Being Poetry

Question: Where, how, and with whom have my spiritual values manifested in 2011? Where, how, and with whom do I wish to express/manifest/share them in 2012?

My answer:

My heart opens and lets everything in.

The last day of the year, after three days of steady snow, the sky opens up. I’ve been shoveling for almost an hour, but the sun on the snow-covered mountaintops across the bay captures me. I can not look away. Small birds riot in the trees, but other than those miniature bells, there is no sound but my breath. I can feel the blood circulating in my arms.

I’m sitting in front of the woodstove with the Georgia Review open on my lap, reading Judith Kitchen’s “Night Piece.” A braided essay, it pulls together various moments of her cancer treatment, a visit to Sam Hill’s Maryhill in Oregon, her childhood piano lessons. Judith’s writing captures me; I’m there with her in radiation treatment, and fearing her piano teacher, and wondering at the capacity of art and passion. Judith has taken me with her and helped me feel what she was feeling.

Compassion, empathy, connection.

This is what I wish for myself and for all of us – may we open rather than shut out, connect with others in genuine and artful ways, seek to lift up rather than push away, see and feel and hear and taste everything. May we choose to be together with all things and see ourselves in all things. May we understand the meaning of community and see the world for what it is – one cohesive being of which we are but a tiny and beautiful part.

A page from Thoreau's journal

Question: What have I learned about living the creative life in 2011? And how will it change what and how I create moving forward?

My answer: Worn cover and smooth pages, dog-eared and smeared some, pencil lead transferred to empty pages, ink bleeding through a bit on others, quotes from greater poets, smidgens of conversation and drafts, sometimes sequences of drafts. My notebook, each year a new one, the old one placed on a shelf after a last going-through to glean what might matter, what might still have breath.

After all these years, thirty notebooks nestled on shelves and in boxes at the back of the closet, I finally came to the conclusion that nothing is wasted. Every poem that I feel has “failed” was a necessary step towards the ones that succeeded. Suddenly, I’m okay with writing five crappy drafts in a row. Five drafts that end with an ellipses and occasionally a parenthetical outburst (wow, this isn’t going anywhere or what are you thinking!). There is liberation in this benevolence for crap. Faith in the process.

Learning this lesson (which of course, I’m continually internalizing) has allowed me to play with writing and lift the dreaded curse of the “timeline.” The more I play, the better I write because I allow myself to hit towards the bleachers and therefore more poems make it up into the clear blue sky above the outfield.

William Stafford often wrote of this type of writing practice, the willful suspension of judgment, the allowance for crappy drafts, the routine of writing whether a poem comes to fruition or not. He wrote, “Each poem is a miracle that has been invited to happen. I must be willingly fallible in order to deserve a place in the realm where miracles happen.”

No one expects to win a marathon without a systematic running routine, why should I expect to write a brilliant poem unless I’m willing to write on the days when I limp, when I’m tired, when I would rather spend time on Facebook or drink a beer. Here’s to being willingly fallible and earning my place in the realm of miracles.

Question: When I look back over 2011 and think about how time, choices and objects have been organized, do I see harmony and ease? Did I seek out the natural place for things to land and rest? Where did I struggle to force things into literal or figurative containers? Do I recognize the order in the universe and see my life reflected in that order?

Organization is about recognizing what ‘enough’ looks like and feels like; about holding things loosely while learning deep appreciation for the comfort, convenience, beauty and functionality that objects offer. When I clutch, grab, or hold something too closely or tightly, instead of creating a feeling of safety and security, what grows is a sense of anxiety and fear—that the object will break, be lost or assert its impermanence in some other way. Possession often hastens the outcome I hoped to prevent. The things I intended/expected to increase the quality of my life begin distracting me from that quality.

What can I do in 2012 to move through time and space more harmoniously, recognizing that everything I need is within easy reach? How best can I release those things that no longer serve me (on any plane) to find new homes more suited to their purpose? How might I increase joy in equal or greater measure to my worldly accumulation?

My answer:

When did my relationship with over-commitment begin? In high school when I would routinely be involved simultaneously with several drama productions, the orchestra, the literary magazine and a full-load of honors classes? In college, when I worked part-time, took a full-load of classes, was the stage-manager for the drama department, and managed to squeeze in some long nights of partying? In every job I’ve ever had where I’ve volunteered for more committees, heavier workloads, additional duties? At home where I try to keep the house immaculate, cook complicated meals, work-out, read, write, feed the woodstove, do the laundry, play with the dogs, make art, oh, and be somewhat companionable with my partner?

I’m pretty sure that if I trace my dysfunction with over-commitment back to its root, I’ll find a little girl who just wanted her parents to love her. Somehow, somewhere, I got the impression that I needed to earn this love by being exceptional. Along the way, this behavior has been rewarded by others who have praised me as “superwoman” and “amazing.” Yet, if you asked these same people if I am/was a pleasant person, I’m sure they’d have a difficult time saying yes. Frankly, when you’re as over-extended as I’ve been for most of my life, it’s difficult to have the energy to be kind and present for anyone, least of all yourself.

Last year, around this same time, I began to practice with “enough.” I even had a bracelet made that had the word “enough” etched on it so that it would always be in my sight. I don’t have a problem with material objects; I’m more than capable of jettisoning things that don’t serve an immediate purpose (and did when we recently moved). But how do I reach a point where I can leave myself space to breathe? How can I learn to say no and not feel like I am letting people down?

I think that I’ve got to put down “amazing,” and pick up “enough.”

Today’s prompt comes to you from artist, writer and creator of museful things Ken Robert.

Question:  In what way have I been living in the shadows in 2011? How might my life change if I came out into the light in 2012?  What strengths could I discover and share if I gave up hiding my weaknesses?

