Writing, Like Yoga: Good for You!

Many of my friends manage to make entries on their blogs regularly, some every day. I am in awe. How do they do it? It’s been a year since I’ve touched this blogsite. Luckily, it hasn’t been a year since I’ve written anything, although I’m not as consistent at that as I’d like to be either.

Like yoga, I know a regular writing practice is good for me. Like yoga, I feel better after even one session of at least 30 minutes. And yet here I am, once again, attempting to build into my day (or at least into my week) a pattern in which both yoga and writing co-exist with the other necessities in my life. Like eating, sleeping, cooking, housecleaning (ok, not so regular about this one!), breathing…

This week I’ve spent 30-35 minutes minimum, 3 out of 4 days, greeting the sun with yoga poses, i.e., I’ve been up early and it’s the first thing accomplished. As for the writing, this past year my Wild Women Writing and Beach Writers groups have met sporadically and scribbled words as well as created art together (in fact, five WWWers took a 5-day retreat together at Wellspring House in Massachusetts, http://www.wellspringhouse.net/, in November). Except for a lengthy winter layover, I’ve managed to draft and e-mail several WomanWords E-Newsletters, even as I struggled to convert the distribution list from topica.com to a Google list. I’m currently in the middle of leading a WomanWords series of workshops at Still Point Interfaith Retreat Center (http://www.stillpointretreatcenter.com/). Not to be overlooked, Spirit of a Woman: A Journey of Power, Passion & Place, led by Dorothy Randall Gray and myself last month, brought 17 women to Still Point for an incredible weekend of writing and the making of WomanSpirit dolls. (Note today's photo above: I am holding a WomanSpirit doll and reading what I've written from her.)

So I have written. Several poems, most of which I love, have come from many of these gatherings. Some even emerged from solitary writing sessions over chai lattes at Barnes & Noble cafes.

At WriterSister Leslie Neustadt’s urging, I created a purposely-small poetry feedback group (first meeting early in May) in which the four of us bring poems for positive, in-depth critique. Positive doesn’t mean saying, for every work presented, “This is great!” (even though these poets are amazing wordsmiths). It means that we always start with a positive comment about the piece, what we especially liked, and all other suggestions are couched in wording that honors the fact that this is that poet’s work and it is her decision about what gets edited: “I’d have liked to know more about…” “I love these lines, but wasn’t clear about…” “If it were my poem, I might’ve…” Always, always, always, we are encouraging the writer to keep writing (which is also how every WomanWords session and event operates). Out of this group, in just a short time, I now have five honed poems plus two more from our session this week to-be-further-edited.

Another “event” also encouraged me to write/edit more (this reminds me of a t-shirt I received from Rochelle Brener years ago, still worn around the house occasionally- down the left-frontside, black letters against white, it exhorts, “write/ edit/ write/ edit/ write/ edit.”). Award-winning poet D. H. Melhem (http://www.dhmelhem.com/) invited me to participate in her “Poetry One-on-One” class at this year's International Women’s Writing Guild conference (being held for the first time at prestigious Brown University in Providence, RI, http://www.iwwg.org/). A few years ago, I applied to and was accepted for this individual poetry critique and discussion with D.H. and came away with both an affirmation of my creativity and excellent suggestions for editing many poems (a couple, she thought, were actually finished, no changes needed!). To be “invited” back to One-on-One felt like both an honor and a challenge. It forced me to review my work, pull out 10 pages of poetry for the master-poet’s review, create a 75-words-or-less statement of theme for a proposed chapbook or full-length book of my poetry, and draft a possible table of contents. A worthy exercise capable of making any writer focus. My pages, statement and table of contents have been in D.H.’s hands for a few months, and the effects of such a review of my poetry continue to have a ripple effect—the new critique group, pulling out old poetry to hone them for the anticipated book, and a smile on my face as I look forward to the conference and my One-on-One.

