We are Friends

“She is my friend and we play together.  We are neighbors too.  She and her family are our new neighbors.  We are really good friends too!”  He informed me excitedly as I first walked in the cafeteria last week at lunch time.

He was beaming.  I don’t remember ever seeing him this happy.  He is a beautiful sensitive nine year old boy from Iraq who has been struggling with making friends since he arrived six weeks earlier, more than two weeks after the new school year has started. Because of his almost non-existent English, he was too shy to attempt making friends with students from other nationalities. And for one reason or another he also struggled getting along with the few boys who speak his language all of whom are at least 12 years old or older.  He was in tears most days. 

After several attempts at trying to make peace, I made a suggestion that maybe he would be better off not hanging out the older boys and that he should give his non-Arabic speaking classmates a chance.  He followed only half of my advice and for the next few days, I would often find him having lunch by himself.  Sometimes, I would sit with him and we would make small talk.  At other times, I would invite a couple of other kids to join us.  Not knowing how long this solitary behavior would last, I started to seriously question the validity of the piece of advice I gave and worried even more about him. 

To my relief, as I walked into the cafeteria the following week I saw him with a beautiful girl, about his age, sitting at his table eating her lunch quietly.  The conversation that ensued kind of put my worries to rest.  I could see that he was feeling happier. 

He could barely contain his excitement.  His beaming smile lighting up the whole cafeteria, he introduced me to his new friend.  “She is my friend.  We play together.”  He told me.  “She is in my class,” he added.  “I help her because she is new and I know more English.  And she helps me with math because she is good at math,” he continued cheerfully.   “She is my friend, my neighbor and my classmate.” 

“So everything is OK now?”  I asked.  “Everything is great.  We are friends,” still smiling, he repeated the three beautiful words, “we are friends.”

October 2012

Have a little fun

During the past week, I've had multiple occasions to reflect on this delightful part of being human: having fun and enjoying our capacities!  Maybe a New Year's resolution for myself will be to have more fun.  Do at least 1 fun thing per day that has no goal or end for anything other than just delighting in the act of being alive with infinite capacities and knowing it.  I went sledding and played in the snow with my nephews over Christmas.  It was a blast!  We had so much fun.  I watched the Nutcracker and delighted in the beauty of the ways a human body can move and speak with no words uttered.  I try to take intentional time each day to play with my puppy who is an absolute joy.  I delight in writing (sometimes) when the writing is free and unrestricted and not for a specific end that makes me worry about its goodness or doubt my own brilliance.  Dancing and singing are fun when you just let loose and enjoy it, not trying to impress anyone.

There are so many fun activities we can do!  Find things that make you laugh and laugh every day.  There are always things to complain about, but there are also always things to just delight and wonder in.  The cloud is in the paper, and the grandmother is in the child, and the tree is in me, and all of life is an astounding miracle of interbeing!  We have an incredible capacity as human beings to create, to bring something new into the world.  This is amazing, and we should exercise this creative capacity every chance we get.

So my advice for the new year is have fun, the kind of fun that makes your soul burst open with laughter and pure delight in whatever you just did.  Delight in the miracle of life.  Do something to shake things up; remind yourself you are alive and that is a miracle.  Create something new; learn something new, and not because  you have to, but because you can.  If you don't know how to have fun, or what to do, spend at least 30 min. playing with a child.  Let him or her be in charge.  Follow their lead and loosen up your imagination.  Try to see through their eyes.  Dream.

Some of the most developed and industrial nations are also some of the unhappiest.  I believe there is a connection.  Too much work, too much seriousness and pressure for perfection and competition, and not enough play.  People who spend time with family and friends, engage in meaningful work, rest, and play are much happier.  From my time in Latin America one of the big lessons I learned was to celebrate, and celebrate often.  So, this year I'm going to add some more play time into my days, and I invite you to join me.  We can delight in being human together!

Walking With Gaddi

One day Gaddi got in trouble
So his kindergarten teacher
Sent him to sit quietly
In our office for a few minutes
To calm down and reflect 
On the hope that he would not    
Repeat the undesirable behavior
That got him in trouble in the first place

So Gaddi sat quietly for a few minutes
With a serious look on his face     
Arms crossed high on his chest
Looking tinier than he was in the big chair
I don't know if he reflected on anything
But Gaddi looked calmed down
And so I offered to take him back to class

As we stepped into the courtyard
Leading up to his building and classroom
And into a gorgeous late summer day
Gaddi put his tiny hand in mine 
And trusting that I would keep him safe  
He closed his eyes and raised his face
To the sun's warm embrace  
Gaddi and I proceeded to walk together
Serene, leaving all our troubles behind
Him trusting me and I loving him

And once again, I was reminded
Why I love working with children
Gaddi sporting a blissful smile now 
Eyes still closed, he seemed to have
No other care in the world
But to let the sun kiss his beautiful face
And as I held his hand and guided him
We walked together, unhurried, back to class
                 

No Words

I have no words to describe
The immense happiness I feel
When I am greeted by a child's
Scream of delight and hug of steel

I have no words, none that come near
To depicting the blissful cheer
At the sound of children playing
Running singing talking or just being

What words are there to define
The moment you magically witness
On the sad face of a crying child
The birth of a smile and forgiveness

Stories

I think I know why I am here.

