“Be in Love with Yr Life”*: A Spring Writing Course

Like Sontag and Beseda, many of us are tempted to be intolerant of the ambiguity and intimidated by the risks of photography and other art forms.  Ultimately, I believe we are most daunted by the mystery, the question, the possibility:  “It could be us.”  Through my own photography I strive to bridge the distant worlds of our small globe.  I contemplate the mystery:  It is us.
–Mev Puleo

This spring will mark ten years since The Book of Mev was published.  Over the years I’ve been gratified by the responses to that story, from people I’ve known a long time and those I just met. It appears the book has encouraged some people on different aspects of their journeys.

I’ve often noticed  how many readers recognize themselves in Mev’s words, say, from her letters and journals.  I’m reminded of the French novelist Marcel Proust, who wrote:  “In reality every reader is, while she is reading, the reader of her own self. The writer’s work is merely a kind of optical instrument which he offers to the reader to enable her to discern what, without this book, she could perhaps never have perceived in herself.”

For this spring’s writing class, I invite you to read (or reread) and write off of stories, themes, and questions from The Book of Mev.

I hope that reading and discussing this particular text may give you insight and encouragement on a writing project you’re in the middle of or one you’ve long wanted to start.  It could be a series of letters to someone, a blog, a long and rambling essay,  a one-act play, a chapbook of poems about life in Fenton.  You know what is inside you calling for more attention.

So we’ll engage such topics as being present, community, accompaniment, faith, spirituality, the state of the world, the state of our soul,  friends, mentors, teachers, creative arts (e.g., photography), travel, breakdowns, breakthroughs, solidarity, illness, celebrating, grieving, letting go, poetry, El Salvador, Palestine, Haiti, schools, gospels, letter-writing, gratitude, bearing witness, and much else.

Here are the specifics:

How Often: 7 weeks, 2 sessions a week, beginning Wednesday March 18 and ending Sunday 3 May.

Where and When: (1)  On Wednesdays, 6:30 – 8:15 pm, we meet at the home of Marty and Jerry King, 830 DeMun (Clayton, 63105) and (2)  On the weekend, we have a second weekly session for which you choose either meeting with us Saturday or Sunday  at Café  Ventana, 2-4 p.m. (3919 West Pine Boulevard, St. Louis, 63108).

Format: Class sessions will have at least an hour for concentrated writing; there will also be some time for paired and group sharing.

Essential text: The Book of Mev.

Recommended texts: Joe Brainard, I Remember;  Eduardo Galeano, The Book of Embraces; Mev Puleo, The Struggle Is One.

I am happy to meet up with participants to discuss whatever is on your mind during the seven weeks (at a time convenient for you).

Tuition  is $125.  For people outside of Saint Louis, I’m happy to offer an on-line writing, reading, sharing experience ($75).

Please contact me if you are interested in this class! Or pass this information on to someone who might be looking for some time and community for writing.

Mark Chmiel
markjchmiel@gmail.com
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text: 314-807-8769

*Jack Kerouac, epigraph to The Book of Mev

Not everything

Not Everything

Not everything has to mean something, my breakfast doesn't count as meaningful -

I was tired of eggs and so ate oats and fruit 

there is nothing meaningful there unless you wish to severely stretch the idea of what

meaningful consists of which I do not.

There was nothing meaningful in getting up at 7 AM to leave for work unless you

consider that I needed to shower and to deposit my meaningless $34 in the bank

before work.

There is nothing meaningful about the length of my hair, my worn and tired shoes,

my hand me down clothes.  They may tell you something about me but they are

not meaningful.

There is nothing meaningful about coasting on a planet circling the sun, experiencing

spring summer fall and winter.  We are just here.  That's all there is to it.

There is nothing meaningful about travelling 100's of miles out of your way to see your

best friend.  Only the meaning or fantasy hidden in your heart.

There is nothing meaningful about my back yard, its overgrown jungle appearance, its

garden which is not growing anything, its struggle with the noxious clinging honeysuckle

climbing trees, cascading over fences, streaming itself across the ground chocking

every living thing.  Its just its nature and has no meaning otherwise.

There was nothing meaningful in the slow but sure emptying of my checking account.

The only meaning is that I put drug dealers ahead of myself, place fear where courage

should be and the cover the ass of my son who should cover his own ass.

There is nothing meaningful about living in St Louis unless you count meeting Mark and Tina 

and Chris beloved of myself and the many others who have planted themselves here.

