Albany Poetry Workshop: February Blog

I have not posted on this blog for a while, but part of the reason for that is that I have been busy writing at the Albany Poetry Workshop for the month of February.  I enjoyed the challenge of posting every day, mostly because it forced me to consider something new and connect it to my life and existing body of knowledge and thoughts.  If you would like to scan the posts, go to http://bit.ly/xpwU7C

"I wouldn't have seen it if I hadn't believed it."--Marshall McLuhan

I began reading a book today titled Life Is a Verb: 37 Days to Wake Up, Be Mindful, and Live Intentionally, by Patti Digh.  I stumbled across the book this morning when I received an email from Amazon.com advertising 100 Kindle books for $3.99 or less.  Always looking for a good deal on a good read, I glanced inside this book and was hooked when I saw that it contained daily writing exercises.  I also appreciated the idea that Digh wrote this book after taking care of her stepfather during the last 37 days of his life as he died from lung cancer.  The author challenges her readers to consider what they would do if they were told they had only 37 days to live.  She also invites readers to live more “intentionally.” 

I am one who spends a lot of time inside her own head.  But to be honest, I have always been pretty happy in Cheryl Land.  I like reading and thinking and making connections and writing as I try to make sense of the world around me and my place in it.  From the small bit of the book I have sampled, it seems that I have found a kindred spirit in Digh.  I am not big on making New Year’s Resolutions.  I don’t consider any one day as being more important than any other.  Admittedly, I sometimes play along, for example, elongating the celebration of my January 8th birthday by proclaiming the first week of each year as the Birthday Week.  But deep down, there is not a party going on inside me.

I chose to read this book and interact with it each day because I don’t like allowing myself to use the excuse that I am too busy with the details of my life to live it intentionally.  That means that no matter what I am doing, I should make sure I am doing it with keen awareness.  For example, when I communicate with others, I try to make sure I really make a connection with them, that I look them in the eye and really listen to them.  I think it is just this kind of intensity and focus that makes for good writing, too.
The first exercise in Digh’s book is to write for 10 minutes on the following quote by Chinua Achebe:  “We create stories and stories create us. It is a rondo.”

This goes back to my belief that writing about one’s life leads to a deeper understanding of life.  So, in the spirit of the book, I set the timer and I wrote for 10 minutes.  Such raw writing is really only helpful to the writer, so I will not share it here, but I will share where my mind traveled.  I considered how much writing about my life has changed the way I perceive my life.  It forces me to analyze relationships and audience.  I have written a lot about my mother, but I was not brave enough to do so while she was still alive.  I acknowledge this and ask myself--what should I be writing about today which I am not brave enough to look directly in the eye?  This is definitely something I will make myself look at.

Achebe refers to this process as a rondo (rondeau in French).  I could not remember exactly what the rhyme scheme is in this form of poetry, but I did remember that it is a form which has a refrain and comes full circle.  I also remembered that one of the most famous rondeaus ever written is the World War I poem, "In Flanders Fields" by John McCrae.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place, and in the sky,
The larks, still bravely singing, fly,
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead; short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe!
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high!
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

The author, McCrae, was a field surgeon in WWI and he wrote the poem in an attempt to deal with the horrors he experienced during the war.  It never occurred to him that it would be published.  In fact, he was so dissatisfied with it that he threw it away, but a fellow officer saved it and sent it to a few newspapers in England where it was initially rejected and eventually published in 1915.

Even more vividly than McCrae’s comparison of blood droplets and poppies, I recall a simple series of events that happened to me when I was in sixth grade.  I lived in Canada at the time and we had been making paper poppies for everyone to wear to our Remembrance Day program.  (Remembrance Day, is a memorial day that has been observed there since the end of World War I to pay tribute to members of the armed forces who have died in the line of duty.  It is observed on the eleventh of November to recall the official end of World War I at 11:00 that day.)  I was a very shy child, so instead of reading or singing in the program, I was in charge of making the decorations.  Just as we were finishing up for the day and starting to clean up, the school custodian, Mr. Rhodes, a cranky old man who limped around and glared at the kids without ever saying much, walked over to us and started sweeping up the bits of red paper that dotted the library floor around us.  We were all a little afraid of him because he never smiled and he was always muttering things we couldn’t quite hear.

As he swept up the paper scraps, he found one whole poppy that had slipped off the table.  He picked it up, held it in the palm of his hand and looked at it a moment before he placed it in my hand and looked me right in the eye.  My heart pounded and we were frozen there, me and the elderly maintenance man, tentatively connected by four perfect petals of red paper.  It’s funny how some moments last longer than the time it takes them to pass—charged as they are with fear, or tension, or the unknown.  Over 40 years later I can still see his blue eyes behind the thick lenses of his bifocals, and the way, just before he dropped the flower into my hand, his face softened almost imperceptibly for a just sliver of a second.

