Posted in Uncategorized on July 26, 2015 | 4 Comments »
Dear Readers,
Spotty wi-fi, a visit with daughter and granddaughter, and living out of a suitcase will mean a vacation from my weekly posts. Please do peruse the archive for posts from the past year. Perhaps you will find new inspiration from previous topics and prompts.
I will be back on line after August 11th.
Happy writing and happy summer.
Sharon Bray
Posted in art and writing, expressive writing, healing arts, writing and nature, writing as a way of healing, writing for wellness, writing prompts for cancer survivors, writing to heal on July 19, 2015 | Leave a Comment »
(Portions of this week’s post previously published on May 26, 2013)
Paying attention, the act of being fully present to our outer and inner worlds is the writer’s work. Susan Sontag advised aspiring writers to learn to “pay attention to the world,” calling it the most important skill of storytelling. Silence, she argued, “invites us to pay selfless and unselfconscious attention to the world the artist is creating” (Maria Popova, Brain Pickings Weekly). But it’s not that easy to be silent in the noisy world we live in. I’ve come to embrace silence, but I had to practice it intentionally at first. Like so many, I was mired in the demands of my busy life, the rush-rush world that our culture is with its emphasis on speed, efficiency and instant communication. My attention was pulled in a dozen different directions. Even my writing suffered.
Embracing silence, learning how to be quiet, has become an important discipline for me. Just as writing is healing, so is silence and learning to be truly present in the world around us. My noisy mind quiets; I regain a sense of calm and openness, and I notice things I had previously overlooked. Little by little, I have learned how important silence is to my writing and well-being. It’s why, every morning, you’ll find me on our deck sitting in silence, my only companion a small, affectionate terrier. It is my ritual now, beginning the day in silence and watching the world awaken, listening to the chatter and chirp of birds, noticing the changing moods of nature in the early morning light. These mornings have become my meditation, my prayer, a practice of embracing silence and paying attention. It is a ritual that buoys my spirit and informs my writing, opening my mind to new ideas and insights.
My experience isn’t unique. I was experiencing something that poets had always known. Ted Kooser, writing the introduction to his book, Winter Morning Walks: One Hundred Postcards to Jim Harrison said:
“In the autumn of 1968, during my recovery from surgery and radiation for cancer, I began taking a two-mile walk each morning…hiking in the isolated country roads near where I live…During the previous summer, depressed by my illness, preoccupied by the routines of my treatment, and feeling miserably sorry for myself, I’d all but given up on reading and writing… One morning in November, following my walk, I surprised myself by trying my hand at a poem. Soon I was writing every day… I began pasting my morning poems on postcards and sending them to Jim…”
As a poet, the act of writing each day was important to Kooser’s healing, but so was his routine of walking in the early morning. Throughout his book, we discover a touching portrayal of a poet recovering from the ravages of illness and treatment, whose spirit and sensibilities were reawakened in his solitary walks. He too began to notice life around him once again and the beauty of the natural world.
I saw the season’s first bluebird
this morning, one month ahead
of its scheduled arrival. Lucky I am
to go off to my cancer appointment
having been given a bluebird, and,
for a lifetime, have been given
this world.
Kooser reminds us of the importance of noticing, of paying attention, and being fully present and attentive. As he began to notice the life around him again, we “see” his recovery, but it’s the spiritual recovery we are most touched by, not the physical one.
The poet Wendell Berry habitually spent his Sunday mornings in a kind of walking meditation, observing the world and writing poems that became his collection of “Sabbath poems” which spanned two decades. In the preface Berry writes, “These poems were written in silence, in solitude, mainly out of doors…the poems are about moments when heart and mind are open and aware…”
Best of any song
is bird song
in the quiet, but first
you must have the quiet.
(In: A Timbered Choir, 1998)
…but first you must have the quiet. Quiet—embracing silence—invites us to pay attention, to opens our hearts and minds to all that is around us. In the poem, “Gratitude,” Mary Oliver, asks–and answers—eight simple questions.