The other effect was to look over a life and its purpose. This year, I moved into the Social Security age bracket. My words spread before me—well, poetry only, in this case—it seemed like there should’ve been more. I should’ve been more engaged with words during my 20s, 30s, 40s. But then, adding in the other writing (fiction, nonfiction, newsletters, a play...), plus writing-related activities, I begin to see why others tell me that I “find more energy in one day than [they] can muster in a week [or a month…].” It wasn’t/isn’t about just my words. It’s about YOUR words too, which I’d encapsulated in this short poem last fall:


MISSION STATEMENT
by Marilyn Zembo Day

Here is what I do:
I scatter seeds
I tell you, You Can.
I give you tools:
paper, pen,
permission.

Seeds require
soil, water, sunshine
Given attention, they birth.
You are Woman.
You are Creation.

Birth. Walk out into the world.
Scatter your seeds.
Tell your stories.
I give you permission.
I give you my seeds.


Still, it’s important that one make time, make space in a life for her/his own writing. To write is to go deep, to witness, to acknowledge one’s place in the world. On that note, I’ll leave you with one of the poems written about my life, my place in the world, originally published in the Akros Review (out of U. of Akron) in 2007 (unfortunately, the formatting for each "date" seems to have gotten lost in the copying from MSWord - something to figure out later on, i.e., how to prevent that).


PROBABLY SOBER
(after Deborah Harding’s “How I Knew Harold”)
by Marilyn Zembo Day

Sometime in 1971 Carol, Chris and I throw snowballs at each other outside Stonehenge Apartments. It is 3:30 a.m. and the bars closed half an hour ago. Our much older neighbors slumber in their beds. Probably sober too.

Sometime in 1947 Mom climbs three flights of stairs to Aunt Mary’s and Uncle Champ’s flat, eats spaghetti and meatballs and goes into labor. I am born with a pointy head. Mom later tells me, over and over again, that I looked like Dinny Dimwit.

Sometime in 1968 Roy sends me six red roses for my twenty-first birthday.

Sometime in 1958 I spend the night at Susan’s house. We practice kissing, just in case Richie corners one of us near the school yard and wants a smooch. Susan tells me how a boy and girl do it but I don’t believe her. It sounds gross… and impossible.

Sometime in 1959 my father buys me a clunky, gray, used Remington office typewriter. He says, “Girls should learn how to type.” He also tells me girls shouldn’t go to college.

Sometime in 1987 my daughter and her friend are in the kitchen with me. I am making cookies for Sunday school youth group. Kristen asks, “How old were you, Mom, when you first did it with a guy? I drop my spatula.

Sometime in 1956 my brother George’s teacher pulls me out of my fourth grade classroom to witness her yelling at him for failing a spelling test. “Why can’t you be more like your sister?” My mother is pissed off but she won’t call Mrs. Benson to complain.

Sometime in 1969 Roy and I park on Krumkill Road to make out. I toss my underpants out the window before he drives me home.

Sometime in 1965 I am accepted at State University of New York at Albany, early decision plan. They require a $50 deposit. My father says girls shouldn’t go to college. My mother takes out a loan against a life insurance policy to cover the deposit and Christmas presents.

Sometime in 1971 Lloyd sends me two dozen roses. He tells me he is married. His wife is expecting their second child. Oops. The night we met, the song playing on his car radio was I Never Promised You a Rose Garden.

Sometime in 2006 my cousin Mary spends an entire day of her vacation cooking her mother’s famous spaghetti sauce with meatballs and sausage. She and her husband are staying with my brother George. I bring home sauce and sausage to freeze for future consumption.

Sometime in 1978 Bill and I host a party. Roy brings a date. Mary says to Carol and me that Roy is probably the only guy at the party who’s slept with four of the women in the room (assuming he’s already slept with his date). We compare notes.

In mid-November 1972 my water breaks at 6 a.m. during the first snow storm of the season. After a half hour of Bill’s digging the VW out of the snow and seventeen hours of my own labor, I have a caesarean section. Our daughter’s head is perfectly rounded.

Sometime in 1968 I quit college, for the first but not the last time.

Sometime in 2005 I begin seeking an agent for my novel. First choices are those who take e-mail submissions because they’re just a few easy keystrokes away. Girls should learn to type.

