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I enjoyed a few days of solitude this past week, rare since my husband retired from academic life.  He traveled to Sacramento for the week for a short-term consulting project while I rediscovered the joy of a morning routine which began before sunrise and the solitude to write undisturbed in the morning stillness.  Without distractions, I found I was paying attention, being fully present to my outer and inner worlds.  It was a gift and a reminder of how important it is to sit in silence and be present to what is right in front of me vs. letting the day’s demands rush in to consume my thoughts.  I began each day in gratitude instead of worry or running through the list of tasks that needed attention.

I’ve written before how our attention and energies can be pulled in many, and often conflicting, directions by the  demands of a busy life or times of of illness, pain or hardship.  The solitude of writing offers a respite for me.  I quiet an overactive mind, reclaim a sense of calm, and find solace and healing.  Without it, I feel incomplete, or slightly off-center.

Writing has always been a refuge for me, particularly in difficult times, but not every kind of writing helps us heal. It’s not uncommon in times of serious illness, pain or suffering, that what has happened to us seems to defy understanding.  “An unsolved mystery is a thorn in the heart,” Joyce Carol Oates has said.  And some thorns in the heart may defy removal.  I remember how, in the first tumultuous years after my husband died in a drowning accident, I filled my journal pages night after night with a barrage of unanswerable questions, sorrow, anger and self-recrimination.  At first, the outpourings gave temporary relief from the turbulence of my conflicting emotions, but before long, I was a broken record, my notebooks filled with a vicious cycle of rumination.  I didn’t feel better.  I felt worse.  I finally put my journal aside and sought the help of a therapist.

At first, I did little more than weep and grieve in the safety of a supportive other, but soon, I began again to write, and as I did, my healing began.  It was different this time.  I wrote poetry—raw and wordy at first—and each week, I shared a new poem each with my therapist.  To his credit, he never attempted to dissect, interpret or question, instead, he simply responded with gratitude.   “Thank you,” he said.  Nothing more.  It was enough.   I felt affirmed, and I felt heard.  My poems took on new depth, descriptive quality and insight.  I began to get outside of my suffering and awaken to the world around me.  I re-discovered gratitude and a deep and abiding sense of what was most meaningful in my life.

It’s something  poets and writers have written about many times.  We write ourselves into knowing, discovery and healing.  Ted Kooser, cancer survivor and poet, 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…”

In his book, we find a touching portrayal of a poet recovering from the ravages of illness and treatment, whose spirit and sensibilities were reawakened in his solitary walks and captured in short, yet profound, poems.  He noticed life and the beauty of the natural world around him once more.  

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, being fully present.  Through his poems, we witness his recovery, but it’s the spiritual recovery we are most touched by, not the physical one, and the friendship exemplified in the sharing of poems between friends.  Harrison and Kooser had long exchanged poems in the letters they wrote to one another, but after Kooser’s cancer diagnosis, Harrison described Kooser’s poetry as “overwhelmingly vivid.”  They began a correspondence made entirely of short poems “because that was the essence of what we wanted to say to each other,” Harrison said.  (From the book jacket of Braided Creek:  A Conversation in Poetry by Jim Harrison and Ted Kooser, 2003).

“Poetry…,” Robert McDowell states in Poetry as a Spiritual Practice “leads to stillness, the calm center where you are most open and alive.  Poetry…makes you more mindful, and as you become so, you gracefully reconnect with the natural world.”  The great poet, Robert Frost, according to McDowell, said that “poetry doesn’t so much tell us anything new, but reminds us of things that we need to know but forgot” (p.6).

Things we need to know but forgot… And I was in danger of forgetting  why I need the solitude to write each morning I don’t think of myself as a poet—far from it—but in the stillness of early morning, the ritual of writing helps me pay attention and appreciate the beauty of life happening just outside my window—a hummingbird’s frolic at the fountain, the swoop and glide of a red tail hawk over the canyon, the call and response of the doves as mating season nears.  Writing has become my meditation, a kind of prayer.  Through it, I am constantly reminded of how we are simply a part of something greater, of all living things.

In her 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)

The poet Wendell Berry often spent his Sunday mornings in a walking meditation, observing the world and writing poetry which ultimately became his collection of  “Sabbath poems” spanning two decades of his Sunday morning walks.  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)

 

Paying attention, “capturing moments when heart and mind are open and aware” helps us rediscover and reclaim the sacred in our lives.  As Oliver and others remind us, it’s  about slowing down and being attentive to the present, to what’s inside or right in front of our eyes, opening ourselves to a process of spiritual exploration.  These past few days alone served as a reminder to me how very necessary it is to “have the quiet,” the solitude, to open my heart and mind and truly pay attention to what is around me. Although my husband has retired and is now at home in the mornings, his presence is not an excuse for not preserving my period of solitude and the quiet in my morning writing practice.  I was, I realized this past week, letting that precious quiet slip away.  I am grateful I had the chance to reclaim it.

