Tag Archives: Creativity

What To Do Now? Everyday Magic, Day 151

Posted on December 16, 2010 | 1 Comment

There are some days that I don’t know how to live. I mean, I could do one part of my work or another, clean a closet instead, take a walk or do yoga, make a pot of soup, or simply do what I’ve been doing for an hour: staring out the window without seeing much, sipping coffee, checking facebook and email, and thinking about playing Typing Shark on line, all of which don’t seem to be the right thing. This is to say that out of all of life’s great possibilities at the moment, I’m inadvertently choosing to waste my time.

Part of my problem has to do with what I hold on my lap right now: a lapbook, which enables me to work a little around the edges all the time. I find it increasingly hard to stop planning an event, revising a document, checking on an endeavor. So maybe I’m just not wasting time at the right time of the day. At the same time, I’m aware that I’m freakishly lucky to get to work at home or in coffeehouses on projects largely of my own creating.

I know that wasting time, after a certain point of course, doesn’t really restock the well or serve me. So picked up the phone, made a date with a friend to take a long walk, opened a big document of the novel in progress, and told myself that after the walk, I’ll play in that world even if it’s a day when I don’t know so well what to do, how to live and what it means to be here. Meanwhile, just writing this blog points my attention to the birds popping off one branch onto another right outside this light-filled window.

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Power of Words Brings Me Home: Everyday Magic, Days 69-71

Posted on September 27, 2010 | 1 Comment

For the last six days, I’ve been immersed in the Power of Words, both lower case (as in how powerful our words can be when it comes to changing the world and our lives) and upper case, as in the 8th annual conference of the same name. For me, this event was a homecoming of many dimensions: the conference was held at Goddard College, my second home (who every knew that this phrase would apply to a dorm room where I live approximately one month divided over three visits each year for the last 15). It was also a conference I founded in 2003. But mostly, I found my way home to that newborn glow of what can happen between us all when we create together stories, poems, songs, performances and exchanges about what matters most.

Maybe that newborn glow also had something to do with the newborn — Nahar Nadi Keefe-Perry — daughter of the TLA Network co-coordinators, Callid and Kristina, who were responsible for organizing the conference. Born less than a month ago, this inquisitive and beautiful new being was a constant reminder to me about how precious, alive, tender and beautiful the life force is.

The things we do at this conference include the usual suspects for most conference (workshops, big group sessions, performances and panels) along with the less-than-usual (talking circles each morning where each of us could speak deeply in a small group, hearing ourselves through having good witnesses and learning how to listen fully to others). Performances were dazzling:

  • S. Pearl Sharp’s performance poetry brought to the surface an artful and soulful combination of ceremony, humor, deep wisdom and the astonishing dance of Nailah.
  • Kim Rosen recited the poetry of Rumi, Mary Oliver, Derek Walcott and others with great passion and joy.
  • Gregory Orr’s reading and talk on poetry as a way to praise the body of the beloved (which could be interpreted as the life force, Book of Poetry, or whatever we love most) illuminated everything I know and want to know about language.
  • Nancy Mellon’s combination of superlative storytelling, mythological weaving and anatomy showed us how our bodies are our stories.
  • Greg Greenway’s singing, songwriting, guitar- and piano-playing journeyed us through the heart of music in praise of homecoming, liberation and the hard work involved in being fully human.
  • Katherine Towler’s reading from the third book in her Snow Island anthology took us to a small Rhode Island island, just on the edge of time and history, and shaped by a kind of yoga of the imagination so visible in her writing.
  • The Coffeehouse of Wonder was so gorgeous, full of the most expansive humor and wildest edges of grief, love, joy and courage that those of us in the crowd went wild every few minutes.

But what brought me home most of us was simply being in such a diverse community, covering age (from newborn to elders), race and ethnicity, sexual orientation and identity, life experience in so many varieties that we made a community that had each other’s backs and hearts. Sitting in the back of the haybarn last night were a pact of African American storyteller-shamans. Walking across the campus was a teenage girl who would still share her full imagination with her mother, both of them attending workshops together. Sleeping in the dorms were people ready to stand up and follow their callings as well as those leaning forward to open the door.

I’m back in Kansas through the magical surrealism of plane travel, but I’m still carrying that dazzle and depth, lightness and weight, freedom and connection of being part of the Power of Words.