A few days later, on the 11^th hour of the 11^th day of the 11^th month, everyone in the school, along with our families and members of the surrounding community, gathered to honor our veterans and heroes.  We sang songs, read stories, and at the end of the program my English teacher, Mr. Albon, read the poem, “In Flanders Fields.”  It was a touching tribute, and I still remember every word of that poem—and I remember, during the moment of silence that naturally followed, seeing Mr. Rhodes, our school’s custodian, as he stood at the back of the room in his vintage Army uniform, very quietly, with tears streaming down his face.

I live most days in relative mental seclusion because that is my comfort zone.  And while I don’t have to be the one to read life’s stories or sing life’s songs, it is absolutely not acceptable for me to shut myself off to the other people in my life, even if we are only connected for a few seconds, memorable or otherwise.  So much goes on around us every moment of every day that we are not aware of.  So, even though I proclaim not to believe in making resolutions, I am making one:  I will push myself outside myself.  Who knows what I will discover?

Joyce Carol Oates says, “We inhabit ourselves without valuing ourselves, unable to see that here, now, this very moment is sacred; but once it’s gone—its value is incontestable.”   Powerful words.

Every moment of light and dark

It was quite foggy yesterday.  Visibility extended no further than the length of a football field--so unusual here that it was somewhat disorienting.  Not being able to see very far slowed traffic just a bit, slowed the pace of everything downtown.  The colors were muted, creating an almost monochromatic atmosphere.  All of these elements combined to make me realize that I spend so much time thinking about where I am going, both physically and temporally, that I often fail to live in the moment, to truly occupy my body.

As one who tends to be easily over-stimulated, I find it necessary to take a step back from time to time and focus on the here and now.  I am reminded of a store I visited in San Francisco.  Open onto the sidewalk with no wall to separate the space from the street, the store was packed with so many colorful items that at first I was physically repulsed, almost unable to step inside.  

But I did, and as I focused on and examined individual offerings, the experience changed entirely.  I am intrigued with how an experience or an environment can change so suddenly.

Sometimes this can be due to the juxtaposition of opposites.  Sometimes the result is surprising and even ironic.  For example, consider the fact that streetlights can actually contribute to night blindness of drivers!  Studies have shown that as drivers emerge from a dark area into a lighted area, such as a pool of light from a streetlight, their pupils adjust by constricting.  Then as they leave the lighted area, their pupils dilate to adjust to the dimmer environment.  The result is a momentary decrease in the ability to see.

I was recently reading about light pollution and came across an article on light trespass, which occurs when unwanted light enters one’s property.  Not long after we moved into our current house, the photosensitive switch in the light in our front yard was overcome by fire ants and no longer turned on when it got dark outside.  Admittedly we deferred the maintenance of the fixture because it was a pain to take the whole thing apart and insert a new sensor.  Then our neighbor stopped David in the yard and thanked him for turning off the light that had shone into her bedroom window for years.  After living without the automatic illumination of the light for a while, we realized that it really wasn’t necessary, especially if it was disturbing the neighbors.

We have also been on the receiving end of light trespass.  Living across the street from the high school track, we are painfully illuminated when the powerful track lights are turned on.  I recently told my students that I was tempted to set up mirrors, which would reflect the intense light back on itself in an attempt to destroy the offending fixtures.  Just kidding, of course.  At least the lights are not used very often.

It’s funny how something usually seen as primarily positive, such as light, can be vilified.  Of course, it is all just a matter of perspective.  Consider the words of Og Mandino:  "I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness because it shows me the stars."

I will close today with a suggested project.  As a photography teacher, I always enjoy the results when my students try to write with light.  By setting the shutter on the bulb setting, the photographer points the camera toward a relatively intense light source (a full moon works well) and moves the camera to form letters.  Working with more than one light, perhaps for example with a display of Christmas lights, can create interesting repetition.

The Way We See

It is the last day of school, the last half day to be precise, before Christmas break.  And since I have a first period conference, I start the day with silence or with the music of my choice.  Today I choose silence.  Knowing that I tend to be easily overstimulated, I have not even plugged in the tree this morning.  One of my students will do that. 

As I sit in my windowless room, I recall a photo sent to me by my friend Mark Carlson this morning.  It is an office in Madrid with one side made entirely of glass. 

Working in such a place must surely change one’s perspective on his or her surroundings.  Working in an office with a side of glass also exposes said worker to the world outside--much like writing a blog exposes said writer…

Sometimes, once I enter the cave that is this school, I completely forget the world around me.  My friend Maggie Mizell stopped me in the hall after lunch yesterday to tell me that I should step outside the front side door of the school and look at the leaves on the sidewalk.  I did.  And they were almost overwhelming in their unexpected beauty. 