People come and go. I have experienced the fragile, fickleness of people. Where one moment there is affection and friendship, the next there can be damaging anger and antipathy, causing a sickness of the heart and mind. I have often felt the earth fall into a void, right out from under my feet, and I am left stranded and breathless. I have experienced this from close family. I have experienced this from close friends. Coworkers, acquaintances, people I see on the street. From great distance and also from a hair’s breadth away. They can leave permanent change or temporary ones. But from what I have experienced, all people fade, or leave, or hurt you, or change irrevocably. It’s a losing battle if I lay down my heart and soul within other people. It is not because of them that I know what I am meant for. 

Stories, ideas, legend, fairy tales - the brilliant changing vortex of literature roils around me. I cannot trust people – but I can comfortably let my soul drift, shining beyond the strength of a thousand suns, in the lapping waves of a story. Only there can I trust. Only there am I at peace. I can walk hand in hand with Lucy in Narnia. I can breathe the air of Lothlorien. No door is closed to me. Stories will never die, never fade, never betray or hurt or defame or spite. They can still change me, for better or worse, but with a kind of safety net. They will never let go. Stories will always be there, holding me in place. Stories will always be there – it’s the air I breathe, “stored up on purpose for a life beyond life” (quote from the New York Public Library, on 42^nd and 5^th Ave.)

Stories are infinite. If I can smile in the face of the big bad monster, it’s only because I am holding onto dear life to these stories. These legends, these fairy tales, these everyday comings and goings.

I know why I am here. I am here, whole and beautiful, because of these tales. I am here to keep reading, unearthing the wonder, the impact, the essentialness, of stories. I want to be part of that larger, beautiful growth, that forever timeline, of keeping these stories alive. To partake in the infinite. For me, “that is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great” (Willa Cather).

I know why I am here.

***

This is for Dr. Chmiel, who encourages me to share pieces which are hidden away in my journals. This is from a few days ago, which I wrote down in my journal. It is published here in its rough form, no edits. I hope to develop this into a more polished, personal manifesto. For those of you who don't know, I'm an English major and I'm applying to graduate school. I'd been struggling for some time to articulate my reasons for wanting to go to grad school, and out of that struggle came this. Enjoy!

Dear Mom, Dad, Advisors, Essay Readers, and Society in general,

I do not like questions that only carry expectations for answers.

Answers that I do not know.

Answers that I do not want to know.

Answers that are only replaced with more questions.

Which is fine…

Until you demand more answers.

Questions that only solicit answers that can be given in the time to scarf down food at Christmas dinner.

Or answers that can be given in 500 words or less.

Or answers that can be summed up in a 2 page Doctor’s report.

I do not mind your questions

Until you assume I have an answer (your answer)

Don’t tell me I’m wrong or making a mistake

Don’t role your eyes or expect me to have it all together.

I like questions that carry the expectation of nothing more than a few works scribbled on a notebook in pen

I like questions that tell me to listen

To the voice inside my head

the voice telling me to keep going

it will out work itself out in the end

On Ferlinghetti's Americus (Book I)

For Dianne Lee and Lynette D’Amico

When I first read Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s Americus,I just before The Book of Mev was published, I was energized by discovering how much it is a mish mash, full of allusions, weaving together autobiography, politics, cultural history, headlines, lit crit, a whole shmear of America! It really is Joycean: Here comes everybody!

Ferlinghetti’s the John Sayles of poetry: Americus is a down-to-earth, populist poesy and retrospective on what and who we’ve been. Obscure, pedantic, unreadable poets, sharpen your knives!

A couple of passages:

Some kind of new woman or man
dreamed up
in our great melting pot
petri dish of creation
A small-scale exhibition
of what mankind could possibly be—
“Demon or bird! (said the boy’s soul)”
Hero or antihero
Man of pure action or Underground Man
Man of “heightened consciousness”
Or psychedelic mystic
Slave master or utopian dreamer
Bowery bohunk or blessed redeemer
Sister of Mercy or serial killer
Poet or panderer on the lamb
Keystone Kop or Chaplin’s little man
or Bush league Presidencies
in totalitarian plutocracies?
O which will it be? [pp. 2-3]

Song of the Open Road sung drunken
with Whitman and Jack London and Thomas Wolfe
still echoing through
a Nineteen Thirties America
a Nineteen Forties America
an America long gone now
Except in broken-down dusty old
Greyhound bus stations
in small lost towns
Ti-Jean’s [Kerouac's] vision of America
Seen from a speeding car window
the same as Wolfe’s lonely sweeping vision
glimpsed from a coach train long ago [pp.64-65]

Over the last decade, Andrew Wimmer has stressed how much we as citizens need to recover our imaginations, to break free from the imprisonment of our spirits and language. Ferlinghetti sees poets as having a crucial role in that recovery:

[Poetry] is the street talk of angels and devils.
It is a subversive raid upon the forgotten language of the collective unconscious.
It is a lawless, insurgent enterprise.
[The poet] must be a gadfly of the state mating with a firefly.
It speaks the unspeakable, utters the unutterable sigh of the heart.
A poem should still be an insurgent knock on the door of the unknown
Poetry a radical presence, always goading us.
For great poetry to be born, there must be hunger and passion.
Poetry is the last refuge of humanity in dark times.

