Back from Retreat, Plunging into Regular Life (and a Poetry Reading!)

Today is my long day at work, so I'll wait for a different day to write a meditative essay about Mepkin Abbey. I had a successful writer's retreat. On the 10 hour drive up to Mepkin Abbey, I figured out which poems I'll be reading at Broward College on Tuesday, November 17--if you're in the South Florida area, come join us! I'll be reading with two other poets. The reading starts at 7:30 in the Southern Breezes Cafe of Broward College (the South campus, 7200 Pines Boulevard in Pembroke Pines). It's hard for me to realize that we're really this far along into November, so it was good to have time to think about that poetry reading.

I got to Mepkin Abbey before my friends, so I just sat for awhile on the porch. I reveled in the fact that I heard no traffic noise, aside from the occasional car. I listened to birds and the breeze. It was delightful.

One of my friends asked me if I couldn't do that in my own backyard. No, I really can't. If I sit in my backyard, I hear the heavy construction vehicles that are building an elementary school. I hear non-stop traffic noise and thumping car stereos. I hear a variety of neighbors, some of whom have moved their stereos and televisions into the yard. It is never quiet enough to hear the breeze.

I took several folders of poetry--literal folders of poems on paper, not computer files. I figured out the order of several manuscripts I've been wanting to create: two chapbooks and one full-length manuscript. I figured out possible titles. It was wonderful.

I wrote in my journal--my real, paper journal, which I've somewhat neglected as I've been blogging more and more. It was fabulous.

I've wondered what accounts for my productivity, and I have to assume it's because I had such few distractions. I didn't have to think about food preparation/clean up or shopping. I didn't have to go to work. I didn't have a computer, television, radio, or any other electronics.

There's a natural rhythm to life in an abbey or monastery--it's set up that way. There are certain hours for prayer and worship, certain hours for sleep, certain hours for eating, certain hours for work, and certain hours for reading and study. And since everything is on site, it leads to more productivity. There's no driving to work, to church, to school, to the library. Certainly there's some driving, as the monks don't raise all their food. But much of the busy rushing to and fro isn't part of the monk's life.

When I visit, I fall right into the natural rhythm. In some ways, I feel more wrenched as I return to regular life, with the noise and the traffic and the work crises that must be addressed. Some people have asked me if it wouldn't be easier if I didn't make these periodic retreats. After all, I wouldn't have the re-entry-to-regular-life process to endure. But I can't imagine how burned out I would be in short order if I didn't make periodic retreats and vacations. Actually, I can imagine, and that's why I make the effort.

This Blog Will Be Quiet for a Week

I'm off to Mepkin Abbey for a writer's retreat with some old female friends (they're not old, we've just been friends for almost two decades). We'll see if praying the Psalms with the monks helps me with poetry writing. I also hope to assemble a manuscript or two. But mostly, I need quiet time for reflection. I need natural beauty and autumnal coolness and long walks. I need the Liturgy of the Hours. I'm off! I plan to be back to regular blogging in one week. (the above picture was taken at Lutheridge, a Lutheran camp in North Carolina, but it captures the spirit of Mepkin Abbey nicely, so I'm using it).

Prose Shakespeares and Life at Work

I thought I might post a photo today. When I went out very early for a run, I gasped in surprise. There was the beautiful full moon, in a silvery blue sky, with a huge ring around it. The ring was so big that I wasn't sure I'd be able to capture it on film (but it's a digital camera--what's the term for that? capture in pixels?).

By the time I got back, the ring was gone, so we'll never know. However, the experience reminds me of one of the things I've missed as my exercise has shifted to spin class--the outside experience. I spend so much time cooped up in an office.

As I made my morning smoothie, I listened to a news story about a local person who is accused of stealing millions from the social service agency where he worked. At first I was outraged about the fact that he worked for a social service agency, and he stole all that money that was designed to help people. I know that I don't have all the facts, like what kind of social service. But still, if he had been arrested for stealing from a big Wall Street firm, would I feel better? Stealing is stealing after all.

Then I started to think about the logistics of the theft. He probably didn't just take all that money in one chunk. Does the theft start small? How small? Does the thief intend to pay it all back some day?

I found myself thinking, maybe he just took office supplies. Then I laughed at myself--how much would one have to cart away to steal a million in office supplies?

I turned my attention to The Washington Post, where I read a great book review of a new Dickens biography. I had forgotten how prolific Dickens was and how young he was when he died--58. Reviewer Michael Dirda says, "Many modern readers, I think, rather neglect Dickens, disdaining him as melodramatic and sentimental. Instead, we revere Jane Austen for her subtle wit or turn to Henry James for his delicate analyses of human motivation. But Dickens really is our prose Shakespeare. For proof, try almost any of his novels or just watch a DVD of the Royal Shakespeare Company or the BBC dramatizations of Nicholas Nickleby, Oliver Twist or David Copperfield."