What did you notice?
The dew snail;
the low-flying sparrow;
the bat, on the wind, in the dark…
The poem continues, in a pattern of a question of the narrator and her response, a treasure of richly described observations of the natural world. At the end of the poem, she poses one last question:
What did you think was happening?
And answers: …so the gods shake us from our sleep.
(From: What Do We Know: Poems And Prose Poems, 2003)
Whether shaking us from our sleep or rescuing us from the demands of an over-busy, over-hurried life, paying attention, as Oliver and others remind us, is about slowing down and being attentive to the present, to what’s inside or right in front of our eyes. For the artist, the poet and writer, silence is indispensable, but for all of us, artist or not, we need these moments of solitude and of silence. In Open House for Butterflies, a children’s book written by Ruth Krause and illustrated by Maurice Sendak, there’s one particularly lovely drawing of a small boy sitting by a stream. The caption reads: “Everybody should be quiet near a little stream and listen.”
Why not re-discover the gift of quiet? Meander along a wooded trail, near the sea, sit by a stream or take a long early morning walk in your neighborhood. Take in the sights, sounds, smells, and movement. Write about what you see—one single observation. Describe it and let it take you wherever it takes you.
At a certain point you say to the woods, to the sea, to the mountains, the world,
Now I am ready. Now I will stop and be wholly attentive.
You empty yourself and wait, listening.
—Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
Posted in expressive writing, healing arts, life writing, writing as a way of healing, writing for wellness, writing prompts for cancer survivors, writing to heal on July 12, 2015 | Leave a Comment »
“How’s your knee?” This is my husband’s repetitive greeting each morning. I know he’s concerned, but I typically brush his questions aside with something like “Okay for now…” and continue with my morning routine, warming up my body for the daily dog walk. This morning, however, I couldn’t hide my frustration with a body that is, apparently, determined to speak far more loudly with complaint than I am willing to hear. My knee, injured many years ago when I was hit by a car on a morning run, made climbing our front steps an exercise in pain and discomfort, even though I’ve been wearing a knee brace since the arthritis flared up again. Since I favor the injured knee, the sciatic nerve in my left side is also complaining. Aging gracefully, I’ve decided, is no mean feat. Coming to terms with the changing body isn’t something I’m enjoying, certainly not today. When John asked (again) how I was feeling this morning, I burst into tears. It was less about pain and more about frustration.
and the body, what about the body?
Sometimes it is my favorite child,
uncivilized. . .
And sometimes my body disgusts me.
Filling and emptying it disgusts me. . . .
This long struggle to be at home
in the body, this difficult friendship.
By Jane Kenyon (From: “Cages” in Otherwise: New & Selected Poems, 1996)
I managed a wan smile. “Let’s not talk about my body today,” I said, sniffling. “I feel like it’s falling apart, and that depresses me.” John took me in his arms while I wept a little, immersed in self-pity. Just days ago, aching knee and stiffness aside, I received the diagnosis for a swollen left toe. Fearful I’d broken it somehow, I submitted to an x-ray of my foot. The verdict? “Arthritic changes in the toe.” Huh? Arthritis of the toe? Although I joked about it with my husband, it was one more thing, and enough to send my spirits plummeting.
The thing is, my body seems intent on challenging my self-image lately. I have always been active and energetic, someone who shoves furniture around without thought or carries potted plants from one place on the deck to another without concern. I ran; I danced; I walked briskly, feeling like a woman able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, or at least, tackle them with agility and determination. But now I’m crying “Uncle!” as my body, bit by bit, or rather, joint by joint, is forcing me to make imposing revisions to my self-image—like it or not, it’s all about the undeniable process of aging. This long struggle to be at home /in the body, this difficult friendship.
I’m admit it: I’m guilty of taking my body for granted despite some serious accidents in childhood, surgeries and illness. I’ve pushed on, undeterred by these physical set-backs, or at least undeterred until my body protested. Now I am learning to accept I may have to make concessions I never considered.