Sometimes we stay hidden, fearful that others might see our wounds and blemishes. We think we’re the only ones who bear them.  But I find that when I expose my weaknesses, I give others permission to expose theirs, too. There, beneath the light and in between the blemishes, we find we have strengths we never noticed before. Hiding becomes far less appealing and we’re drawn to living instead.  In 2011, what were you hiding all year? What could you do to stop hiding in 2012? What treasures will you find when you step out into the light?

My answer:

I hide my introverted self. I bet if you asked ten people who know me if I was an introvert or an extrovert, they’d say extrovert. I’m not afraid of talking in public or going to parties. I can be outspoken and commanding in front of crowds. I can spend lots of time with other people, and I do.

I never wanted to be the “fragile” one or the withdrawn one. I write poetry, and I’ve always been afraid of the “garret” stigma that poets have. I’ve never wanted to be pigeon-holed that way. However as I get older, I find it more and more difficult to be “on” all day around people. If you are with me, you might not notice the way that bright lights, crowds, or loud music sap my strength. I’m good at hiding it. But for the last six months, I’ve been able to stay home and work, avoiding large crowds and too many people. Guess what, I have more energy that ever before! I like being by myself, working alone. I get a lot done. I’m more relaxed and open.

Even admitting this on my blog seems risky. I don’t want the folks that I work for to think that I don’t like dealing with people. I do, but I also need to balance time with other people with alone time. I need to create a working environment that is quiet and not hectic. I need to have the flexibility to withdraw and regroup when I need to. In 2012, I’m going to be more proactive with self-care, say no to more things so that I can foster the quiet time I need. In all honesty, this will allow me to be more dynamic and engaged when I am working with other people. I won’t be so exhausted and guarded.  I’ll be able to have the mental space to be more creative because I’ll have acknowledged that quiet bookish girl that’s always been hiding in the shadows. And more creative means more art and poetry!

Posted by Patti Digh on her blog 37 Days.

Author Susan Piver and I are hosting “The Week of Inward Looking”during this week between Christmas and the New Year. It occured to us that this inbetween week is a time for examination, a time to build a bridge to a peaceful, joyful, creative, and wildly successful 2012–whatever success means to you.

So we invited five extraordinary thinkers to join us in creating a 7-day journey, starting today.

You are welcome to join our Facebook group to connect with others participating in The Week of Inward Looking, or not.

You are welcome to post your answers on that Facebook page, or not.

You are welcome to journal in your private journal, on your blog, anywhere you’d like–the questions are simply put into the universe for you to consider as we move in this week toward 2012. Share as you would like.

Each day will have a different questioner, and a different theme. You’ll hear from me, Susan Piver, Jonathan Fields, Ken Robert, Andrew Mellen, Jen Louden, and Seth Godin. I hope you’ll join us in this exploration.

Topic: Body (Bendiness)

Question: Where have I learned and lived in 2011? In my head, in my body, or both? What would living more fully in my body in 2012 bring to me? How can I embody life and learning as I move through this liminal space between now and next? How can I more fully learn from the neck down in 2012?

In our hyper-intellectualized disembodied world, we sometimes allow technology to take the place of our bodies, don’t we? We sit, with only our arms moving as we type. We’ve even begun to distrust what our bodies say to us. Instead, we learn from the neck up, when learning from the neck down and fully embodying life will provide us with such greater riches. What do you allow yourself to really feel in your body, without the need to clarify, intellectualize, provide proof, capture with data, or block? What can you allow yourself to really feel in your body in 2012?

My answer:

The “new” house has stairs, lots of stairs. You can’t get anywhere without at least one flight, but to go to sleep or get a sweater, you have two. What were we thinking, in the beginning of what will be our middle age, when we bought a house with so many stairs? For the first month that I live here my knees ache all the time. I try to consolidate trips so that I’m not ascending and descending as frequently. And the yard is steep, so mowing it is tantamount to a scramble on a mountain slope.

But I notice that little by little, my knees don’t hurt quite so much, and I can sit on the porch and admire the green expanse of the lawn without feeling totally winded. I add in a half hour of yoga each morning. At first, I hate it because I’m stiff and my body is unfriendly. Then I love it because I feel like my muscles are unspooling. Finally, I am habituated to it. When I don’t make time for yoga, I feel out of sorts, my body rebelling in subtle but noticeable ways (especially those knees).

More importantly, yoga is teaching me to pay attention to my body. During savasana at the end of each session, I listen closely to what my body is telling me. I notice that I am often holding the muscles of my chest and upper abdomen clenched, that I am actually folding inward much of the time. I try to isolate what is happening there. Breathe into it (as the disembodied yoga voice keeps saying). As those muscles relax, I feel my shoulder drop towards the floor, my ribcage realign, and I can see in my mind’s eye that my sternum is spreading and my heart opening. Honestly, I can actually feel this. The first time it happens, I start to cry, tears leaking backwards into my ears. It feels good to be this open. Expansive. Porous. Wind-shriven.

I start paying attention more often to my heart, my chest, my shoulders, the tilt of my head and neck, the way that I’m carrying myself. As I drive into town, I practice opening my heart, that same relaxation and realignment that I feel during savasana. When I’m working on an unpleasant project or dealing with a difficult person, I sometimes catch myself folding up in some sort of origami muscle memory. I say to myself, gently, open your heart. Physically.

I remember to do this often, but not often enough. I find that I crack open wider when I’m outside alone under the sky. When considering a word to center 2011 upon, I listened for resonance, listened for a bell that might remind me to be more human: open. A good word, an embodied word. There will be stress, pressure, and difficulty this upcoming year as there is every year, but I will try to greet it with my shoulders relaxed, my head gently raised, and my chest and heart open.