I will always have a soft spot for Oliver Twist, since it was part of my dissertation. But I also love Hard Times--what wonderful names in that novel. Bleak House is my short hand term for any monumental task that I attempt again and again and never quite slog through.

And now, for my long day at work. I've been thinking about the Iranian hostages, since yesterday was the 30th anniversary of the takeover of the American embassy in Tehran. I remember exactly where we were when we heard the news. In 1979, I was in the 9th grade. My family had spent the week-end with another family at the Outer Banks, and we were in the final hours of that get-away. We were gathered in the living room and the TV was on, but no one was paying much attention. Suddenly, my father turned up the volume and asked for quiet. We watched the breaking news report. I remember thinking that those crazy people would never get away with this, and at the same time, wondering how it would all be resolved.

In later years, as I've worked in a variety of places with a vast assortment of people, I've returned to the thought of those hostages, taken and held in their place of work. I can't imagine spending over a year in captivity with most of my colleagues. I'm lucky in that I like most of them well enough to spend a working day with them. But to be cooped up with them day in and day out?

I've been toying with a poem that uses images of hostage taking and the modern workplace. After all, these days it's usually the job itself that holds us hostage. Let's see what happens . . .

Changing the World, One Book Recommendation at a Time

Over on Facebook, my friend Bryan reminds me that I recommended Margaret Atwood to him, specifically The Handmaid's Tale: "I read it after you recommended it to me in a letter. It was in the summer of 1989 while I was working at a summer camp in Eva, TN. I thought it was a great book. I'd like to read more of her writings. There's just so many books I want to read and so little time."

I have no memory of that letter. Similarly, another friend says that she read The Handmaid's Tale after I insisted that she must, and that book changed her life. She said that book made her understand the importance of reproductive rights for women and that she'd never take those for granted again. She says that we had many conversations where I argued valiantly that without the right to control when and if we reproduce, all other women's rights are meaningless.

I probably did argue fiercely. I argued about many things fiercely back in my younger days. I still agree with my 19 year old self on many things, but I'm feeling a bit more exhausted these days. But it's strange to me that I have no memory of these discussions.

My friend went on to work in state government. I remember working with her to overturn the laws that said a married man couldn't be charged with raping his wife. You may remember that I wrote about that experience earlier on this blog, in this blog post. She worked on a lot of legislation that tried to improve the lives of women.

I wonder how much the Margaret Atwood book shaped those choices.

That time period is getting to be a long time ago, and I certainly can't prove anything. But this morning, I was thinking about how when I was younger, I wanted to be the writer who wrote those books and poems. I still do.

But I overlook how important a force I can be in recommending life changing books to other people. If I was a young Sociology grad student, I'd try to create some kind of study to determine how much reading choices affect social justice movements. People have done similar studies with song lyrics, so it must be doable.

But I'm not a young grad student, so I'll keep reading, keep recommending. In this time period which sees the 30th anniversary of the Iranian takeover of the American embassy and the 20 year anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall, it's important to remember that social justice movements sometimes rise and fall on the chance word or action (or book recommendation?). For a fascinating essay on the hopefulness of that idea, read Roger Cohen's piece in yesterday's The New York Times. I love this sentence of his: "The hinge of history hangs on a heartbeat."

Of course, The Handmaid's Tale reminds us of how quickly human progress towards justice can be eroded. It's an important cautionary tale, and it seems just as relevant now as it did 25 years ago.

Since I haven't ever posted it here, here's my poem, "Progress," inspired by my memories of working to get rid of the marital rape bill. It was published here in Clapboard House, where there's a photo of the statue--very nicely done!

Progress


The statue, a tribute to Confederate
Womanhood, keeps her bronze eyes fixed
on the statehouse, while her metal
children clutch her skirts. Inside,
women throng into the chambers, this once male
bastion of legislative power.
The current law states a husband
cannot be charged with the rape of his wife;
a wife is property, to do with as a man pleases.
Females of all ages bear witness, testify
to the violated sanctity of home and hearth.
Only one senator remains unswayed
by their pleas for a twentieth century view.
He doesn’t approve of racial integration either.

My Margaret Atwood Week-End (You could have one too!)

A few weeks ago, I heard about Margaret Atwood's new novel, The Year of the Flood, which takes place in the same world as Oryx and Crake. I'm a huge fan of Atwood, so I would have read this novel eventually. But since I just reread Oryx and Crake in the spring, I wanted to read The Year of the Flood sooner, rather than later, while I still remembered the details.