Pictures (from top): Jen, Callid, Kristina & Kim; Nahar in the arms of Suzanne with beautiful mom Kristina looking on; Katie Towler; Scott and friends performing; a gorgeous pact of shamans; leaving Vermont.

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Israeli Dancing in the Parking Lot: Everyday Magic, Day 62

Posted on September 15, 2010 | 1 Comment

The other day, when we went to the Lawrence Jewish Community Center to do some Israeli dancing, we were met with the vast amount of perfectly arranged chairs for the High Holidays. What to do? It was dust, clear and warm with a cool breeze, and the parking lot was mostly flat. So we brought the inside activity outside, which worked very well for running steps and grapevines, but not so well for fast turns. We ended the evening dancing “Erev Ba,” a lovely flowing circle dance we did at sunset, fittingly since “Erev Ba” means “Evening has come.”

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I Like Shiny Things: Everyday Magic, Day 59

Posted on September 12, 2010 | 2 Comments

The older I get, the more I turn into a crow, swooping down to marvel at shiny things, and what better things to find shine in than beads? About four years ago, I got hooked on buying shiny beads — glass beads, rock beads, sparkle beads, glimmery beads — and stringing them together in necklaces or looping them into earrings. I even got to the point where now, when I buy a new shirt or dress, I’m thinking of whether it will go well with a necklace or earrings.

I wear shiny things for myself primarily, not to be noticed or to stand out in a crowd, but simply because the shine upon me penetrates my mood and lifts me up. If we’re going to be alive, even on some days when that onward motion takes great effort, why not shine? And if we’re going to shine, why not sparkle when the light comes out way, and even glow when there isn’t much light?

So I recommend swooping down to examine and make our own whatever shines. Seems to me to be a great way to embrace age and change and to test and strengthen our wings.

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Writing Into Mortality & Beyond: Everyday Magic, Day 13

Posted on July 26, 2010 | 1 Comment

Today I had the joy of facilitating a mid-summer writing retreat for people living with serious illness at Turning Point: The Center for Hope and Healing in Kansas City (actually Shawnee Mission, KS). While this is something I’ve been doing  for years, each time is new, giving me a front row seat to witness courage, curiosity and the power of how we create (even and especially in the face of mortality). Many of the eleven people who participated are carrying long-term progressive illnesses or stage four cancer diagnoses, years of trying one new medication or another, weeks that stretch into long deserts of moving through chemotherapy or grief, and other assorted hard stuff. One woman just lost her beloved to late-stage cancer two weeks ago; another balances late stage cancer treatment behind her and heart surgery ahead of her; yet another watches her strength and balance ebb and flow due to Parkinson’s.

Whatever the story, it’s a story about facing mortality: our own or our loved ones. As such, it’s a story about loss and grief — even if we’re lucky enough to only lose a few body parts and a false sense of immortality. It’s also a story of the joy found in being present for whatever everyday magic life gives us, whether it’s a glimpse of a red bird singing to one woman from a rooftop, reminding her someone is watching over her, or a hanging out at a family beach party for another woman, a welcome respite from cancer treatment.

In these workshops, I use writing prompts that aim us not so much toward the hope of returning to the old life, pre-illness, but the hope of finding meaning, connection, love, acceptance and strength in the current life. This necessitates also facing, and sometimes writing or talking through, the times meaning evaporates, connections dissipate, friends and families don’t know how to show their love, and it’s hard to not feel betrayed, weak and lost. I tell the people in such workshops to try to cultivate an attitude of curiosity and kindness for whatever comes up in their writing, to treat their responses or even moments of not being able to respond as they would a dear friend. I also encourage us to witness each other: listen carefully. In doing so, we open the ears of our ears and then can better figure out what our own lives are saying to us. I also bring snacks, and today, that included cherries because even if life isn’t a bowl of cherries (or a chair of bowlies as Mary Engelbriet writes), we can still find sweetness that replenishes and nurtures us.

We laugh a lot. We cry (and always, there needs to be a handy tissue box). We talk about struggles, breakthroughs, fears, and great loves. Yet I’m also amazed by how quickly people make a circle of support together, offering each other not just resources, but a kind of understanding that helps everyone in the group look into the issues tipping out when their mortality is stirred. In these workshops, we often speak of how to live, especially when the days are numbers and yet no one knows what those numbers are. There’s something about facing the hard stuff of life, whatever it is, that rips the veil of whatever-ness off, and lets us see clearly what matters, who we are, and how to live.