++++++++++
YOUR TURN

o Can you write a Mission Statement? What is it you DO or want to Do? This doesn’t have to be about poetry or even about writing. It’s about looking inside yourself and witnessing your life. Look for themes—what ideas, causes recur in your life? Perhaps, these have changed over time (which would be normal!). Make a list of what mattered to you during different stages over the years. Can you trace a pattern, a moving-toward your current needs and desires? Pick up your pen or get into MSWord and let the words flow. If it needs to become a poem, it will. If it’s meant to be prose, that will happen. LET IT HAPPEN.

o What “regular practice” (writing, yoga, t’ai chi, jogging, painting, etc.) would you like to encourage in yourself? Make a list of those potential practices. Choose one and write about why you aren’t already deep into this practice. If you’ve tried and failed to make it a habit, talk about why it didn’t work out. Don’t beat yourself up for it, just note what stopped you and ways you think could counter that happening this time around. Close with an affirmation that encourages you to follow that practice (but won’t set you off on a guilt trip if you falter at times).

o My poem, “Probably Sober,” came out of an exercise published in Steve Kowit’s In the Palm of Your Hand: The Poet’s Portable Workshop (Tilbury House, 1995). Kowit provided Deborah Harding’s “How I Knew Harold” as an example of “a collage of memories out of which the poet created an appealing self-portrait.” He suggested that readers “write a poem with the same structure” as Harding’s, noting that the chronology is “jumbled” so that memories don’t move in a clear progression but jump back and forth. He also says to be sure that at least three of the items interconnect, if only tangentially. He also mentions that you should “hold to a chatty voice… you do not want to get self-consciously eloquent or lyrical.” This exercise worked well enough for me—it even helped me to write a poem that got published. Try it. Let me know what happened!

Poetry as Memoir: Writing from Photographs

A photograph is one of the best writing prompts going. Subject matter doesn't matter, origin doesn't either. What does matter is that something in the photo attracts or repels you, enough so that it triggers a desire to write from it. It may bring back a memory. It could simply spark an essay on a topic about which you have an opinion. Maybe there's a short story possibility in what you see. And if the photograph is an old picture that includes family, friends and/or acquaintance? Same options, except I happen to think these types of pictures are especially loaded for memoir... and poetry that smacks of memoir.

I've always loved collage and, in recent years, there's a particular kind of this medium that's drawn me in: soul collage (www.soulcollage.com). It was developed by therapist Seena Frost, who uses it with her clients and has seen its healing affects. I won't go into detail about the process but you should know that it involves exactly what I mentioned above: selecting images that attract or repel you (actually, it seems that the objects select you) and putting them into a 5" x 8" collage on pre-cut mat board. Each collage becomes a card that might, if you choose to go further, be delegated to one of four "suits" in a deck of cards. You can think of the deck as sort of Jungian, or like a Tarot deck, from which you can select a card or two each day and ponder what it might "tell" you (how you feel, what might be bothering you, are you going in the right direction, etc.). It's an tool for introspection. The card becomes more than what you were seeing and feeling at the time you created it--what you "see" can be different each time you view it. Which is why they make great writing prompts.

My favorite "suit" is the Community suit. For this one, it's a little more than just letting a card pick you. There's a little planning involved, which means you bring pictures to the table--of friends, family members, old neighbors, pets and more. These are supposed to be the individuals who form your community, who might've been mentors, who had something to do with how you became the person you are today. In a sense, they are your support group. As with all soul cards, the suggested prompt is to start with, "I Am the One Who..." and speak or write from there.

It can be the same with any old photograph. Speak/write as though you are that person and something falls onto the page. We pour our memories into a piece not worrying about fact, more concerned with truth. After all, memoir is not autobiography (a person's factual life, start to finish, or at least up until the age of the author when written). Memoir is about your own recollection of things, your own perception. What shaped you wasn't just what happened to you but also how you perceived it and how you reacted. And, unlike its cousin autobiography, it can cover only a small period of your life. We don't tell lies-- but we can fill in missing information with our questions and mention our assumptions, pondering what might have happened or why others acted as they did.

