Today I read an article by Parker Palmer addressing the writer's calling and the skills required, as he has experienced it (Christian Century, Sept. 7, 2010). His comments added another layer to the subject of writing as a calling, which has been something I've pondered over for the past several months. I ask myself if it is a legitimate reason for moving away from overt activism and devoting time to my writing. The votes aren't all in yet, but I believe the answer will be a strong Yes.
I never was very good at vigils or marches. My legs grew weary, my muscles began to ache, I was either very cold or very hot, or even very wet on rainy days. My concentration waned as my physical condition became more pronounced. Yet it was possible to write a poem or an article or letter to the paper voicing strong opinions (which often got me into trouble!), and my old bones did not ache from the effort. Sometimes words are as powerful in their way as actions, I have concluded.
My decision to move in the direction of the computer vs. the street has been a source of satisfaction and fulfillment so far for me, and I find as each day passes, the layer of guilt that nearly suffocated me at times for letting go of so many fine causes through my active participation has thinned out to mere gauze. Still there, but it does not nag. I think this is one of the unstated points Parker Palmer was making in his article: that we allow our words to be instruments for good.
This wrestling with the "to be or to do" dilemma now brings me to the first of what I hope to be an effective effort to draw attention to the evils of our world and push us to adopt new attitudes, through the power of the written word. This, in point, is my book Rachel's Children: Surviving the Second World War, due out very soon by All Things That Matters Press. I was drawn to that publisher at first because of the name, and have since discovered what a wonderful caring and professional group they are who work there. Deb and Phil Harris, the publishers, have many credits to show for their efforts, and they have developed a sense of community surrounding their authors to bolster our spirits and provide good advice on marketing what we have written. So I look forward now with great excitement to seeing my very own book put together collaboratively by them and by me, in its design.
To write about the consequences of war, Rachel's Children is a document that required a lot of discipline by me to stay on topic. Contributors brought varied perspectives to their stories. History was expressed in personal ways that a broad and academic study of such a war might overlook in the attempt to present sweeping accounts of strategy and statistics. These collected stories are what happened to children who now as adults remember that time in retrospect and wisdom gained from that experience.
To illustrate, here is an excerpt from the book explaining the background for the book:
"Children are repositories of the world’s memories. In times of war, they absorb through their senses the tastes, smells, sounds, sights and feel of fear, of terror, of violence, of the deepest pangs of hunger. These memories sink deep into the very cells of their small bodies, to affect them years later in a variety of expressions. The stories contained in this collection reflect the memories of those who spent their childhood in the turbulent times of what is commonly known as World War II. For many, the experience was one which defined loss for them: Of family members, of pets, of homes, or simply of a way of life which had seemed safe and predictable."
And a poem commentary:
we cannot live forever in that time
life refuses to indulge our memories
yet we know and we remember
so that grandchildren will be witnesses
to our stories
Monday, September 6, 2010
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Poems Are Necessary
Recently, I ran across an interview with Daniel Halpern, who heads up the National Poetry Series. It is in the July/August issue of Poets & Writers. This particular comment, on possible changes in cultural sensibilities toward poetry, is worth sharing: "In this country and probably everywhere, poetry is the first thing people turn to during times of crisis or transition -- weddings, deaths, 9/11, for instance. It's always the poem that seems to be capable of carrying the emotional baggage. Whatever that represents, it's the thing that makes poetry so consistent over the years."
I'm not certain that in "times of crisis or transition," folks I know would turn first to poetry to address their concerns, but it is true that poetry can speak with a voice that prose is unable to do. I find that friends often use a poem to provide support to someone undergoing a rough time of it, and during a funeral or memorial service a poem is a frequent part of the service or placed in the bulletin. Why is this? Music and poetry share the same genetic makeup, and both can get through the mazes of stress and grief or worry in ways that pure prosaic words fail to do.