Photos from workshop used with permission of participants. For copy of My Tree of Life: Writing and Living Through Serious Illness, a book I edited of past participants’ writing, go to the Turning Point store. I also encourage people with serious illness or who are caregivers in the Kansas City area to check out Turning Point, make contributions, and/or take some classes. See a blog by one of the class participants.

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Orange Sky & the Ways of Orange: Everyday Magic, Day Eight

Posted on July 21, 2010 | 1 Comment

After the storm last night, which exploded 3.5 inches of rain from the sky in less than a few hours, I saw something I had never seen before: first a certain shade of gold banking the horizon, and then a deep orange, lit from within. The colors were smooth, watercolor saturated, filling the western sky under the wide lifting of clouds.

We ran out to the deck to watch, the rain still falling lightly around us, the air newly-cooled. “Look,” Ken said, pointing to the south, where we saw a sliver of rainbow, the sky through it darkening but still tinged with light.

I remember a student I had at Goddard who deeply valued the color orange, telling me it was the color of creativity, surprise and magic. Through her eyes, I’ve come to look for orange more, whether it’s the orange rounded fox in the firefox icon on this computer’s desktop, an orange shirt I see a friend wearing at the food co-op, or those lanky lilies crowding through weeds on the roadside. I’ve been learning the ways of orange, how it generally adds imagination to any setting, showing me something I didn’t expect and opening my mind to what can come at any moment. Like last night when an orange sky welcomed me home to where the storm ends and night begins.

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Braving Brave Voice

Posted on January 21, 2008 | 3 Comments

Several years ago rhythm and blues singer-songwriter Kelley Hunt and I started talking about how singing can open up our writing voice, and visa-versa, all of which couldn’t help but to enliven the rest of our lives. That was the impetus behind Brave Voice, the week-long retreat we developed that brings men and women together in the wilds of the weather and their own experience to recover, discover and express more of their voice and life.

As a writer, I’m long-acquainted with the value of entering a new piece of writing through the backdoor, which means being committed enough to write without making such a big deal about doing it perfectly that the words get too scared to show up. Instead, I show up, put myself out there on the page, and bring enough curiosity and respect for the art, for the poem, story, or song to unfurl and show itself. In bringing singing and writing together with Kelley, I realize we’re walking into all kinds of new places through back doors, opening up the physical voice through singing and then watching what happens with that voice on the page, or speaking from the heart and then leaning into a song to see what it has to show us.

This kind of engagement allows us to access far more of our lives, experiences, perceptions, magic, music and words than putting only our brain’s frontal lobe in the driver’s seat. Yet such engagements benefit from enough patience, time, safe enough space to take creative risks, and good enough witnesses to help us see what we’re creating. It’s a date with the mysterious to witness what wants to be said, written, sung or performed, and both Kelley and I believe in having outrageous fun and making sure to get up and dance on such dates.

At Brave Voice, we come together to listen deeply to ourselves, to each other, to the land and lake and sky around us, to the calling of our own voice, and the sightings along our own path. We witness each other, and in doing so, we learn how to listen more deeply to our own creative process. We are witnessed, which helps us feel and know the full weight of our music, writing, and art.

Where we meet has much to do with what we find. The retreat is held at a camp on an arrowhead-shaped peninsula surrounded by Council Grove reservoir. The location, in the center of the Flint Hills (endless hills of tallgrass prairie that look like voluptuous women lying on their sides), was key meeting ground for Plains-area tribes, which came together in council to share news, celebrate, meet and make and keep community. The location of the camp is the precise place where thousands of tribal people met for hundreds of years.

Coming to this sacred ground, we experience both resonance and reverence that’s inherently healing, grounding and renewing. We come to a particular place, and in doing so, we also find our ways into our own particular songs, stories, poems, plays, rhythms and motions. Such a place, combined with such a process, uncovers the utter bravery of our voices, and what we have to say, sing or write to the world.

Check out Kelley’s new site: http://www.myspace.com/kelleyhuntmusic.

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