I've Been Prisoner

I've been prisoner to a haunting melody and the birthing of a song for the past couple of months. Friends ask me what I've been up to and my brow wrinkles in trying to remember—to have something to say, to report, that says I've been productive, been “doing,” been saving the world, or at least a few souls. But I come up with empty shelves behind my brow—shelves that, at best, are supposed to contain trophies and certificates for my goodness and productivity; or, at least, several lists of things that I'm in the process of systematically working through.

I was ecstatic a few nights ago when a friend asked me what I'd been up to, and I knew immediately! I've been up to my ankles, up to my elbows, up to my ears in this birthing process. Slogging through muddy not-quite-right lyrics; scrubbing away words, lines, whole verses and reconfiguring my thought processes; listening to my heart and allowing it to beat right along with the rhythm of the words.  It has been a maddening process and a satisfying one all rolled up in this one, 25-line song. 

The first verse and the chorus came easy after I received a JPay email from my friend Phillip.  He had come in from a rain-soaked half hour in the recreation yard at Wabash Valley Prison, sat down at the computer in his cell-block, hammered out a perfect example of a “fast write,”—no caps, no corrections, no second thoughts—and zipped it off to me.  I “poetized” his writing and sent him a hard-copy.  He loved it and has given me permission to share it:

Rec Yard Reverie

I was laying on the concrete track

in the recreation yard,

staring up at the starless sky, thinking—

about family, friends, and freedom.

The darkness in the sky made me think

about all the unknown that’s out there

beyond this planet.

It made me think

about all the unknown moments and memories

that I never got the opportunity to be part of

because I’m in here.

Then it started raining.

I just laid there with my eyes closed

and imagined it was my ancestors,

my homies and my loved ones

(dead and alive)

crying down tears of joy

and tears of sorrow—

down on me, like:

“I hear you, I see you, I feel you.”

…I’m doing alright.

And so Phillip’s experience, and his putting it into words, planted the seed of a song in my heart and mind. While sitting at Table 9 in the Visitors’ Center at Wabash last week, I couldn’t wait to share the good news with him, to tell him I was “with song,” to quietly sing those first few lines to him. I sang it twice, at his request, so the melody would wind around his heart and mind, as well, and stick with him after we said our goodbyes.

In the car, at the kitchen sink, walking in the woods, waking in the middle of the night and with the morning sun, this song would not let me go. It has been a harder birth than I expected when it so effortless impregnated my song psyched. Guess that’s true with most births—all’s fun and games till embryo takes over body and pretty much has its way till it demands expulsion nine months later!

Thank goodness and those fickle muses that seem to come and go at their pleasure that at least this didn’t take nine months! And now I’m ready to send a hard-copy of this my fully developed, newborn song to Phillip. He’d probably pass out cigars is he could. I have no doubt we’ll be nurturing it—together and in our very different worlds: singing it, sharing it, and trusting it to touch others with its simple message of love, compassion, and possibility.

Night Came Early

Night came early that evening

Clouds were heavy and the sky was so gray

He lay flat on his back in the rec yard

Looking up at no Milky Way

Looking up at no stars and no moonlight

His mind a-drifting through the sky

Thinking 'bout family, friends, and freedom

All the beauty he had left behind

(chorus)

And the rain came falling down

A million teardrops from above

Ancestors, homies, and loved ones

Crying with the man they loved

Crying with the man they loved

He climbed out of his body that evening

Circled the prison yard 'round

And just like the city of old Jericho

The walls came a-tumbling down

He rose like a prayer into the cosmos

Carried high on the wings of his mind

Wrapping arms around family and freedom

Crossing the boundaries of time

(chorus)

(bridge)

Soaked to the bone on the concrete

Flying 'bove the clouds in the sky

Crying tears of joy and of heartache

For all the beauty still out there to find

(chorus)

Repeat 1^st Verse                     
Glenda Breeden & Phillip Stroud (October-November 2014)

Glenda for The Poplar Grove Muse

Borrowed Thought Art

"....you go down, you descend, and you disintegrate and you do it willfully...you get the core of the self, or the stone. And you do it awake and then, you come back out again…"

Last night, a new experience.  I dive into a chapter, 34 pages long, about my life. 