Poetry…
Radical, insurgent, subversive
Raid, refuge, gadfly …
Siempre avanti!

Writing Aspirations for the Next Few (Many?) Months (Years?)

To encourage Ann in her possibly imminent publishing pursuits

To begin in earnest sequel to Dear Layla—I just bought three black Moleskines, first objective, fill them with daydreams of what’s going on with Carla Nguyen

To show up wherever Fatima’s going to be

To send Brittany postcards when she’s at the beach

To begin a serene decade-length project called, The Teachings Are Infinite

To pester Nebu to write a draft of a novel in the spirit of his Kerala elder Arundhati Roy (before he graduates from medical school)

To resume work with Dianne on Hedy's political memoir

To scribble 30 pages in notebooks with Libby, top-floor, South Grand Gelateria

To cheer on Emily & Kelley & Lindsay in their great “Sisters are doing it for themselves” project

To do several writing mini-marathons with Tony, Josh, and Laura in Dogtown environs

To mail out 30 one-page gratitude notes a month to friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your eyes

To revel with Jenn in her multitudes emerging in oral and written forms

To start  a Writing to Wake Up class in spring, if only for people who missed the fall one

To write one response a week to current events and/or books on U.S. policy and circulate to my amigas y compañeros (like Tom Englehardt did in 2001)

To read whatever inner/outer journey essays Tony wants to send me

To host a potluck at 4514 for the fall class and the spring class—no writing, unless someone starts spontaneously to declaim—just good food and drink, a relaxing evening

To accompany Lindsay in her slowness project

To listen to Dianne read me poems the way she did Ferlinghetti's "The Old Italians Dying"

To brainstorm incandescent ideas with Emily while sitting on the bathroom floor of some café

To remind Priya of the jewels in her accumulating notebooks that are worthy of a wide readership

To cheer on Justin to compile and then circulate a chapbook for the benefit of all sentient beings

To write glowing letters of recommendation for Lindsey who’s headed for life outside the United States of Amnesia

To discuss Robert Fisk a few times with Kelley at Central Café, al-Tarboush, and the Vine

To assure Cami that a 35-page collection of Appalachian-story-moments is possible

To publish Dear Layla via Lulu.com, so that it is circulating by May, then promote it by word of mouth

To buy 20 copies of Book of Mev, give them away to people under 30


-- expanded from draft written at 2167 Spring Avenue, Thursday 29 November 2012, last class of Writing to Wake up

A peaceful Evening (or Morning)

No shopping list to mind
No last minute errand to run
In my favorite armchair
Feet up on the coffee table
A good book in my hands
A content cat sleeping on my lap
Loved ones are far yet nearer
To my heart now more than ever
Sitting in my favorite chair
I'm grateful for the slow pace
And counting my blessings
For the peace and quiet
For the here and now

December 23

Dear Ones

While you're out shopping
Get me a gift certificate
With no expiration date
And unlimited access
To the brand name Compassion
At Life Department Store
In the section called Humanity

Yours truly,
Fatima

We Have Failed the Children

We have failed the children
We have failed to protect them
We have failed to keep them safe
We have failed and who is to blame?

We have failed and who is to blame
But ourselves, the children are dead
We have strayed, put our interests ahead
Where is our promise to keep them safe?

This is not about politics or ideology
We have failed - where is our humanity?
We have failed, the children are dead
No MORE excuses! We ALL have failed

We make promises and we deceive
We shed crocodile tears and we cheat
We wave the flag of peace and hope
While waging war abroad and at home

And once in a while, there is outrage
And every time more tears are shed
But soon enough, we will forget
Until we fail the children again

What the fuck is so hard about committing
Above all else to the welfare of the children?
And if we can't protect the most vulnerable
And innocent among us, aren't we doomed?

As we grieve today, can we find it in our heart
To weep for ALL the dead children everywhere?
Can our outrage be outrageous enough
To put a stop to this absurd carnage?

Should we continue to feed our greed?
To what end?  And at what price?
What good is freedom, the mother weeps
What good is freedom to my dead child?

December 16, 2012

On Confession

Words leave tracks of mud

A mess of entanglement

Should be-Supposed to-Should have

            Colliding with

                        I

Makes a mess.