Maybe it's because I have loved poetry ever since high school, when I was unable to express my own feelings adequately. Words can sing, but I couldn't find them in my own mind until I began a serious reading of the poetic literature of the ages -- introduced by caring teachers of English literature. My early attempts at writing poems were pretty dramatic and emotional, especially the love poems. But they were the next phase of my fascination with words and what they mean. The bards of old, David with his lyre, Shakespeare and ensuing poets of all times, are clear evidence that their music and poetry were the fare of kings and emperors, of those in power who need nothing more than the mystic words to confirm their power. I wouldn't be surprised if Eve's first words to Adam when she morphed out of that rib were in the form of a couplet, the content of which has been lost in the dust of time. Perhaps some of you reading this have ideas about what she might have uttered. Later, no doubt, they were transcribed on to a rock, which has never been discovered in the archaeological ruins of another time. Who, I wonder, will find it, the inscription of creation?
No doubt this is the point where I end the blog with a poem of my own, but I feel inadequate for the task after what I've noted here. If anyone out there comes up with something, let me know. You can find me right here.
I'm not certain that in "times of crisis or transition," folks I know would turn first to poetry to address their concerns, but it is true that poetry can speak with a voice that prose is unable to do. I find that friends often use a poem to provide support to someone undergoing a rough time of it, and during a funeral or memorial service a poem is a frequent part of the service or placed in the bulletin. Why is this? Music and poetry share the same genetic makeup, and both can get through the mazes of stress and grief or worry in ways that pure prosaic words fail to do.
Maybe it's because I have loved poetry ever since high school, when I was unable to express my own feelings adequately. Words can sing, but I couldn't find them in my own mind until I began a serious reading of the poetic literature of the ages -- introduced by caring teachers of English literature. My early attempts at writing poems were pretty dramatic and emotional, especially the love poems. But they were the next phase of my fascination with words and what they mean. The bards of old, David with his lyre, Shakespeare and ensuing poets of all times, are clear evidence that their music and poetry were the fare of kings and emperors, of those in power who need nothing more than the mystic words to confirm their power. I wouldn't be surprised if Eve's first words to Adam when she morphed out of that rib were in the form of a couplet, the content of which has been lost in the dust of time. Perhaps some of you reading this have ideas about what she might have uttered. Later, no doubt, they were transcribed on to a rock, which has never been discovered in the archaeological ruins of another time. Who, I wonder, will find it, the inscription of creation?
No doubt this is the point where I end the blog with a poem of my own, but I feel inadequate for the task after what I've noted here. If anyone out there comes up with something, let me know. You can find me right here.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Excerpt from my book
I have a book coming out soon: Rachel's Children: Surviving the Second World War. To give readers a glimpse of some of the entries I will provide a few blogs with samples in the hope that you will want to read the whole book when it comes out through All Things That Matter Press. Here is the first of several selections:
The year 1939 marked the beginning of a war eventually affecting the entire world in one way or another for the next six years. Although the United States would not enter until 1941, in England and continental Europe, life began to change dramatically following the German military's invasion of Poland September 1, 1939. Hitler's armies showed little mercy for the inhabitants of countries considered for German expansion, its lebensraum.
Children began to hear their elders speak of impending war and then its beginning, without a full understanding of such consequences. Parents tried to reassure their children by saying that war was not good, but that little ones would be all right. Two days after Germany invaded Poland, Great Britain and France declared war on Germany, and Warsaw fell to the German Army by the end of September. In the beginning, France was spared from invasion, and children there believed assurances that they would be safe. Fathers in France and elsewhere, however, soon began to be drafted into the armed services.
The year 1939 marked the beginning of a war eventually affecting the entire world in one way or another for the next six years. Although the United States would not enter until 1941, in England and continental Europe, life began to change dramatically following the German military's invasion of Poland September 1, 1939. Hitler's armies showed little mercy for the inhabitants of countries considered for German expansion, its lebensraum.
Children began to hear their elders speak of impending war and then its beginning, without a full understanding of such consequences. Parents tried to reassure their children by saying that war was not good, but that little ones would be all right. Two days after Germany invaded Poland, Great Britain and France declared war on Germany, and Warsaw fell to the German Army by the end of September. In the beginning, France was spared from invasion, and children there believed assurances that they would be safe. Fathers in France and elsewhere, however, soon began to be drafted into the armed services.