Writing Suggestion:   Reclaim the sacred and spiritual in your life.  Embrace the quiet, the stillness.  Meander along a trail, near the sea, the woods, a long walk along city streets.  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

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I’m gonna sit right down and write myself a letter
And make believe it came from you
I’m gonna write words, oh, so sweet
They’re gonna knock me off my feet
Kisses on the bottom
I’ll be glad I’ve got ’em

I’m gonna smile and say “I hope you’re feelin’ better”
And sign “with love” the way you do
I’m gonna sit right down and write myself a letter
And make believe it came from you…

(“I’m Gonna’ Sit Right Down & Write Myself a Letter,” lyrics by Fred Ahlert and Joe Young, 1935.)

Two weeks ago, I browsed the greeting cards at a local shop.  It wasn’t a letter to myself I was thinking about.  I deliberated over the array of red hearts and written sentiments before buying a  handful of brightly colored envelopes, red and pink, for the three young grandchildren who occupy a big place in my heart.  Then for good measure, I added cards for my daughters and their husbands to the stack.  I put two cards aside, both for my husband to be placed on the kitchen table early Valentine’s Day morning, one from me, and, because she’s family, one from our little dog, who dotes on the two of us.

It’s been many years since I gave my very first valentine to a friend.  I was in kindergarten, and excited for the Valentines’ Day party, I rose early and enthusiastically addressed two-thirds of my packet of cards to my very best friend, who happened to have the same first name as I did, a name I knew how to spell.  My mother was horrified, discovering my careful—and indelible—work just before school.  It was too late to buy more cards for the rest of the class.  I still remember how Mrs. Newton, my teacher, knowingly smiled at me every time she pulled a card for the other Sharon from the class valentines’ box, saying, “Why here’s another card for Sharon H.”  My best friend got quite a few cards from me that day.

I’ve sent valentines and many greeting cards to friends and family ever since.  Purchased or handmade, expressions of sentiment in cards, lines of verse, letters or even postcards are a way to communicate.  A way to say “I appreciate you,” “I’m thinking of you,” or “I love you.”  The act of sitting down to address a card is something we do less often in this rush-rush, technological world, but when you do take  the time to jot a note, send a card or even give a call to those you care about, it’s  a great gift.  What’s more, you don’t have to wait for Valentine’s Day or another official holiday to do it.  The simple act of pausing to remember those we care about or those who have cared for us in times of struggle, hardship or illness, reminds us of what matters most in our lives:  people, friendship, love.

But this morning,  I realized I was guilty of a double standard.  I might be pretty good at letting  people in my life know I care for them, but I’m not as diligent at caring for the one who stares back at me each morning from the bathroom mirror.  I will confess she’s not perfect–far from it.  She’s often struggled, lost but sometimes won, grieved but often rejoiced, loved, lost and loved again.   Her body has weathered major surgery, early stage breast cancer, heartache and heart failure but most days, it still serves her fairly well, even though her joints broadcast her age whenever she  attempts a new yoga pose.  Yet it’s not infrequent that her image is the object of an exasperated sigh, even an occasional negative word or two, when she sees it in the mirror, especially that darned magnifying one she needs to apply even the slightest bit of mascara or blush.  She’s guilty of other inconsistencies too.  Despite her supportiveness for her writing students, she quietly succumbs to the harsh words from her internal critic, letting it trounce all over her writing or sketches at regular intervals.  She forgets–wait, who am I kidding?  I forget to express gratitude for that woman staring back at me from the mirror:  my face, my body, and all its evidence of a life fully lived.

The time will come

When, with elation,

You will greet yourself arriving

At your own door, in your own mirror,

And each will smile at the other’s welcome,

 

And say, sit here, Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was your self.

Give wine.  Give bread.  Give back your heart

To itself, to the stranger who has loved you

 

All your life, whom you ignored

For another, who knows you by heart.

Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

 

The photographs, the desperate notes,

Peel your image from the mirror.

Sit.  Feast on your life.

(“Love after Love,” by Derek Walcott, in Sea Grapes, Noonday Press, 1976)

Writing Suggestion:  Sit Right Down & Write Yourself a Letter

Each of us needs a reminder at times, especially after cancer or other hardships, to express the gratitude and compassion for ourselves and our bodies.  Valentine’s Day is tomorrow, a day many of us traditionally express love and affection to loved ones.  Why not add yourself to your valentine’s list  and “sit right down and write yourself a letter?”  Give yourself a valentine or write a gratitude letter you can re-read again when you’re feeling down on yourself..  Let it be a reminder of the gratitude and compassion you have for all you have endured and the person you are.  As Derek Walcott advised, “Sit.  Feast on your life. “

Happy Valentine’s Day!