Which body part will be the next
To make you think that you’re a wreck
That you’ve gone so far over the hill
All you can do is take a pill
From: Body Parts: A Collection of Poems about Aging, by Janet Cameron Hoult, 2010)
Sooner or later, our bodies fail us, whether in illness the process of physical wear or tear and age-related change. When they do, it’s difficult to admit we’ve taken our physical health for granted—even denied their inevitable aging. Our bodies, in illness or decline, are the subject of many poems, as Kenyon Jane Kenyon’s “Cages,” or Marilyn Hacker’s, “Cancer Winter,” for example, where she referred to her body as “self-betraying.” Mark Doty, in “Atlantis,” described the body of a friend dying from AIDS: “When I put my head to his chest/I can hear the virus humming/like a refrigerator” (www.poets.org). But it is May Swenson, perhaps, whose poem, “Question,” I find most thought-provoking as I consider my body this week. In it, she comes to terms with the inevitable demise of a body that has carried her through life, a life she can no longer take for granted. She writes the questions we all contend with as our lives develop and change. I read it and remember to be grateful for the body that has carried me this far—and will continue to carry me in years to come.
Body my house
my horse my hound
what will I do
when you are fallen
Where will I sleep
How will I ride
What will I hunt
Where can I go
without my mount
all eager and quick
How will I know
in thicket ahead
is danger or treasure…?
(From: New & Selected Things Taking Place, 1978)
I’m learning to bow to the demands of my body, but it’s a process of balancing what’s good with the body without giving up what’s good for the soul. Acupuncture, massage, chiropractic, physical therapy, daily exercise—I do it all. I’m may not be entirely at peace with the aches and complaints of the body I inhabit, but it’s mine, the only one I’ve got, and I plan to use it for a good many more years.
Has your body spoken too loudly at times? Betrayed you? Let you down? Forced you to come to terms with a “new” normal? What precipitated the change? How did you feel? How have you made peace with an altered or changing body? Write about the body.
Posted in expressive writing, healing arts, life writing, music and healing, writing as a way of healing, writing for wellness, writing prompts for cancer survivors, writing to heal on July 5, 2015 | Leave a Comment »
(Portions of today’s post previously appeared on July 14, 2013)
When our semi-conductor
Raised his baton, we sat there
Gaping at Marche Militaire,
Our mouth-opening number.
It seemed faintly familiar
(We’d rehearsed it all that winter),
But we attacked in such a blur,
No army anywhere
On its stomach or all fours
Could have squeezed though our cross fire…
By the last lost chord, our director
Looked older and soberer.
No doubt, in mind’s ear
Some band somewhere
In some Music of some Sphere
Was striking a note as pure
As the wishes of Franz Schubert,
But meanwhile here we were:
A lesson in everything minor,
Decomposing our first composer.
(From: “The Junior High School Band Concert,” by David Wagoner; Traveling Light: Collected and New Poems. University of Illinois Press, 1999)
I thought again of Wagoner’s poem this past week as I dusted off my old alto recorder, struggling to remember fingering and play a simple piece I’d once done easily. I found the recorder and a stack of sheet music as I went through boxes of old belongings. When I opened the box and held the recorder it in my hands, my desire to play rekindled. My first attempts were awkward and unmelodic. I’d forgotten fingering, and my fingers lacked the agility I once had. It wasn’t unlike how I felt when I first learned to play the French horn as a twelve-year-old. I wanted to play in the band. Our music teacher and band leader needed French horn players, so I volunteered.