A duck flies out of the pond. A rooster crows.
The field begins to wear brown. Grasshoppers
lose their summer green; the music fades
from their wings. Cannon boom like drums
of war over the hill, as dark-clad troops follow
the commands of death. A baby shrieks,
a summons comes to a home in France.
Poland is lost.
The field begins to wear brown. Grasshoppers
lose their summer green; the music fades
from their wings. Cannon boom like drums
of war over the hill, as dark-clad troops follow
the commands of death. A baby shrieks,
a summons comes to a home in France.
Poland is lost.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Time for Poetry
It is time -- it is time now
to rid ourselves of prose.
The government cannot lie
when it speaks to us in verse.
There are days when I find it hard to distinguish between lies and innuendos and the truth. Even my favorite columnists and online news and opinion feeds can't be trusted fully for truth-telling, nor can my favorite TV news and commentary programs be reliable all the time for unbiased delivery. It comes down to the necessity for me to forage through all the heavy-handed opinions and editorials and weigh them on the scales of reason before I buy into what is stated.
That's why I wrote the poem that closes my chapbook of poetry, "Let Us All Be Poets." Poetry, regardless of the words, is the metaphor for truth: truth of vision, of understanding, of perception. It is why even in my prose books of stories I have begun adding poems as commentary. Rachel's Children: Surviving the Second World War, my most recent book and soon to be published with All Things That Matter Press, carries poem commentaries on the experiences of those who were children during WWII. And now I embark on another collection of stories, to tell of animals who have been rescued from disasters and terrible conditions of abuse and neglect, and now are ready for homes of care and compassion.
Stories have a way of fitting together into long and connecting episodes, but run the risk of overstatements or missing the pathos or joy of an experience. Thus poems set things right again and speak beyond fact, telling the truth. We cannot live without poetry. The ancients knew that, yet in our own time it is often taught in such a way as to drive the sensitive and perceptive among us away from stanzas into the mire of prose unenlightened by reality. Even in biblical literature, it is the Psalms, or Jeremiah's and Isaiah's departure from prophetic prose into poetry that informs us most deeply. It is the metaphor and ancient hymns of gospel and epistle that reveal the essence of the divine most clearly. Poetry is the essential thread for revelation.
Just once, I'd like to hear a candidate for political office make a pitch for votes by voicing promises in the form of a poem. I would in all likelihood vote for that person in a heartbeat over one who fills the air with emptiness and false hope, with manipulated charges against opponents that are at best only partially correct. Let's hear the truth in place of hype and chicanery and silly innuendos. Let's hear a poem.
to rid ourselves of prose.
The government cannot lie
when it speaks to us in verse.
There are days when I find it hard to distinguish between lies and innuendos and the truth. Even my favorite columnists and online news and opinion feeds can't be trusted fully for truth-telling, nor can my favorite TV news and commentary programs be reliable all the time for unbiased delivery. It comes down to the necessity for me to forage through all the heavy-handed opinions and editorials and weigh them on the scales of reason before I buy into what is stated.
That's why I wrote the poem that closes my chapbook of poetry, "Let Us All Be Poets." Poetry, regardless of the words, is the metaphor for truth: truth of vision, of understanding, of perception. It is why even in my prose books of stories I have begun adding poems as commentary. Rachel's Children: Surviving the Second World War, my most recent book and soon to be published with All Things That Matter Press, carries poem commentaries on the experiences of those who were children during WWII. And now I embark on another collection of stories, to tell of animals who have been rescued from disasters and terrible conditions of abuse and neglect, and now are ready for homes of care and compassion.