Poetry, I find, is a great tool for putting some of those memoir/memories into a short piece that conveys specific images yet doesn't have to convey exact dates. You want details in a poem, but it's a place where metaphor and simile is particulary welcome. Maybe the picture that inspires the poem isn't even a picture of the people you choose to write about. Recently, in a poetry workshop led by Therese Broderick at Eastline Books and Literary Center in Clifton Park, NY, my eyes were drawn to an interesting picture in the magazine that Therese provided to each participant. In it, a woman was playing a violin outside of what appeared to be a public building in a country-like setting. A small crowd gathered around, listening. I noticed small details such as the fact that the woman had a detachable lace collar around her neck, although otherwise casually dressed, and that every male in the crowd sported some kind of baseball cap. But my attention kept going back to that musical instrument, which I saw as a "fiddle"-- which brought me to memories of a favorite uncle and aunt. Here's where that took me:


GHOSTS
by Marilyn Zembo Day

My husband calls from Willey Street. Honey, there are ghosts
here, he says, and I know what he means. Over the phone line,
I hear the crackle of shuffling cards, the echo of Uncle Charlie
calling Deuces wild; clattering dice tumbling across the dark wood
of a well-scratched kitchen table, Scrabble tiles snapping into place.
Laughter backs up shouts of May I, and the slow fizzing of caps
twisting clear of Budweiser bottles mists over my eyes.

No one loves a game more than a Willey or a Boyd. No one
enjoys a beer better either. In the basement making adjustments
on a boiler that will soon hum for new residents, Bill listens
for the rattle of pans in the kitchen, thinks he detects the scent
of frying brook trout and bass. A distant memory flickers:
he is supporting the backend of a rowboat as he and my uncle ascend
a steep Adirondack hill, intent on better fishing streams beyond.

My young husband huffs and puffs, barely able to keep pace
as he grasps at his slippery end of the craft. Charlie, 70-year-old
fisherman, carpenter, weaver of baskets, doesn’t break a sweat.
If you put his fiddle in hand, Charlie Willey might easily call
a mountain square dance as they climb, keeping time with passing
clouds, the flight of a bald eagle, the migration of deer, elk
and star-eyed wolves. I do not wonder at this man’s imprint

on a house he built, on a street he once owned, in a town in which
his name meant something. I don’t ask my husband if he heard
the click-clacking of Aunt Helen’s knitting needles or the quiet
whirr of her sewing machine upstairs. I imagine a gentler impression
like the steady skilled stitches of her embroidery, creating a pattern,
an umbrella-logo under which family sheltered and blossomed,
nourished in her garden, by books and warm homemade cookies.

At my aunt’s memorial service, her grandson Doug predicted
the unthinkable: Soon, he said, there will be no more Willeys
on Willey Street. Wrong, I thought. When you spend decades
in a house built with your own hands, its one-time green-shingled exterior
cradles your spirit. If new owners are worthy, perhaps walls will whisper
secret strategies to them: how to win at Jacks or Better, how to catch
the biggest fish, when to let it all go to just love and be loved.


YOUR TURN

1. Pull out an old family photo album. Choose three photographs and let them inspire some writing. If you don't know where to begin, become one of the people in the photo and start with I am the One who... Don't worry about exact data like dates and time or even place; the details can be about the expression on the person's face, what s/he was wearing, did s/he seem comfortable posing, what is s/he doing (if you don't know, imagine).

2. Grab some old magazines and thumb through them, pulling out a batch of pictures that either attract or repel you. Gather at least 10 of them. Create a collage with a few of the objects in the pictures. Perhaps one of them will provide a background for the collage. Try not to do too much thinking as you create; just do it. And don't worry about artistic composition. Once it's together, take a few minutes to decide what it is saying to you. From the jumble, can you find a memory? Of a person, an event, something that was important to you? Does a part of the picture you've created bring back smells and sounds of another time? Does something move you to imagine a relative's or friend's life? Write whatever comes.

3. Take your camera and yourself somewhere that you can take plenty of pictures. Go crazy with that shutter button! (Digital is best, if you have one, since you can download right away and not have to wait for development.) Choose one of your new pictures from which to write-- what made you snap that picture? what sensations surround the object(s)-- joy? sadness? pain? violence? where are you in all this (observing only? commentator on an issue? appreciating its beauty? chronicling a place and time?). Write whatever comes.