34 pages, that's a lot

Somehow she did it.  Not just with me, she collected a whole handful of us: self-identified..."seekers, spiritual practitioners, self-discoverers," and completed her dissertation.  I'd been curious to find out what I said, what other's said, what the center of her thesis was.

Our group has been meeting on and off in different forms over a couple of years.  During that time each of us sat down with her for four or five two-hour interviews.  I remember meeting her for our first discussion, as she does as well (I know because I read it in the chapter: the location I chose, the chair I sat in, and what I said, and how I said it).

Fascinating-am I entranced my by own self...is that me?

I wasn't prepared for the intial shock of digesting my own quotes,

Do I sound like this?

"It’s like being at rhythm with the pose of vitality that is true to everything. And being as close to that as possible without any jump on top of it.    I am this rising up very momentary, small beautiful thing that comes in cycle and crashes back down."

Damn that feels potent.

Besides the work of digesting my own quotes, something else emerged.  My writer voice and my speaking voice have personalities of their own.   I noticed when my writer voice stood up and witnessed my speaking voice being written down, she ruffled her back.  My speaking voice stood there and shrugged, smiling.  Even now I can feel the dialogue between the two.  My writer voice loves to make order of chaos, my speaking voice loves to cycle and free flow.    Now, here I am somewhere in the middle of both of these, I'm holding the opposites.  Making sense of desire to build, and the desire to cycle and dissolve.

I also noticed that I am much less of a solitary "I" than I thought I was.  Suprising.  And wonder if anyone else will recognize in the writing, or knows that at least 80% of what I say and think do not belong to me.  I guess the Buddhists are right about emptiness -  wind through bamboo.  Reading the raw artform of my thought, unrefined by the process of writing I recognize clearly when I 'm a channel of someone else's thought art, or when I am generating my own.  I've come to a 'borrowing shamelessly' period in my life.  But I trust the process. 

Perhaps borrowing thought art at first is what makes all genius possible later.  If you mix in good seeds, right condition, hearty influence, and a spark of something unamed, eventually the 'borrowed' bits begin to bloom fruits of their own....genius.  Genuine.  I have a sense that genius goes beyond the typical scientific, intellectual archetype.  I have a sense that we all have the little seeds rooted, waiting to sprout in the right conditions.

I give thanks to this unique opportuntiy to see the little bits of genius running through my mouth.  My own and those borrowed thought artforms from many greats before.  And I deeply know that this movement is made possible by being 'held with kindness and compassion' - I thank the being who made such a sturdy, thought art container for her continuing project of enlightenment.

Allison Distler

Making Soup

When I decided to write about making soup, I Googled one word. SOUP. I was astounded by the amount of information available on this subject. The varieties alone were staggering and the historical references copious. I found that this humble food has warmly and steadfastly accompanied man and womankind’s march through time. Soup in all of its guises, broth, pottage, bisque, gumbo, chowder, consommé, stew, porridge and even gruel has found its place in the story of the human race and it’s survival.

Picture early woman, kneeling by her cook fire dropping heated rocks into a stone bowl to bring the water to a boil, carefully adding the ingredients for the cattail, tuber and mammoth stew. Techniques improved through the ages but the fact remains, all of our ancestors used the simple method of cooking grains, vegetables and meats in liquid to make----SOUP! By utilizing the ingredients found in their regions each culture added a unique adaptation, but soup making has been around for as long as watertight containers.

Soup has been used to heal the sick, comfort the old and nourish the young. It can be prepared hot or cold, thick or thin. Soup can be the first course or served up as the entire meal, as simple as consommé or as complex as bisque. Both kings and beggars have inspired it and it is appreciated by everyone.

I come from a long line of soup makers. I recall the rich goodness of my Grandmother’s chicken and dumplings and the hearty brightness of my Mom’s vegetable soup. I grew up eating my sister’s chili and I still judge all other chilies by its measure. I remember my Dad introducing us to the oddly named but deliciously exotic matzo ball soup. To not make and eat soup would never occur to me. Therefore, it surprises me when people tell me they never make soup. I think some people believe making soup is akin to practicing alchemy, that there is a wizard locked in a tower room somewhere, jealously guarding the “soup secrets.” If there is, I’ve never been introduced to him and there is not a secret soup maker handshake, as far as I know. Soup making is not mysterious, it’s just soup.