There is nothing meaningful about a marriage failed, a lover lost or a friendship

dissolved. There is nothing meaningful there except as it may inform myself.

There is nothing meaningful in the rain, the 14" of snow, the mud in the fields or the

geodes in bombshell creek which inform us of past world formations.

There is nothing meaningful in the house where I live, the furniture mostly hand me downs

or thrift store purchased, the floors dusty , the trash awaiting takeout next week, next

week for sure.

There is only meaning, as I understand it, in my awareness of myself, my breathing out,

breathing in, my feet planted on the floor, my butt in the chair.  There is only meaning in 

my relationship to you, our spiritual lives reaching out and briefly, softly, touching one

another,

This is it.

It's a Mystery

It's a Mystery

It's nothing to be told

nothing in that moth eaten winter coat of yours

that can stand the test of time

Nothing can be understood about where it came from

about the person who wore it before ;you

why they kept it for so long

or didn't keep it from the moths

It's a mystery

as is everything before our eyes

the sunrise, moonrise

how the wind rises through the wheat and rolls across the plains

carrying the dust of our ancestors 

 

It's a mystery

whether the creator wishes us well or flung us

like so many seedlings into the fields of the earth

shouting, "surprise me!  what are you capable of?"

Its a mystery

how we come to walk and talk and hold out our tiny fingers

grasping for hope and help

longing for grace and understanding

smiling compassion on our world

Its a mystery

why I love, why I have friends whom I love

why anyone would love me

how I can love and let go -

how does that  look?  how does that feel?

this mystery of holding, not-holding

coming to be

It's a mystery 

where our deep seated longings slip to or from

and how we find room for the smallest of the animals

and the fish and birds and if the trees can sing in the springs breeze

and the rain fall like dew on every living thing

It's a mystery

how you came to be, how I came to be

how we met, that we are friends

that nothing needs hidden

everything and everyone is blessed and more blessed

now and forever.  Amen

It's a mystery.

Going to Nebraska

Going to Nebraska


wind winding wind down
green rocky plains singing wildflower dreams
primroses, cactus blooms drawing blood
for the watching streams
bloated with early spring snowmelt

why don't you come outside?
why don't you come outside?

wind spooks around the sandy hill lakes
fish and birds, egrets, eagles, the red-winged
and cowbirds who, who can you see today

why don't you come outside?
why don't you come outside?

ground blizzards rolling down from the mountain
hedges, hedges hedging in the plains
cold too cold to freeze unless you're standing still
tumbleweeds against the fence
their thistle skeletons dancing

why don't you come outside?
why don't you come outside?

the great mysteries
sandy pinnacles wind carved over eons,
eons before Sioux  before horses
before water rolling down swiftly
water swiftly kissing the sand goodbye
hello goodbye goodbye

why don't you come outside?
why don't you come outside?

toes covered heels plastered dug in
back holding up arms swimming
under the August sun September wind
stars quilt the night sky
the Pliedes  fled and shape our dreams

why don't you come outside?
why don't you come outside today?

"The world asks of us
only the strength that we have and we give it
then it asks more, and we give it"
            Jane Hirschfield:   The Giving


the clown is amused at the fright and delight
coupled in their faces,
while others are bemused
at the idea of preparing for death.

Do you not pack for a journey?
the road trip requires many preparations -
the tent, the food, the clothing.

Can the trip of a lifetime require any less?
what will you plan to carry
and what will you stow away
deep within your heart
for this great and wondrous ride.




Moment to Moment

the light zips between the curtains
in between their folds
racing across the living room, drenching the rugs, the plants
and his bare feet poking out from under the afghan

the water races across the yard
flipping stones and mud clods
rousing the worms from their tunnels
to the joy of the chirping birds

the clouds fold over one another
singing like sky dragons
thundering voices over the mountains
spreading their life over the plains

the waves blanket the shore
shifting the sands and sea creatures
nurturing the fens and bays
resting only to surge through our veins once again

the stars pebble the sky
singing planetary hymns to one another
guiding the sailor and the airman home
blessing us with cosmic bliss

how can we remember to remember
the light, the water, the clouds
who gazes at the clouds, the stars
how do we breathe in, breathe out every moment

Interall

I am connected to the planet,
to all plant life,
to all animal life,
to all life,
to all non-life,
to all matter,
to all non-matter,
to all existence,
to all non-existence.
I am connected to the spirit,
to all forms of form,
to all beings,
to all non-beings.
I am connected to everything.
I am unconnected to nothing.
I am not I.
I am we.
We are all.
All is all.
Interall.
One pulse--one breath.