It wasn’t the musical experience I hoped for, but I went on to become first horn throughout junior high and high school The trouble was that the bulk of my musical in the high school band was relegated to football , September through November. I remember how the icy brass mouthpiece banged against my frozen lips as the band performed on the field at every halftime. Worse, I was forced to wear a most unattractive uniform covered in shiny brass buttons and gold cord, which only made look like the toy soldier out of “The Nutcracker. “
So it’s little wonder that given the opportunity to “shine,” as it were, in our annual spring concert, we French horns quite literally blasted out the theme to Dvořák’s “The New World Symphony.” We played with all the enthusiasm of musical students who’d been denied anything but the after beat in the dozens of marches that made up most of our repertoire. Our fervor over-rode our appreciation for subtlety and modulation. The look on our bandleader’s face has stayed with me all these years later. His surprise, no, shock, registering on his face as we belted out those unforgettable bars in our few moments of glory. I quickly gave up my career as a French horn player when I left for college.
It turns out that all those years of piano lessons, singing in the church choir, doing pliés while a pianist accompanied my ballet class, playing French horn in the marching band–even playing in a recorder quintet as an adult– were beneficial in ways I didn’t realize at the time. Not only can music enhance youthful self-esteem and academic performance, musical training helps protect our mental sharpness and brain functioning. As I’ve aged, I’m now intent on maintaining my mental acuity for as long as possible.
It’s one of the reasons I signed up for classes in African drumming four years ago. I’d never played a drum, but I’ve played with the same enthusiasm as that youthful horn player I once was. I often joked that I’d remain in the beginner class indefinitely because an accidental shoulder injury cut my drumming career short. Now what? I love music and rhythm. Drumming in a community of other drummers was joyous and exhilarating. But it’s not just drumming: Anything to do with music makes me feel better. Music is good medicine.
“The power of music to integrate and cure is quite fundamental,” Dr. Oliver Sacks, neurologist and author of Awakenings wrote. “It is the profoundest non-chemical medication.” Music has a long history in medicine and healing. The ancient Greeks believed music could heal the body and the soul. Ancient Egyptians and Native Americans incorporated singing and chanting as part of their healing rituals. Even the U.S. Veterans Administration incorporated music an adjunct therapy for shell-shocked soldiers after World War II. Today, music therapy is widely used in hospitals and cancer centers to promote healing and enhance the quality of patients’ lives.
Google “music and healing,” and you’ll find a number of articles attesting to the physiological and emotional benefits of music.
Music also improves memory functioning. Think about it: We associate songs and other musical pieces with the people, places and emotions we experienced in the past. Not only does music our trigger life stories, but it can enhance memory functioning and face-name recognition among Alzheimer’s and dementia patients. (http://clearinghouse.missouriwestern.edu/manuscripts/230.php).
My mother died of Alzheimer’s several years ago. On one of my final visits with her, I was shocked by the physical and mental deterioration in the few weeks since I’d last seen her. Unresponsive and no longer able to walk, and she sat motionless in a wheelchair, her head bobbing listlessly to her chest. I tried to elicit a reaction from her, but without success. I pushed the wheelchair outside and walked around and around the building, before finally stopping to rest, stationing her next to a Bougainvillea furious with red blooms hoping to see a glimmer of life—some sign my mother was still inside her wasting body. I took her hand in mine and impulsively began singing. It was a song she often sang when I was a child.
“Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you,” I began, struggling to remember the lyrics. “Let me hear you whisper…” My eyes filled with tears, but I kept singing as much as I could remember. Very slowly, my mother raised her head to fix her eyes on my face. With great effort, she smiled. “Why,” she said, struggling for words, “it’s Sha-ron!” She nodded and smiled once more, closing her eyes. “I’m hap-py,” she said. So, as it happened, was I.
This week, think about music as medicine. What role does music play in your life? Have you used music as part of your healing during illness or loss? How did it help? What memories does a particular song ignite for you? What stories? Music, even a song like “Happy Birthday,” is also a powerful prompt for writing. Here are a few suggestions for writing:
I think I should have no other mortal wants if I could always have plenty of music. It seems to infuse strength into my limbs and ideas into my brain. Life seems to go on without effort when I am filled with music.– George Bernard Shaw