Bound by deformed chains,

Words unhinge our soul

Free us to own, acknowledge, make peace with

            God, me, you

Power unleashed

Spark sent forth

Spread, splattered, spilled

In a chaotic wind

of tears

of sighs

of pauses

of breath

Words transform,

They build a new story

Where tracks of mud have a place

Offer hope, consolation, wisdom

A new story, a good story

One to be told

The Evening News Hour

In the midst of the ugliness
Of what's on the evening news hour,
I often find myself reverting back to the images
And the sounds that filled my day,
Warmed up my heart and healed my soul.
The images of beautiful children
With the most amazing smiles
And the sounds of the musical chatter
Of more than a dozen different languages
Heard in the school's cafeteria and hallways.
The images of children helping, comforting and
Protecting each other, standing up for what is right;
And the sounds of whispers and giggles,
Laughter, singing and happy screams of children
At play in the courtyard during recess
On a hot summer day or a breezy fall afternoon.
Under the deluge of all the bad news,
And in the absence of humanity and decency
If we were to believe all the reports,
I find myself seeking and finding comfort
In the memory of the warm hug of a grateful mother
Too overwhelmed with emotions to speak;
And in the strong handshake of a proud father
Who only wants the best for his young daughters.
And as I soak in all these beautiful images,
The broadcast gloomy account of the day,
Duly acknowledged, starts to loose its grip
To slowly fade away.  My faith in humanity, slightly
Bruised, fights back demanding full restoration
To impose itself once again against all odds.
I take a deep breath feeling calmer,
More grounded and a little bit stronger;
I am grateful for today, for each day,
And full of hope for tomorrow.

Free

Today I'm free
To take a chance
To reject the fake
False sense of security

Today I'm free
Less is more I see
Today I'm free
Oh sweet ecstasy!

Today I'm free
I open my mind
My spirit, my heart
At last I'm free

Free to break the rules
Ruffle a few feathers
Today I'm free
Fuck sensibility!

Today I'm free
To live in the present
The future will NOT
Scare or worry me

Today I'm free
Every day is a gift
To love, to give
To breathe and to be

Today I'm free
There is no going back
Today I'm free
To be ME!

Six Months in Latin America

If I could afford to spend six months in any country, it would be somewhere in Latin America.  I have lived in North and Sub-Saharan Africa, in Europe and in the Middle East - I would love to live anywhere in Asia but since I’m in my first semester of learning Spanish, I would love to live in a Spanish-speaking culture.  I have recently started to familiarize myself with the music, the poetry and current events of this part of the world.  I love watching foreign films and had the opportunity on occasions to watch several Spanish language films and documentaries. These internationally produced powerful films depict past and current political conflicts and human right issues in many countries in Latin America.  If I could spend six months in any of these countries, I would choose to live among the people who struggle in life to make a decent living; people whom otherwise I would have unlikely met, talked to, have a meal with, laughed or cried with under ordinary circumstances.  I would make every effort to learn their language, their culture, their history, their everyday struggles and achievements, their hopes and dreams for the future.  I would share with them my experiences growing up in Morocco, coming to America, and becoming a mother of two beautiful, intelligent, strong willed kind daughters as well as my experiences learning English, continuing my education, becoming a US citizen and a teacher.  We would have so much to talk about even with my limited Spanish.  They’ll tell me about their daily lives which would probably have a lot in common with the lives of people I have known and lived with in West Africa, Morocco, Egypt, Palestine and Yemen; and even right here in St. Louis.  Their stories will be in Spanish but no different from the stories I heard before in Arabic, French or English.  They would proudly introduce me to their musical heritage, their revered poets and artists, their homeland heroes who struggled, fought and lost their lives so their countrymen and women could live in liberty, dignity and justice.  We’ll share meals and exchange recipes and we would realize that we use some of the same spices here as we do in Africa or in the Middle East.  Their children’s beautiful eyes and  innocent smiles will remind me of the Palestinian children from Nablus with whom I used to sing French children songs on weekday afternoons in the Balata and Askar refugees camp in the Occupied West Bank.  Or they would remind me of the Senegalese neighbors’ children, my daughters’ first playmates, from my Point E quiet neighborhood in Dakar where we used to live more than twenty years ago.  My new friends from Latin America will help me learn Spanish and if they’re interested, I’ll teach them some French or English or maybe some Arabic.  A few weeks of having been acquainted, we would feel as if we had known each other all our lives - and maybe we have.  I mean, I’ve lost count of the number of times when after meeting new friends for the first time, I’d have this gnawing feeling that we have met before.  And after six months, I would say goodbye, my heart heavy with sadness to leave my new friends - sad but grateful for having met them, known them and shared their lives for a few brief months.  I would forever be indebted to them for making my life richer and more meaningful and for the memories I would always carry with me for the rest of my life.

