. Is there a mysterious door hollowed out in a tree yet to be discovered? Where do you come from? And let your inner self lie down in a creek and be covered by the cool and refreshing water that is writing. Bathe in it, bask in it. Be it.

I am so grateful to Beth, and now Kim and Greta, for creating this space (space in so many varied senses) for me to seek my voice, and now, for my daughter to do the same. Mary for the Poplar Grove Muse

What Is Blogging?

This blogging thing fascinates me. Part self-expression, part conversation, part art form, part media, and fully difficult to define. I’ve been blogging since April 2005. I still can’t articulate a precise definition.

My blogging has evolved. The journey started as an experiment. I had the assignment to develop blog training for my high-tech company. I had no experience with blogging and wanted some street cred, so I started a personal blog. I considered the blog a temporary trial. I never dreamed it would become what it has, an outlet for my creative energy and a community to support my passions. Over 800 posts later, I’m still going.

Interestingly, for me at least, I find it much harder to write a posting for this Poplar Grove Muse blog than for my own. For my personal blog, I churn out 3-4 postings per week without much trouble. For this blog, with a relaxed deadline of once per month, I struggle. What’s the difference? I don’t have to look far for an answer. It’s my perfectionist side: the good student, the editor, the sometimes-insecure adult who cringes from criticism. What if I have a misplaced comma or misspelled word? What if my message is lost? Or the ultimate fear for many bloggers – what if no one leaves a comment?

While I can’t draw and diagram exactly what blogging is, I can tell you clearly what it has taught me. Blogging is all about the raw, soulful story and the deeply personal snapshot of life. It is not about perfection. It is about heart, passion, wonder, struggle, life. Some of the most popular blogs are full of comma splices and spelling errors. My best blog postings have been written in a whirlwind of inspired heat. They make me nervous. They make me reach out and claim myself. Blogging has taught me to embrace my story, trust myself, and put it out there.

Stephanie Wilson, for the Poplar Grove Muse