I am thankful for friends like Maggie and Mark who bring me outside myself.

Sometimes I turn to photography to transport myself.  A few years ago, I attended a pop culture conference in San Francisco, and while the conference was indeed interesting, what I remember most was the surrounding city and the wealth of photographic opportunities it offered me.  I was intrigued by the way the time of day

or night could color a location 

or how a change of viewpoint could add tension and excitement to a shot.

Sometimes it is repetition that creates interest.

And sometimes everyday objects, such as hoses and hydrants,

can become works or art, whether intentionally or inadvertently. 

Sometimes it is the window itself that is the most important. 

 

Photographer Elliott Erwitt said, "To me, photography is an art of observation.  It's about finding something interesting in an ordinary place.  I've found it has little to do with the things you see and everything to do with the way you see them."

I look forward to the next couple of weeks and a change of perspective.

So, yesterday I decided I would write something. Anything. I needed exercise! And sometimes you just have to start where you are. So if you are in the kitchen, write about the kitchen. And the best thing is you never simply stay in the kitchen. And sometimes things come together in unexpected ways.

I. THE SOUND OF LIGHT

Beyond the kitchen window
past the white horizontal slats
neatly tilted to measure the light,
the public school across the street
turns her back, windowless and bricked,
as though ashamed or in need of privacy.

When the sun

drops below her flat horizon,
the lights flip on and on and on
until she blushes prettily,
institutional, yet fully aware
that beauty is an arbitrary gift.

Seemingly out of sorts with garlic and turmeric
the kitchen’s chrome and glass and tile
remain cool in light of the purpling sky,
and the low white ceiling glows fluorescent
with an almost silent hum.

This time at the end of day,
the world folds inwardly with the precision
of an origami rooster. I try not to think
about crossing the street tomorrow,
about how I must anticipate the cars
rounding the corner, too fast,
forcing me to listen for their approach,
hoping they will see me,
wanting to walk slow enough
to force them to see me,
to force them to brake,
never fully trusting
that the flare of brake lights
will appear in time.


II. LIVING IN THE TWENTY

Just last week
I was wondering whatever happened
to Steven Jackson…

called himself Spiderman…

“Best friend a Spider could have…”
he wrote in my yearbook.

Then Thursday
(why is it always Thursday?)
in the obituaries,
“Steven Jackson,
loved by his family…”

And I started to wonder about living
in a twenty-mile-per-hour zone.

Maybe living here
near the school
has slowed my life
to the point that I am able
to drift from the past
into the future and back,
where I am able to see
the comings and goings
of those lesser aware?

And if I really believe, will I slip back,
back to the time before
remembering…

I have been told I was enthralled
at an early age with the Taj Mahal.
And perhaps in my not-so-special
pale-girl-way I somehow captured
the essence of an Eastern mystic cult…

And I can’t help but wonder,
if I am still enough,
will you come and touch me?
If I can stay in this moment only,
will you try to convince me
I was never alone?

I am waiting for a message. Until then,
I have a jewel glued on my forehead
and I am learning to wrap a sari.

III. THE DISTANCE BETWEEN

No smoke no fire no siren, still
I assumed lightning had struck the tree
three houses down the street.
As I walked back to work,
as I saw the fire truck
skimming the street
as though anticipating a blaze
angling sly and sluggish
its bold, straight form around the corner
like a dated vacuum cleaner
with no ability to turn,
as though its wheels didn’t fit exactly
as though it couldn’t travel naturally
as though unwittingly fire resistant
and unwilling to discover an emergency.

I recalled how the storm had hit in earnest
as I ate my lunch, soup,
slamming itself repeatedly at the windows
as though determined to earn attention,
and how I witnessed, bowl in one hand,
empty spoon in the other,
as the balloons from yesterday’s party
still tied to the table’s umbrella
all exploded in the same second
silent through the pane.

Every time I see you, I wonder
about the distance between your smile
and your intention, and I wonder
if I asked, if you would look at me
with first one eye and then the other
to make me dance.

Look at me quickly then off to the side,
and if you’ve been crying,
or if you squint just right
perhaps some lightning bolts will fly.

Divide by five the number of seconds
between the flash and the thunder
to calculate the distance in miles.

It may not be what it seams...

No.  I have not been blogging in a while.  That is because I live on the tippy toe edge of a precipice (admittedly of my own making).  But something happened to me this week that I just had to share, because it snapped everything into sharp focus in a matter of seconds.

Earlier this week, probably Wednesday, I was feeling a little gloomy and tremendously unprepared to make an appearance before my students, so I pulled out of my closet a pull-on black dress and a pair of sandals and walked across the street to work.