March 2012

Little Miracles

(This is a piece in progress.  More of a draft, a partial list I jotted down this Sunday morning.  My inspiration come from the children I work with at my school. I'm sure anyone of us is capable of witnessing more of these everyday life's little miracles. 
Love & Peace,
Fatima)

Little Miracles

To have little hands slipping in my hands or pulling down my shirt, my sleeve to get my attention

To crouch on my knees to be at face level, eye to eye to listen, to comfort and to hug

To have two little hands frame my face to be able to speak directly in my ear

To show up in the cafeteria, in a classroom or in a hallway and be swarmed by children not competing for hugs but offering them generously and freely

To witness a smile, a happy, sad, tired or a hesitant smile but a smile nonetheless on a child's beautiful face any minute of the hour for six, seven or more hours a day, ten or more months a year and to believe that maybe, just maybe I had something to do with it

To see, never expecting it would ever happen, little Monica run to me offering a first hug merely three months after the beginning of the school year

To be called habibti by children who don't even speak Arabic but know the full meaning of this term of endearment

To happily shed the cloak of authority figure and be me, an adult sure, but just plain old me

To be greeted every morning by assalamu alaikum and a handshake by young Somali male students

To sit in the lunchroom at a table with students from all four corners of the world and not even notice that little fact

To wake up every morning and know for every story of struggle, heartache and pain, they'll be many more stories of resilience, hope and healing

To wake up every morning and be guaranteed a most beautiful gift that day, the gift of laughter

To be invited to a soccer game, to a game of tag during recess on a beautiful autumn day and be able to say the heck with paperwork, I'm joining in the fun

To walk the halls of the school holding a trusting little hand in mine and feel the love and beauty of life

To hear from young children I love you, ana bahebek, te amo, je t'aime and to say it back meaning every ounce of it

To hear from older children neither I love you, nor ana bahebek, te amo, je t'aime in words but still feel the love nonetheless

To know that I can love that much that many and still have room to love so many more that much and more ...

Is It Not Enough?

Is it not enough

for Grover

to sway upon a floor

of my thighs and knees?

Is it not enough

the bird sounds and airplane low loud hum

with the door open?

Is it not enough

without a plan for exercise

or dinner

or tonight?

this pressure to self-care the weekend away

“Is it not enough?” Someone of me asks and

“It is never enough,” someone else of me proclaims.

But someone else of me, in his fear,

decides this cat's cuddling motion

is a waste of my present

Momentous unreality

Impersonal truth

Oh, the nourishment of

"It has always been enough."

Dear Safety

Dear Safety,
      I want nothing to do with you. I throw off your constrictive, binding shackles in order to pursue a fuller life. A life worth living. A life worth losing. I don't want your fat steady paychecks or white picket fences. You can keep your stability and predictability and I'll take my adventure and purposefulness. Come after me with worry and I'll explain that you only need to worry if you won't let me go. Then    you     can     worry.
      Clip the wings of a bird because you're afraid it'll fly away and won't come back, and you'll never know how high it can soar. Deny it of it's inherent need to fly and it will forever resent you. Put it in a cage, tell it it's pretty, and only take it out when it's convenient and it will never sing for you.
      Safety, do not mistake my rejection of you as a fleeting infatuation with recklessness. No, I indeed also reject such a temptation. I am leaving you behind because you lie. You tell me that if I cling to you I will be happy and satisfied and better off. No more am I enchanted by these blissfully empty promises.
      With you I am safe. Without you I have the chance to be selfless. So, goodbye safety. I don't think I'll miss you.

Unregrettably,
             
                      Cami

You Should Call Me Five Times a Week

To tell me a specific feeling you're feeling in that present moment wonderful moment
To express 1/1,000,000,000th how much you treasure Matt
To describe one of those famous Chicago winds
To share one Gujarati word I really should know
To  narrate one minute of an encounter with one patient

If you don't get me
Leave a message of 14 seconds
Or 5 minutes

What History Teaches by Steve Tamari

Nobel Peace Prize Laureate, Leader of the Free World, Commander-in-Chief of the War on Terror, First African-American President, First Community Organizer in the White House  Barak Hussein Obama pronounces, “Israel has a right to defend itself.”

This, after Israeli forces...

Remove 750,000 non-Jews from their homes to create a Jewish state;

Invade Egypt with colonial powers Britain and France;

Occupy the remaining 25 percent of historic Palestine, 

While conquering the Golan Heights from Syria and the Sinai from Egypt;

Annex Arab East Jerusalem;

Assassinate PLO leaders from Rome to Tunis,

But mostly in Beirut,

Where poets Ghassan Kanafani and Kamal Nasser were gunned down;

Defy the Geneva Conventions and settle occupied territory;

Bomb a nuclear facility in Baghdad, Iraq;

Launch a full-scale invasion of Lebanon;

Occupy southern Lebanon for 18 years;

Build more illegal settlements; 

Kill (directly or indirectly) President Yasser Arafat;

Launch another full-scale invasion of Lebanon;

Fortify a land, air, and water blockade of Gaza,

A land of refugees;

Target kill Hamas leaders;

Bombard the most densely populated territory on earth for one month;

Assault unarmed civilian vessels carrying medical aid to Gazans;

Launch another air assault on Gaza and threaten a ground invasion;

O’ Supreme Protector of Human Rights, Democracy, and Freedom,

who has the right to defend itself?