Stories have a way of fitting together into long and connecting episodes, but run the risk of overstatements or missing the pathos or joy of an experience. Thus poems set things right again and speak beyond fact, telling the truth. We cannot live without poetry. The ancients knew that, yet in our own time it is often taught in such a way as to drive the sensitive and perceptive among us away from stanzas into the mire of prose unenlightened by reality. Even in biblical literature, it is the Psalms, or Jeremiah's and Isaiah's departure from prophetic prose into poetry that informs us most deeply. It is the metaphor and ancient hymns of gospel and epistle that reveal the essence of the divine most clearly. Poetry is the essential thread for revelation.
Just once, I'd like to hear a candidate for political office make a pitch for votes by voicing promises in the form of a poem. I would in all likelihood vote for that person in a heartbeat over one who fills the air with emptiness and false hope, with manipulated charges against opponents that are at best only partially correct. Let's hear the truth in place of hype and chicanery and silly innuendos. Let's hear a poem.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Carving Out Some Time
My new commitment to be a full-time writer after all these years of making it a vital part, but not the only part, of my life is gradually being realized. I can say No more easily to pleas for my presence at social justice events, for donations to good causes, for serving on committees that work for inclusion in all of life's opportunities. The result has been some publishing successes with poems, and now a contract for a book about children who survived WWII. Beyond that, it is the exhilaration I feel with this new life for me, where I can still promote good causes, but through words more than through actions.
Even so, the need to have tangible pieces of creative work other than poems and stories seeks fulfillment. For me it is through chip carving, a process of cutting out chips in a flat wood surface to create something visual through figures, letters, contrasts between light and dark. It is an ancient craft, and for some it is an art. For me, it is therapy -- a time to design something on a piece of basswood or beechnut and then carve out the shapes. Once the design is in place, the part that is fun begins: to carve and let my mind wander where it will as I move into a more contemplative state.
The greatest joy of such a time, however, is in the presentation of the completed carving to someone as a gift. Wedding presents, thank-you's, birthdays, anniversaries, special events, they all are possibilities for doing another carving. Those that don't end up very well stay at home to be enjoyed here.
The process is rather simple: first comes the wood -- a plate, a box, a plaque, even a bowl, or some unusually-shaped object will do. The varieties are endless. I have a set of coasters that didn't make it as a gift because I punctured a hole in one, a plate that had the same accident, pieces that stained poorly, and the like. But they are nevertheless accomplishments. After choosing the wooden shape, a design is necessary before cutting into the wood. I have many many books and carving magazine photos to stimulate ideas, so if I use my own ideas it is usually as an adaptation rather than something totally original. The technique of carving and finishing the wood make it my own work.
My carving has never been as clean cut as those by instructors who have taught me at the John Campbell Folk School, but sometimes I get it almost right. Geometric or organic patterns both have their attractions, and I usually combine these for contrast. The finishing touches are where I often do a less than accurate job -- too much stain in spots, missing some little cuts and not seeing those until the polyurethane spray has been applied, too dark or too light at times, but when it works well, the wood finish makes all the difference.
The major difference for me, however, is not so much in how a piece looks after it is finished, but how I feel about having created something that was not there before. As in words I write. Making something exist, something that is tangible that the eye can see and the mind and spirit can relate to in some way. I don't know how all this works, but when it comes together, somehow it's the way it was supposed to be.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Bertha Holt:: 1916-2010
A loyal church woman, she served her Episcopal church in Burlington, Church of the Holy Comforter, right up to her last days. She was also active in her diocese, demonstrating to us that it is possible to make changes in even the slowest of official bodies. Her support of the North Carolina Council of Churches is legendary, and she received the Council's "Faith Active in Public Life" Award in 1987, while she was serving as a Representative in the North Carolina Legislature. During recent years, she has been serving on the Governing Board of the Council, and participated in the Council's 75th Anniversary, held at Duke Divinity School May 18 of this year. I am awed by her energy, her determination, and her brilliant mind, all of which was evident right up to the very end of her life.
What a legacy she leaves for her children, the people of this state, the NC Council of Churches, her church, and the residents of Burlington. It will be a very long time before anyone such as she enters the arena, but when that happens, it will be because of the foundation that B provided through her endeavors and her accomplishments.