For me, it is truly a freeform and creative way of cooking. When I make soup, I regard recipes as suggestions. They serve to give me a basic list of ingredients. They recommend flavors and textures that will enhance one another. They instruct in techniques and procedures. All the rest is gleefully and freely open to my interpretation of what that soup will be. The myriad ways to combine the meats, beans, vegetables, grains, pastas, fruits and spices is at my disposal. Only the supplies in my pantry and my own imagination limit the choice. I anticipate the layering of flavors, each ingredient releasing its essence to merge with the whole, creating a new taste. There is satisfaction in striking the perfect savory or spicy note and when the rich soupy aroma envelops the house it is ambrosia.

Vegetable soup, one of the first I can remember making is still one of my favorites. It was nothing complicated, beef, tomatoes, carrots and potatoes, maybe some celery, the vegetables of my Mom’s soup. My first attempt at making chicken noodle soup created a pallid, bashful version. Today my soups are more daring, more intense and like me more mature. Over the years my taste and sense of adventure has expanded and I relish experimenting with new ingredients and techniques. The vegetable soup I made thirty-five years ago would not be recognized as the steamy concoction I give that name to today and that too, is the beauty of soup. The endless combinations, the forgivingness of accuracy and the adaptability of soup are the things that make it so appealing.

Don’t be afraid to dive into the soup pot. Making soup is a joyful, liberating and warm expression of your own creativity that can be enthusiastically shared with your family and friends.

Diana 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

It's How You See It

I’ve been reading these big Graphic Memoir-slash-Meditations on the creative process by artist-slash-writer, Lynda Barry. She’s a cartoonist of the non-mainstream variety, a novelist, a workshop instructor, and advocate of naming and releasing the monsters that keep people from accessing their singular creative authority. Her books What It Is (2008) and Picture This (2010) are wild collage and Zen ink painting explorations of her own evolving understanding of herself as a creative person.

So when I read a book, any book, I look for myself in it somewhere. We do that, right? The characters in Barry’s books come from a world I don’t intimately know. I didn’t grow up on the “wrong side of the tracks” as Barry’s heroine does. I didn’t fall asleep under a threadbare blanket in a trailer in the flicker of the blue TV screen. But I commune intently with the inner world of her searching characters. I was definitely a girl whose first break with her childhood innocence came when she discovered the smelly wheat-colored gum eraser; when the nose on the face of the princess she drew on the newsprint drawing pad was all wrong, and the page ripped and the whole thing had to be crumpled up and started over. And over. When the question: “Is this any good?” came up, and the answer “No, it’s terrible” came back. When this happens, our connection to our first trust of our artistic instinct has been severed. At least this was 100% true for me.

So much of my own life’s journey has been a trip back to the time before I cared whether whatever I was making was good or not. The time of pure play, of living in experience, living inside the pictures that came in to my head as real as any I saw in a picture book. This was the time before erasers and expectations of perfection, if not grandeur. For me those times existed on a woven rug in a tiny naptime room where hours were lost to the unfolding story in the stick figures trekking across vast white landscape of a page in search of the lost village, the small white dog, the magical sea shell.

It took me a long time to realize the true value of a creative life was not the end result, but what was illuminated along the way in the squiggles and merging images and words that showed HOW I was seeing as I went along. There's a kind of presence to the present moment, the image as it presents itself and a willingness to go with it unselfconsciously that we all knew once and I'm convinced, can be reclaimed again if we want to. This doesn't diminish my reverence for aspiration, the masterpieces of art, literature, theater, and song or my respect for those who aim to do fine work.

I’ve been lucky because in spite of the big gum eraser in the sky, I managed to claim enough permission to scribble my way forward and reach out to others, each of us working with our own god-given abilities to draw the princess faces, the landscapes, the, blue-lit rooms, we remember and know. The aliveness and interchange of this work brings me more happiness than I can articulate. And you know what? Sometimes something both artful and informative emerges through the process of giving oneself this permission.

The smoke and mirrors of a world out there that falls on its knees in reverence to “recognition” –whether deserved or not from the standpoint of pure artfulness, is so less interesting to me than the divine creative spirit in each of us ordinary people finding our way back to our source. I believe all people deserve the chance to re-connect with this part of them selves.

This won’t put me on any magazine covers, but it puts me where I really want to live for the moment. And that’s how I see it today.



BLR -Poplar Grove Muse