On Friday morning, I listened to Atwood on the Diane Rehm show (go here and scroll down to listen), and she mentioned the great tradition of 19th century novels, where groups of characters circle round and one of the pleasures is figuring out how they will connect. She describes the reading experience as the writer saying, "Meanwhile, back in London . . ." to transition from one group of characters to the next.

I actually started Year of the Flood the week-end before last week-end, and by Friday afternoon, I had gotten to the point in the book where the major characters in Oryx and Crake show up as minor characters in The Year of the Flood. I realized that I didn't remember as much of Oryx and Crake as I thought I did--I couldn't remember what caused the great die-off, for example.

So, on Friday night, I returned to that book. I skimmed through parts, and I actually reread the last chunk of the book. I had added pleasure as I finished The Year of the Flood, keeping the first book in my mind, speculating about how Atwood might intertwine them. I will say no more, since I'd hate to spoil the reading of either book for people.

What I find most interesting about Atwood's speculative fiction is that she claims to use no details that aren't already available in this world. Part of what made The Handmaid's Tale so chilling was knowing that anything she described was already happening to a group of women somewhere. Oryx and Crake and The Year of the Flood are scary because any of these science details are possible, even if we don't see rakunks running around. We know how to make them, should we choose to create a raccoon/skunk blend of a creature.

Margaret Atwood is a treasure of a writer, and I love her as a model of a person who continues to be creative even into older age. Her website for the book shows how much fun she's been having, creating a new religion for the book (complete with hymns and Saints' Days) and a blog (which sounds like it might become collaborative) and different kinds of reading tours and all sorts of interesting stuff.

Speaking of religion in the book, I blogged about this here on my theology blog. And if you want to hear Atwood's address to the Whiting Award winners, go here (thanks to Jeannine, who mentioned it here on her blog).

I can think of no better way to spend the week-end that encompassed Halloween and All Saints' Day than reading this book, which intertwines the themes of Halloween and All Saints' in interesting ways. I was scared to death (but couldn't stop reading) and spiritually nourished. I was reminded of all that we have and how easy it would be to lose it all.

One of Atwood's characters describes the Fall as multidimensional, as a fall "from a joyous life in the moment into the anxious contemplation of the vanished past and the distant future" (187). In some ways, this book increases my anxious contemplation, as all the best utopias/dystopias do. The Year of the Flood is one of the best books I've read this year. But of course, that comes as no surprise to any Atwood fan.

Spend the week-end with Margaret Atwood. You won't be disappointed.

What to Do With All of Those Uncarved Halloween Pumpkins

Long ago in graduate school (1990 to be exact), I treated myself to the October Bon Appetit. It had easy recipes for preserves, which sounded so delicious that I spent the better part of a late morning wrestling with a pumpkin. I sliced it into chunks (the most time consuming part), cleaned it, and cooked it. Then I made pumpkin cider butter.

The taste was phenomenal, but was it worth all that effort? I must not have thought so, since I haven't dealt with fresh pumpkin since.

But this year, I ended up with 2 pumpkins, and I couldn't bear to throw them away. With the larger one, I wanted to experiment with making soup right there inside the pumpkin. So, I cut the top off and hollowed it out (the most annoying part of my day). Then I put the following into the pumpkin (all measurements approximate): 1 and 1/2 cups homemade chicken stock, 1/2 pound grated cheddar cheese, 1/2 cup old (long past its cooking/drinking prime) sherry and Madeira and a can of fat free evaporated milk (NOT condensed). Into this mixture I put a handful of chicken chunks from last week-end's creation: I coated the chicken with Mexican spices (cocoa powder, cinnamon, and cumin) before grilling it. I didn't particularly like it with the chicken alone, but it did marvelous things for my soup.

I put the whole pumpkin in the oven and baked it for 2 hours. I put it on a flat baking sheet. In retrospect, I should have put it on a rimmed sheet or into a Pyrex bowl. I stirred the soup periodically, and towards the end, I scraped through to the outer shell. Some of the liquid started to drain out. Luckily, I caught this early, so the clean up wasn't too awful (cleaning the pumpkin was worse).

Last night, I had a bowl with a glass of Petite Sirah (Bogle is my new favorite, low end winery). Yummmm.

Since I was going to have the oven on anyway, I decided to cook the smaller pumpkin too. Unlike in 1990, I just put the whole pumpkin in the oven on a baking sheet. Once it's cooked, it's much easier to peel and clean.