May God greet her with joy. May her energy continue in those of us who follow.
Monday, June 14, 2010
welcoming myself back on my own blog
It's time to return to this blogspot because of the upturn in my writing adventures. Having just signed a contract with All Things That Matter Press, I am now stepping feet first into a new world of publishing unlike anything I've done before. Previously I've self-published four books, and had lots of fun and challenges with that effort, but very little know-how on marketing. I give away a lot of books . . .
This time it's different: a real publisher and thus a book that might actually make it into the marketplace and be somewhat successful. Rachel's Children: Surviving the Second World War is my title, describing the experiences of those who were children during WWII. I was one of them, although never in the deep trenches of warfare. It affected me even so, and many years later made me realize that for someone who had been only peripherally involved yet having life-long effects from that time, I must understand that children whose life was surrounded by the battles, the hunger, the fears, the dangers of war carried those memories with them for their entire lives. Many have died since the war ended, but for those who are still here, my hope is that somehow by telling the stories, describing the lives, healing comes.
I was 8 years old. My father was an Army doctor, a pathologist, stationed in Honolulu, Hawaii (at the time the Territory of Hawaii) when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. I spent the first few days feeling fear in the pit of my stomach. Eventually what had at first seemed disorienting about a new pattern for our days became routine and I began to settle into a sense of normalcy around me even when I knew it was not normal. I describe some of this in the book.
My father remained in Honolulu until the Japanese surrender at war's end, but my brother and mother and I left the spring after the war's beginning. My other brother, a student at Princeton University, graduated early, as did my other brother later, and entered the service. My mother and I stayed in North Carolina near my father's relatives until his return and our move to Ft. Hamilton in New York City.
As we faced more wars in the years since, I grew convinced that we must find a way never to have war again, but the efforts for peace continue to be elusive. The pain and the loss of something essential in our psyche prevails until we face a world in chaos, without direction, and with an abundance of disasters both natural and by the acts of our own human species.
Thus it is that by writing this book, collecting stories, reflecting by way of my poems, I have been able to feel at least some glimmerings of personal healing and wholeness, but I continue to grieve for all the lost children, the lost hopes, the lost futures of those who never survived any of our wars.
May this book be a healing journey for its readers.
This time it's different: a real publisher and thus a book that might actually make it into the marketplace and be somewhat successful. Rachel's Children: Surviving the Second World War is my title, describing the experiences of those who were children during WWII. I was one of them, although never in the deep trenches of warfare. It affected me even so, and many years later made me realize that for someone who had been only peripherally involved yet having life-long effects from that time, I must understand that children whose life was surrounded by the battles, the hunger, the fears, the dangers of war carried those memories with them for their entire lives. Many have died since the war ended, but for those who are still here, my hope is that somehow by telling the stories, describing the lives, healing comes.
I was 8 years old. My father was an Army doctor, a pathologist, stationed in Honolulu, Hawaii (at the time the Territory of Hawaii) when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. I spent the first few days feeling fear in the pit of my stomach. Eventually what had at first seemed disorienting about a new pattern for our days became routine and I began to settle into a sense of normalcy around me even when I knew it was not normal. I describe some of this in the book.
My father remained in Honolulu until the Japanese surrender at war's end, but my brother and mother and I left the spring after the war's beginning. My other brother, a student at Princeton University, graduated early, as did my other brother later, and entered the service. My mother and I stayed in North Carolina near my father's relatives until his return and our move to Ft. Hamilton in New York City.
As we faced more wars in the years since, I grew convinced that we must find a way never to have war again, but the efforts for peace continue to be elusive. The pain and the loss of something essential in our psyche prevails until we face a world in chaos, without direction, and with an abundance of disasters both natural and by the acts of our own human species.
Thus it is that by writing this book, collecting stories, reflecting by way of my poems, I have been able to feel at least some glimmerings of personal healing and wholeness, but I continue to grieve for all the lost children, the lost hopes, the lost futures of those who never survived any of our wars.
May this book be a healing journey for its readers.
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