Children Are Dying by Fatima Rhodes

Children Are Dying

Woke up this morning
The day before Thanksgiving
Watched with heavy heart
The one sided news reports
Of more violence and destruction
Children are dying
Had my coffee, checked my email
On my smartphone, Facebook too
More depressing news
Of bloodshed and death
Mixed with advertisement
For great shopping deals
And Black Friday is now
A Thursday sucking the life
Out of struggling workers
Undeserving of the luxury
Of even enjoying a holiday
With loved ones
So the rest of us can buy
more for less. Ain't that
The sprit of Thanksgiving?
And children are still dying
There is nothing more depressing
Than starting the day
With news of death,
destruction and consumerism.
A second a cup of coffee,
I share post on Facebook
Asking questions no one can answer
How can one human life
be worth more than another?
How can we condemn one form of violence
And defend another one?
How are individual, group or state
terrorism different from each other?
How many children, mothers, fathers,
Friends, LIVES are massacred
Before we can learn how to coexist?
Children are DYING

Hi Friends,

Here's an interesting look into the writing lives and disciplines of well-known authors.

http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2012/11/20/daily-routines-writers/

Ann

Writing to Wake Up with Jenn Lay and Doc Chmiel: Give Thanks

Writing to Wake Up with Jenn Lay and Doc Chmiel: Give Thanks

Woke up this morning with a dozen thoughts -- that’s usually a sign of a productive day to come -- unless I get lost in the maze that is my mind.  I have a writing date today which I am looking very forward to.  One thing I do love about taking the bus is that it necessitates an early arrival to my destination, which I’d likely otherwise be, though fashionably, late to.  

How to begin the day, to begin the writing session with friends? Oh I feel so behind, because of time missed. Or due to life lived in the gap, am I behind at all? It’s not something that can be measured, and does it matter? The willingness to join up again and walk together is all I need to feel up to speed.

Giving Thanks -- a good topic for the week as I really haven’t thought about what I’m thankful for lately considering it is the week of Thanksgiving.  Maybe it’s the busyness of work lately where the only reason I remembered Thanksgiving was seeing the lady in the office making a turkey hand sign -- so joyously too!  I couldn’t help but wonder if it’s the one creative thing she gets to do each holiday.

**Meandering complaints omitted -- not the focus of the exercise, nor necessary for this practice to include.  Sparing the cyber-world of my begrudging, though I know better than to censor myself!  I do myself a disservice, though for now it keeps the pond around me unrippled, likely best for now.  These thoughts might be included in future machete-written words -- stay tuned.**

I am so thankful that I can say yes and no to work.  I can work at 3 in the morning, and on another note, no one is going to tell me today that next week at this time I have to be available from one time slot to another.  No not having enough vacation days to go home...what vacation days?  For part of every week I have vacation days if I choose.  This certainly isn’t a time of banking Benjamins daily, but I can truly say that no amount of money can replace the joy and relief of autonomy -- invoicing others who are invoicing still others for time and talent -- talent that is appreciated in a tangible way, dollars, the way that as a society we operate through this life, which allows me to live and explore and enjoy my life.  I’m grateful for the different and interesting people that I get to work with, and I’m grateful that good work is rewarded with bigger jobs and a bigger price tag on, oh, me!

I’m grateful for friends calling me up -- and bummed when I can’t make it over, but know there is a bond that goes beyond time and place.  I’m grateful for a wonderful boyfriend who supports me in all of my dreams and visions, some pretty hazy, lofty, and he still cheers me on never doubting my newest hobby -- this week it happens to be sewing a shirt from a Simplicity pattern, and no, I've never sewn anything by myself.  For his amazing cooking skills sparked with creativity and innovation that -- though I can follow recipes, I will never have skill or desire to pursue.  For many other things he does and is that is more suited to live in a thick book.

For happiness each day.  For laughter every day.

I’m thankful for a loving family, though they do not always see eye to eye with me -- at least that care a lot and show it in the ways they know how.  I know not everyone is so lucky.  I’m grateful for all of my family members who I’ve had a childhood and adulthood to grow up with and around -- to know them.  For various skills I’ve learned from them, for their attention, their interest in all of my endeavors; for love.

I’m grateful for education, Wikipedia, Ehow and Adobe product tutorials.  For free shipping and delivery.  For SLPL, the public library; for my downtown branch (opening December 9!).  For free trials and support in nearly every software program that I'm interested in.  For popcorn with flavors, for wine and coffee (mmm -- yes).  For wine and coffee connoisseurs to direct me to flavors I enjoy most.  For so many things that make life joyful, rich and interesting.  For my two dogs, who give us such joyful days full of entertainment.  For books, for reading, for All Along Letterpress. For the gift to tell their story in a sequence; to use my gifts, something they cannot do to highlight their gifts, something I cannot do.  I want my entire life to be filled with things like these -- codependence and mutual benefit -- a lifetime of gratitude.

This Christmas Season...