I plan to either make a pie or the Pumpkin Cider Butter. If you want to make Pumpkin Cider Butter, put 3 cups of pumpkin puree into a heavy saucepan. Add 1/2 cup apple cider, 3/4 cup brow sugar, and season to taste with these spices: cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, and cloves (the recipe written by Janet Fletcher suggests only 1/4 teaspoon or 1/8 teaspoon--absurdly small!). Bring to a simmer and cook down. Some cooks would tell you to spread the mixture into a 9 x 13 baking dish and bake at 250 degrees for 1 and 1/2 hours, but I imagine the stove top would work equally well. Your house will smell delicious! Pumpkin Cider Butter stores for months in the refrigerator.

So, as I look at the relentless sun and face another day of near-record heat, I'll continue to pretend that harvest is upon us. I'll make yummy things out of pumpkins and gourds and hope for a cold front to come our way soon.

Tomorrow, back to blogging about more literary things: my Margaret Atwood week-end!

More Thoughts on Halloween and Creativity

We had a very slow night here. Only 5 groups of trick or treaters. The smallest was in a Superman costume and blew me a kiss instead of saying thank you. His mom tried to convince him to speak, to say "Trick or Treat" and then "Thank you"--he was too overwhelmed, so she said, "Can you blow the nice lady a kiss?" and he did! Too cute! We had a group of heavily costumed teenagers--at least I think they were teenagers; who can tell any more, with elementary school kids so huge these days, both tall and fat--too many hormones in the milk! Anyway, I gave them candy because at least they put on costumes.

Very few elementary school kids out. Is it because it was so hot? I thought that since Halloween was on a Saturday we might see more kids, but that was not the case.

Oh well, At least I got decent candy--although I don't like Milk Duds and Rollos as much as I did when I was in 7th grade. I have more upscale chocolate tastes now!

But the last week has got me thinking about Halloween and creativity. I think that in some cities, more adults celebrate Halloween than the kids. At my school on Friday, I saw more adults in elaborate costumes than the college age students (who are, in fact, technically adults, come to think). I have friends who decorate elaborately--and some of them refuse to decorate for Christmas, but they'll decorate for Halloween.

So, here's my question: why will we, as adults, be creative during this time of the year, but not other times? Or is it just a matter of having the opportunity?

Last year, the Employee Engagement Committee at my workplace had a cookie decorating day for Valentine's Day. People put elaborate amounts of effort into decorating cookie hearts. Maybe we just need more times where creativity is encouraged--encouraged and not judged.

I envision workplaces with creativity posts, where people can gather and do a different creative project each week. If we can have smoking breaks, why not creativity breaks? I'd also like nap rooms, because a 30 minute nap can be so rejuvenating. I understand why napping on the job is problematic--who would wash the sheets? What if people used those nap rooms for other, more nefarious purposes?

But creativity stations . . . hmm, let me think more about that.

It's November 1, which means I should return to my October goals. Here are the goals I recorded in this post on Oct. 1, 2009, and below each, I'll write what I actually accomplished:

--Submit book-length manuscript to at least 2 publishers.

I did this--two copies of my book-length manuscript to two publishers, and one entry of one of my chapbook manuscripts to a contest.

--Get handwritten poems for next book-length manuscript typed into the computer. I've already chosen them from my poetry notebooks. This task will be good for the days when my creative energy is low and also good for the days when my organizational energy is low (I need lots of organizational energy to send poetry packets to journals).

I have most of them done--I may still need to type in one or two.

--Get back to writing poems; I last wrote a poem on Sept. 1. Let's set this bar low. I'd be happy if I could write a poem or two a week.

I did not do this during the first two weeks of October. I did this during the last two weeks of October.

--Make submissions to journals and periodicals.

I failed miserably. I only submitted to three places. In some years, by this time, I'd have made 75 submissions.

Now, to turn my attention to November. Actually, let's make it November and December:

--keep writing a poem or two a week.

--organize next book-length manuscript and chapbook manuscript. The book-length manuscript will be my Jesus/God in the world poems and the chapbook manuscript will be the modern working women poems.

--submit to the journals that stop taking submissions at the end of December.

--submit older book manuscript to 2-4 publishers.

On Jan. 1, I'll check in again to see how I did. Knowing that I would make a report to this blog on Nov. 1 was a surprising motivator on some days in October.

Happy November everyone. Down here in south Florida, we're still dealing with record breaking heat, but I know that some of you struggle with the dying of the light and the cold this time of year. January O'Neil has posted a great November poem by Tony Hoagland on her blog here. For those of you liturgical folks who celebrate All Saints' and All Souls' Day today and tomorrow, there are great resources (poems, pictures, memories) on John Guzlowski's blog here. For those of you who want some ideas for how to celebrate, even if you're not church-based, you might enjoy my post on my theology blog. Shefali's post on the sacred and the profane seems particularly profound to me this morning, as we've passed through one of the "thin spaces" between this world and the next, that thin space celebrated by ancients and moderns alike.