At 3:30 that afternoon, I found myself lambasting my eighth period about the fact that they DO NOT pay attention to details, when I attempted to put my hand in my pocket and realized that I had been wearing my dress wrong side out all day.

I am sure that my class thought that the strange look that came across my face was the result of my disgust for their slovenly attitude toward academia.  And when I simply stopped talking and went and sat at my desk, they were also quiet and made a renewed attempt to conclude their assignment for the day.

I wish I could say that I put my dress on inside out because we lost electrical power and I was struggling with regard to my environment.  Or maybe I could blame my fashion fiasco on the fact that I got new glasses this week and have surfaced in a swimmy world where my feet look two sizes larger and I have a crick in my neck from tilting my head up and down to see.  But then I would have to admit to now wearing bifocals.

To be honest, my fashion faux pas was the result of not paying attention to detail--and now I have provided myself with a teachable moment, a living example of irony that I can use in the classroom--next year.

On a brighter note, I have started a series of paintings that are based on novels and plays that have been turned into films.  The scandalous part is that I cut apart books, yes, I actually dismember them line by line, and use the text to create the portraits.  Obsessive artist that I am, I have decided to create 64 of these 12"x12" text collage portraits.  The title of the project will be either "Cutting Room" or "I Just Don't Read Like I Used To."  Both of these are the brainchild of my daughter Candace.

I don't have any idea what I will do with these 64 collage portraits when they are completed.  But my past experience has proven to me the axiom of "if you build it, they will come," is not so farfetched.

I do know that making these pieces of art keeps me in the present moment.  What more could I ask?

So, I am including Atticus Finch from To Kill a Mockingbird, Hester Prynne from The Scarlet Letter, Daisy Buchanan from The Great Gatsby, the monster from Frankenstein, the Mad Hatter from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, and Michael Corleone from The Godfather. (Of course, since I have never figured out this blog format, these images will appear randomly.)

HARK, THE HERALD ANGELS SING

I have been in a gloomy mood today. It's hard to be down on Friday when the air is cool and the sun is shining. But sometimes a cloud just seems to linger right overhead. Then this morning one of my students came in early for some help with an assignment. She said she was feeling blue, too. So, I decided the perfect thing would be to listen to some Christmas music. We did. We listened for about an hour and we felt better.

Think about it. The music is familiar and it is always either upbeat or uplifting. All perky and happy, or spiritual and elevated. So we didn't stop after just an hour. I've been playing it all day. It has been funny to watch the reactions of my students. Some of them asked me why Christmas music, and when I explained briefly that I just needed a boost, they questioned no further. Most of them were taking a test online, and I kept seeing them tapping their feet, nodding their heads, softly smiling--all while taking a test over The Scarlet Letter!

Right now I am "Walking in a Winter Wonderland" with Louis Armstrong, and the sun is starting to shine inside me again.

I have set a goal for myself--I am going to try to focus on those small things that surround me which remind me how beautiful life is. Don't get me wrong. I am not a sad person. Not really. But I do tend to migrate toward what I often think of as a beautiful melancholy. And it is a small slide downhill from there to a darker kind of sorrow. Johnny Mathis can keep me from that tipping point with "Silent Night." And Christmas with "The Rat Pack" practically makes me giddy.

This morning while I was having myself a merry little Christmas, I was reading excerpts from a book titled The Overly Sensitive Person, and I realized that I identified quite strongly with a lot of the characteristics mentioned there. Teaching high school can be trying for a sensitive person. Teenagers have so many problems--problems ranging from mildly dramatic to life threateningly serious. Just walking down the hall with a couple of hundred students is bound to put you face to face with at least one seriously disturbed individual in a matter of minutes. It is an almost physical sensation to be buffeted by their angst. I realize that one of the ways I deal with that is to distance myself from everyone. Over the years my students have even teased me about it. They say things about my need to be contained. They tell me I am aloof. They comment on my desire not to have my personal space infringed upon. And they know that I am not really a person who hugs a lot.

I have been this way since I was a small child. It probably springs from not liking anyone to control my environment in any way. I think that's why I like to write--I can literally control everything that happens. And it's also why I like to make art. The act of creation is the ultimate in control. Recognizing these things about myself is liberating. Afterall, how can you get what you want if you don't even know what you want?

Today I wanted "giddyup Jingle Horse, pick up yer feet," and "Silver Bells," and the Trans-Siberian Orchestra. I wanted to remember the joy that bubbled inside me when I was in second grade and we sang "I Saw Momma Kissing Santa Clause" for the first time, and the way my cheeks turned pink just to imagine that scenario!

So, I hope my photography class is in the mood for some Christmas cheer while we critique their week's work. And I hope they know how much I care about them here in my little Christmas bubble.