"Appreciation is the sacrament."
--Allen Ginsberg

"If the only prayer you say in your entire life is 'Thank you,' that would suffice."
--Meister Eckhart

"Be grateful to everyone."
--Buddhist mind-training slogan

This Christmas season
I want to give a lot

Spend a small fortune
On stamps

As I write by hand a gratitude a day
Three to 13 lines or sentences

To notice someone's gifts
And say so--

Her humor, compassion, benevolence
His mischief, fire, generosity--

To do this for people
Who aren't the usual suspects or the BFFs

To do this as a slow, calm meditation
When the culture's getting frenzied

To spend a few minutes a day doing this
As a joyful activity

To acknowledge these glorious and gracious people
Teachers and artists and avant-gardists

Actors and bodhisattvas
Animators and exhilarators

All these people  who are --ta-daa--
"the light of the world"

Or my world anyway
The world of my beloveds

--from a writing practice with Brittany Accardi & Jenn Reyes Lay
10 a.m. Tuesday 20 November
Northwest Coffee
(under the not so subtle influence of a discussion two days before
With Nebu and Allison at Café Ventana)

Dear Jane Austen

Dear Jane Austen,

It is a truth universally acknowledged that you were a remarkable woman.

You opened up the vistas of literature, impossibly expansive as they are, right before my eyes. I can't tell you how often I have fallen in love with Mr. Darcy, or how many times I have visited Pemberley while walking alongside Eliza Bennett, seeing what she sees, feeling what she feels.

You detested that anyone should determine who you ought to be and how to live your life. You would deplore how others think of you now - as this demure woman who hid her writing should anyone have walked into the room (which, by the way, is a myth). Emily Auerbach had it more correct; you were likely more sarcastic (as evidenced by the way you lampoon your neighbors in your letters to your sister), less demure (which is why your sister Cassandra burned over half of your letters when you started getting famous...couldn't have anyone finding out how "unladylike" you really were!), and more your own person than anybody here in "mainstream" today thinks you were.

You were my first real heroine. Thank you for being you, undeniably and irrevocably.

I hope the rumors are true that you found love. I know you rejected suitors, even after accepting them, because you would only marry for love, and you never married. Was Tom LeFroy the one? Did you ever love?

I miss you dearly. I am missing the expansive vistas of literature. Rhetoric can be as stolid as these brick buildings which are always crowding my view. We should meet again soon.

Much love,
~Priya

I'm Thankful for...

(written this morning at Northwest Coffee)

I'm thankful for...
The present moment
people who turn garages into coffee shops
chai tea latte
writing
writing with friends
friends
friends who keep me accountable to myself
friends who take time to check in
my many circles of awakening and liberation
co-counseling
Sts. Clare and Francis, ECC
Writing to Wake Up
Saturday morning Sangha

I'm thankful
for these hands
that are writing
these words
for two good legs
to get me where I want to go
for feet
that make the road by walking
for this brilliant brain of mine
that can think a new thought every second
for my big bottomless heart
that welcomes the world in
for my life
that has been blessed
to cross the path
of so many amazing
spirits/teachers/friends/beloveds

I'm thankful
for the words of others
who inspire me
to find my own
who let me know
I'm not alone
who create worlds
I can escape into
when I just need a break

I'm thankful
for all the tears I've shed
because I've loved so hard

I'm thankful
for all the laughs
that extend my life

I'm thankful
for the hospitality
I have received
the homes and families
I've been welcomed into
the embraces and kisses on the cheek
the firm handshakes
and hand holding

I'm thankful
for human connection
for knowing that
I am because you are
for earth connection
for roots
for fresh grown food with love
for communities of resistance
who believe in a better way

I'm thankful
for those who can still inspire me
in a world full of
bad news
I'm thankful
for good news

I'm thankful
for the women
who have gone before me
and sacrificed so much
so that I have more opportunities
more freedom
and we're not done yet

I'm thankful
for the ordinary people
who did extraordinary things
do extraordinary things

I'm thankful
for the women
who teach their children well
I'm thankful for children
the little ones
who remind us
how to be fresh from God
newly human
exploring the world
with energy and enthusiasm
and creativity and curiosity

I'm thankful
for these eyes
that get to witness
the mystery and beauty
of the world daily unfolding
and these ears
that can listen
to great symphonies
spoken word
and the stories of others

writing blocks 11/17

Why I don't share my writing/ Why I often just don't write anything...

Because nothing ever feels complete.  I just read over the piece I wrote on the martyrs.  I hate it.  It's scrambled eggs.  It is thrown together thoughts from this place, and that book, and her story.  It's not complete.  It's not coherent.  It's scrambled eggs.  And I don't want to put it out there, to the world, if it's not perfect.  And it never will be.  Nothing ever is.  I can't say I honestly feel really content with anything I've ever written or shared.  I believe parts of it are good.  I think maybe you'll read it and think, well that line was really powerful, or I like this story or image she shared.  But the written work in general, the complete piece.... no good.  garbage even.  There were so many holes, more than swiss cheese.  Maybe some parts were too cheesy... or too preachy... or too sentimental.  Maybe there will be too many questions and not enough time for answers, not enough time to explain myself.  I could edit my work.  But I don't think I would like it any more or feel any more satisfied with the finished product.  And if I waited and edited and re-wrote until I thought it was complete, and accurate, and I was thoroughly pleased.... it would never be published.  You wouldn't even be privileged to the half thoughts, and run on sentences, and stream of conscious ramblings.  If I think too much about my writing, I go crazy, and drive myself into a deeper hole of doubt and fear where my thoughts and writings stay buried.  So I push forward with feelings of unsettled stomach and doubting mind.  I write, and I'm sharing what I write.  I think, and I put those thoughts out there.  They aren't everything, but they are something.  I'm not trying to sum up my entire being, life experience, world view, and/or personal beliefs every time I share a thought.  It is a part, never a whole, and you need to accept that just as much as I do.  To sit with the uneasiness of imperfection, of empty spaces where maybe you want more details.  And I might change thoughts and words from one day to the next, or one moment to the next.  In the words of Whitman: "I'm large, I contain multitudes."  So no piece of writing will ever contain the whole ocean, but maybe a drop of water is just as valuable and still worth sharing - one drop at a time. 