 

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There is no Frigate like a Book

To take us Lands away

Nor any Coursers like a Page

Of prancing Poetry –

This Traverse may the poorest take

Without oppress of Toll –

How frugal is the Chariot

That bears the Human Soul –

(“There is no Frigate like a Book” (1286), By Emily Dickinson, 1830-86)

We had a new carpet installed in our living room this past week—a welcome change from the old one, faded and worn from the constant foot traffic to the outside deck.  It meant, however, that all the furniture had to be moved out of the room, and first, all the bookshelves and cabinets had emptied.  As wearisome as it was, I welcomed the task.  I’ve intended to sift through the dozens of books that have occupied the bookcases since we moved here, so when my husband hurriedly began re-shelving volumes after the installation was complete, I protested.

“I want to downsize my books,” I said.  “Let me do the re-shelving.”

Since the majority of the books are ones I’ve collected over the years, he agreed to leave me to the task of sorting and ordering.  That was four days ago.  I finished only last night, back aching, but the shelves neatly filled with my favorites,  poetry in one area, novels or nonfiction in another, art books on the bottom shelves, and so on.  Nearby, a large pile of discards waited to be boxed and donated—many that had been transported from house to house, country to country to end up here, in our California home.

“Why have you kept so many for so long?”  My husband is less attached to his books than I am, the majority of his given to the university when he retired.

“These books are like chapters of my life,” I said.  “I remember the stories, favorite passages and how they represented who I was becoming, what I was feeling and thinking at the time.”

Re-shelving took far more time than I anticipated.  With one book after another, I paused and sat down to page through them, all the while remembering the period a particular book came into my life.  There is the thick volume of e.e.cummings’ Complete Poems, its cover frayed and taped, pages dog-eared and marked by notes written in my hand.  I remember how I longed to have the volume so many years ago, and after a business trip to Boston, my first husband returned with it, a gift to me barely a year before his death.  In Alistair MacLeod’s Island, I recalled the years we lived in Cape Breton, the harshness of the long winters, and the loneliness I felt as a young mother.  Joan Didion’s Slouching Toward Bethlehem and Wallace Stegner’s Pulitzer Prize winning Angle of Repose once filled me with longing for the western landscape I’d left behind after we moved to Canada.  A half-dozen of Maurice Sendak’s wonderfully illustrated children’s books were favorites to read aloud to my daughters.  I took solace in William Stafford’s The Way It Is and the wisdom in his poetry during the deaths of my parents and any remaining familial closeness.  My books, I realized, provided a sense of stability, of something solid and tangible during periods of upheaval and personal transition.  Hours passed with little re-shelving accomplished as I paused to sit and page through favorite books, all the while remembering what it was like to be me.

“Without books how could I have become myself?”  Sharon Lynn Schwartz asked her book, Ruined by Reading:  A Life in Books (1996), a meditation on why we read and how what we read shapes us.  Schwartz reminds us how books we read can be formative, serving as touchstones and guides throughout our lives.  It’s why those of us who love books tend to give them as gifts, she says, just as one gives love or intimate information: “Here, read this; it is in my mind; it affected the way I breathed.”

When I was a child, books were magical.  I was thirsty to learn and escape into worlds and adventures of imagination and story.  Books fed not only my mind, but my soul as well.  They instilled the reverence I felt in the quiet of the local library and the musty, papery smell of treasured books lining shelf after shelf.  I cannot imagine a life without books.  Although I now read fiction on my kindle; it’s not the same.  I miss the feel of a book in my hands, the ability to turn down a page and return to it, the solidity of a paper book in a world that is increasingly fast-paced and dependent upon technology.  It’s why, I suspect, that the many books that continue to line my bookshelves will again be lovingly boxed up and transported whenever we find ourselves moving to another home.

I could never have dreamt that there were such goings-on
in the world between the covers of books,
such sandstorms and ice blasts of words,
such staggering peace, such enormous laughter,
such and so many blinding bright lights,                                                                                                     s
plashing all over the pages
in a million bits and pieces
all of which were words, words, words,
and each of which were alive forever
in its own delight and glory and oddity and light.

(Dylan Thomas, [essay] Notes on the Art of Poetry)

Writing Suggestion

Do you have favorite books that you’ve kept long after first reading them?  What books held particular meaning for you during your childhood or during a period of challenge and upheaval?  What did they offer to you than you needed at the time?  Write about a book or books that shaped you, ones that you hold dear, ones that ignite memories and stories each time you take it from your shelf.

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