Writing during Corona
One of my best divorced mom friends I met four years ago at the amazing divorce support group on Monday nights from 7:00-9:00pm (rain or shine) at the Lutheran church on Sandhill and Trop. If you are struggling through any stage of a divorce you should check it out once we can go back outside and into the world.
Kary has been a public school teacher in Clark County for over 20 years. She is one of the most independent, kind, and generous people, and one of the most creative and talented artists I have ever met.
For the past three-and-a half years or so, we have been getting together to write and have wine and food, and talk about everything.
We use the method from Pat Schneider's guide Writing Alone and with Others.
To sum up:
-we get a prompt or two to get us started thinking
-set a timer for eight minutes and then each write independently
-we read aloud to each other what we wrote down
-after each of us reads, the other one tells the writer what they noticed and remembered
-we refrain from praise or "I loved" or even "I liked"
-we only acknowledge what we remembered
It's not a jerk-each-other-off fest of telling each other what great writers we think the other is. It's not a contest. It's just us getting together and understanding each other and ourselves a little better than we did before we sat down to write.
Since Corona, we've had three sessions on the phone. I'm sharing them here because they were really good for my soul, and each time, I ended up writing about my sons.
Session #1 (March 19):
PROMPT:
Mary Oliver's poem "A Summer Day"
MY WRITING:
"I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention,
how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed,
how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"
I heard this poem the first time on the last day of school in May, 2016. I was under a year divorced, had just finished my first year in a new job, was navigating my way through life with my own two sons back in the city, as an adult, where I was born and raised. Life had DEFINITELY not turned out as planned. It is a series of turning over stones every day that are shiny and beautiful on the top and sharp and ugly underneath. Or that are coarse and prickly on top and smooth underneath. Every day is an in-between. Every day is wild and precious. There is nothing that doesn't matter. I worry how complacent and accepting and almost content I've become toward the end of the week that my kids are with their dad. And I worry how fiercely attached and bonded and smitten I've become at the end of the week that my kids are with me. There is NEVER EVER a settled moment, EVER. There is never QUITE peace or a feeling of satisfaction. There is only in-between which is maddening at times. I'm almost there, almost to the point of reaching the top
Session #2 (March 30):
PROMPT:
Sylvia Plath's quote: "And by the way, everything in life is writeable about, as long as you have the guts to do it and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt."
MY WRITING:
I love the phrase "and by the way." It seems like that is the envelope into which all of the important bits are tucked.
And by the way, I want a divorce
And by the way, I love you
And by the way, I'm not sure I can live like that
And by the way, I want you to move in with me
And by the way, I DON'T want you to move in with me
And by the way, if you can't, then I won't
It is a tag onto all the bullshit that we fill our days and hours with -- the details and the busywork. The meat comes after "and by the way." It's what got shoved down that we didn't want to say. It's what we wish we could say but decide not to. It's what we know will be the very best thing for us, what will liberate us. The truth follows it but we're scared to call attention to the truth because it will burn. But if we light that flame inside and liberate ourselves, if we set the wick at the end of the dynamite on fire and we actually find the courage to say the words, we begin small, offhand, subtle throwing-it-away so we can gingerly enter the world of the truth. It will drop us down to the next level. It will open up some locked spot in our soul, somewhere rotting and decaying from the routine and complacency.
And by the way, I need this
And by the way, I don't need this
And by the way, I am dying inside
And by the way, I don't know what to do please help
Session #2 (April 10):
PROMPT:
Kwame Alexander's curated, "community-style" poem, "Social Distance."