Seattle by Kelley Schwartz

Liquified
Sky inhabits city
Clouds writhe
Stretching to be the vicar of the horizon
Crystallized drizzle
Trees dress thick with color
City of visual voice
Wildly answers
Creativity provoked
Awash in the pelting drops
Designs possibility
Sparks tunes of puddle- hop and splash
City of saturation
Drenched in living beauty

Dear Martyrs,

What a name, what a title, what a story to be told.
I knew nothing of you when I first arrived in El Salvador. I didn't know where you came from, what you did, and most importantly what they did to you. I saw your clothes, stained in blood. The roses planted where you bodies once rested. I was sad and it made me angry but I was naive and tired and it didn't yet make much sense. But then I heard stories of the war, shared tears with the ones I loved, attended masses, sang songs...all in your honor. And it hit me. Despite the typical sense of sadness brought with death yours came with a celebration of life. Life reflected in the candle I held in my hand, paralleled to the millions of stars in the sky. I've never met you, I've never had the chance to hear your homilies, you never laid your hands upon me  and whispered a sweet, soft prayer. But you have strengthened me. And like Monseñor, you have resurrected in the Salvadoran people. In Angelica and Omporo as they struggle to feed their children, and Froilan as he holds a megaphone demanding respect for his land and his people. You are resurrected in the women that sells Quesadilla by the bridge each day and the man that picks coffee more than he sees his own family. You have been resurrected in me, and my friends. You showed me strength and determination and showed me it's okay to fight. To fight with peace, without weapons or machines, but rather with education and solidarity. You taught me to walk with a purpose, arm-in-arm with the ones I love. And tomorrow as I reunite with my friends in honor of you all I thank the people I've never met...that somehow shaped the person I have become.
Sinceramente, Linsita

What kind of people are writers?

from psychjournalism.blogspot.com

Common Characteristics of Natural Born, Freelance, or Career Writers

• An “odd ball” childhood.

Writers tend to start off as peculiar kids. They never quite fit in with their classmates. Their abstract thinking begins early on, and it causes them to struggle to relate to other children and elementary interests. Future writers commonly start off as either lonesome or socially inept kids.

• They were handed books as toys.

Naturally gifted writers are almost always reading enthusiasts. They have a further developed vocabulary and stronger syntax abilities because their scholastic experience goes beyond traditional curriculum. 

• They believe in the “All or nothing” policy. 

Writers are often perfectionists that will edit until their eyes bleed or completely scratch an idea off the table. They tend to carry that trait into their other projects as well. The writer will either create something complete or nothing at all.

• They take pride in their work.

Even if they need help, writers like doing their work 100% themselves without contribution. This is seen often in college, when the self-proclaimed writers don’t show up to office hours or ask for tutoring. Writers tend to treat even essays as a personal work of art. It’s their work, and it matters that it’s only theirs.

• They are equally organized and disorganized.

A writer’s mind works in choreographed chaos. With too much chaos comes no productivity. With too much organization comes no passion. The writer has learned how to have the perfect combination of both.

• They have both an ego and self-doubt.

-Enough ego to invest in one’s own thoughts, enough doubt to revise and rethink continuously. 

• They enjoy simplicity.

Hot coffee, music, and a sunrise could make their morning flawless.

• They are observant. 

Writers tend to learn about things from as many angles as they can. They’ll see the same sign for ten years and connect ten-thousand other separate things to the sign in that amount of time. They take in what they can and make a mental map of how things co-exist. 

• They  recognize the importance of memories.

Writers learn how to utilize past moments as criteria for their work. A writer will not forget their first love, or heartache. 

http://psychjournalism.tumblr.com/post/26331487204/common-characteristics-of-natural-born-freelance

this blue tattered notebook

Funny thing words on paper. Words strung together by me and accumulated in one spot, one space. They make an indent on each page and leave smudges on my hand where my pinkie and palm have glazed over the newly formed words almost like sealing them to the paper- sticking them there so they won’t fall off. I love flipping through notebooks in which I have written, especially full ones. To feel the words on the pages, to hear the extra crinkle that only comes with the fullness of pen touching paper. I can’t wait until this notebook is full. It will be better than anything my hands have graced and turned and glided over. It will be better because I will know it is mine. I cannot help but flip through the pages and pages filled with my thoughts, my musings, my infatuations, my self-centeredness, myself. It’s like brail to my blind heart. My fingers read the emotion behind each page without ever recognizing or acknowledging a single word.