Om.

Becoming An Indian

Just before my marriage, my soon-to-be mother-in-law told me:

“After marriage you will be Indian.”

I smiled and quietly laughed at the thought of me, a white American midwesterner, morphing into an Indian.

Then, a Hindu marriage ceremony: Pouring rice on each other's heads, golden necklace, tying knots of silk, putting on toe rings, bangles, bowing to elders and vowing to care for them, walking around fire, ash on foreheads. And, of course, brilliant silk sarees, hennaed hands, splitting coconuts, dancing to joyful Bollywood songs.

Then, being welcomed and accepted into an Indian family: Laughing with nieces, sisters-in-law calling me sister, tears of joy at the wedding, family photos in the living room; making coconut laddoos with (mother-in-law) Aatama, my hands almost twice the size of hers, shaping the melted jaggery and shredded coconut into the coveted sweet spheres.

Driving Aatama and Mamaya to the airport, struggling with bulging suitcases strung together and labeled to arrive on the other side of the world. Witness to tears, I promised to take care of her son. We arrived home to find her pink cotton sari, hanging to dry in the sunroom, left behind.

My new husband moved in and suddenly there was Telugu on my television; video chats with sister-in-law Akka, our bright niece and nephew’s silliness for their Ravi Chinnana (uncle) and Madalyn Pinni (aunt); phone calls to India, with attempts to speak the language: “Me abrogyam ella undi?”

The humbling experience of learning from my husband how to make the food he loves. His expressions of delight after I mastered the curry formula and even made curries he had never tasted. Plus rootis from scratch: hand kneading, rolling, oiling, folding, rolling again, and frying on a dry, hot skillet. Then one day finding myself in Global Foods picking out my own essential ingredients for our Indian kitchen: cumin, turmeric, green chillies, curry leaves, toor dahl... The faint hot tinge of chili powder perpetually on my fingertips.

One item from the Indian grocery I’ve come to rely on is coconut oil, applied after the bath. It ended up curing a skin condition I’ve had since birth. “I think it’s because you were an Indian in a past life,” said Ravi.

“Is that why you feel it’s acceptable to love me?” I ask. “It’s okay to love an American if she were an Indian in a previous life?” We laugh.

There’s always laughter with my lighthearted husband. And sunset runs in the park. Coming home to each other on lunch breaks to devour leftover curries. (No American lunch stop can compare to our own kitchen). We are also developing our own traditions as a new family together.

We celebrated our first Diwali, the festival of light. Wrapped in magenta silk, I drew a muggu (chalk drawing) of a lotus on our threshold. At night we lit diya lamps and candles and placed them throughout the house. Friends gathered for celebratory meals and temple visits, exchanged photos from afar. Our littlest niece Vaishnavi was captured with eyes wide in delight at the bright golden sizzle of a sparkler. Aatama and Mamaya called from Hyderabad to tell of “crackers” going off at all hours after days of celebration.

One of the most memorable moments since the wedding was our visit with Akka to her sister’s Chicago home. We spent the day playing carom, laughing with the children, and looking at wedding photos. As we were about to leave, they asked me to sit down. My Akka’s sister put a vermilion dot on my forehead and gave me a woolen shawl, welcoming me into the family. We video-chatted with their smiling mother in India who said she has a new daughter.

There are temple outings every Sunday with my husband -- me dressed in kurta, dupatta, and gold jhumkis. After the long drive to the white intricately carved temple, towering pyramid of gods, decades ago delivered piece by piece from India and assembled in the middle of suburban Midwest America, we remove our shoes and stand before Ganesha, Durga, Laxmi... watching all the ways Indians worship: circling, prostrating, crossed-arm bobbing squats. We sit in front of Shiva, the God of Destruction, meditating with intentions to clear obstacles for welcoming new beginnings.

I boldly ring the temple bell and eagerly head downstairs for spicy hot masala dosa, mango kulfi sweet, and chai. The “desies” have gotten used to me, the “gori girl” who tries to fit into their world while they try to adapt to mine.

Some who see my occasional Indian dress might accuse me of cultural appropriation. But my saris and silver toe rings were given to me and accepted in earnest. They are one way I can outwardly display the culture of the Indian-American family to which I’ve come to belong, the culture of my home.

My Indian family has shown that being Indian means generosity and acceptance, unwavering commitment to family, duty as the path to fulfillment, celebration year round, and love expressed by taking care of one another. Those are values I’m proud to take on. In less than six months after my wedding, I must admit that my Aatama was right.