MY WRITING:
"She is not thinking about the next time they will see each other
She is not thinking about the last time they saw each other
She is not thinking about the empty grocery shelves"
She is thinking about how many pieces and edges and parts and bits there are in love. How it is such a grand, wild thing. How you can't see it or touch it or appreciate it or understand it, ever, really, and especially if it is right in your face all the time. I remember feeling a love/hate longing toward my dad when I was growing up. I didn't feel this way toward my mom, because she was constant; she was always there when I needed her. I wanted my dad to be around more and I wanted to feel that he loved me like I loved him and I was also pissed that he seemed to not want to be around as much. In his absence I recognized love in a way that I couldn't quite recognize with my mom because she was there, she was a given. It was his love that I had to vie for. I only understood what love felt like, wholly, in the absence of love. I have been gearing up for this week for a few weeks now, this week where my sons are with their dad and I am alone. Not alone where I go to yoga, see friends, see family, see boyfriend, see sons every day at school. Alone alone. I was reflecting today about the shoulds. How I should feel about things. How I am supposed to feel depressed and lonely and ashamed and guilty and lifeless when my kids are with their dad. How if I did not feel those things, then I would be a bad mother. I will have failed. I was also reflecting on love again and how giant it is. How I can't fully understand it but how I seem to come closer in its absence. The depths of color and texture to it, how it molds you, I seem to come closer to it when my kids are with their dad and I can taste how much I love them. How it is in my throat and in my empty hand, like I need to bite down bear down. I could decide NOT to feel depressed, ashamed, guilty this week. I could FULLY DIVE into these PRECIOUS days that I get to have to write, to read, to hike, to just be in my house, to get back on the side of life where I am grateful, as grateful as I can be
Kary has been a public school teacher in Clark County for over 20 years. She is one of the most independent, kind, and generous people, and one of the most creative and talented artists I have ever met.
For the past three-and-a half years or so, we have been getting together to write and have wine and food, and talk about everything.
We use the method from Pat Schneider's guide Writing Alone and with Others.
To sum up:
-we get a prompt or two to get us started thinking
-set a timer for eight minutes and then each write independently
-we read aloud to each other what we wrote down
-after each of us reads, the other one tells the writer what they noticed and remembered
-we refrain from praise or "I loved" or even "I liked"
-we only acknowledge what we remembered
It's not a jerk-each-other-off fest of telling each other what great writers we think the other is. It's not a contest. It's just us getting together and understanding each other and ourselves a little better than we did before we sat down to write.
Since Corona, we've had three sessions on the phone. I'm sharing them here because they were really good for my soul, and each time, I ended up writing about my sons.
Session #1 (March 19):
PROMPT:
Mary Oliver's poem "A Summer Day"
MY WRITING:
"I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention,
how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed,
how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"
I heard this poem the first time on the last day of school in May, 2016. I was under a year divorced, had just finished my first year in a new job, was navigating my way through life with my own two sons back in the city, as an adult, where I was born and raised. Life had DEFINITELY not turned out as planned. It is a series of turning over stones every day that are shiny and beautiful on the top and sharp and ugly underneath. Or that are coarse and prickly on top and smooth underneath. Every day is an in-between. Every day is wild and precious. There is nothing that doesn't matter. I worry how complacent and accepting and almost content I've become toward the end of the week that my kids are with their dad. And I worry how fiercely attached and bonded and smitten I've become at the end of the week that my kids are with me. There is NEVER EVER a settled moment, EVER. There is never QUITE peace or a feeling of satisfaction. There is only in-between which is maddening at times. I'm almost there, almost to the point of reaching the top
Session #2 (March 30):
PROMPT:
Sylvia Plath's quote: "And by the way, everything in life is writeable about, as long as you have the guts to do it and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt."
MY WRITING:
I love the phrase "and by the way." It seems like that is the envelope into which all of the important bits are tucked.
And by the way, I want a divorce
And by the way, I love you
And by the way, I'm not sure I can live like that
And by the way, I want you to move in with me
And by the way, I DON'T want you to move in with me
And by the way, if you can't, then I won't
It is a tag onto all the bullshit that we fill our days and hours with -- the details and the busywork. The meat comes after "and by the way." It's what got shoved down that we didn't want to say. It's what we wish we could say but decide not to. It's what we know will be the very best thing for us, what will liberate us. The truth follows it but we're scared to call attention to the truth because it will burn. But if we light that flame inside and liberate ourselves, if we set the wick at the end of the dynamite on fire and we actually find the courage to say the words, we begin small, offhand, subtle throwing-it-away so we can gingerly enter the world of the truth. It will drop us down to the next level. It will open up some locked spot in our soul, somewhere rotting and decaying from the routine and complacency.
And by the way, I need this
And by the way, I don't need this
And by the way, I am dying inside
And by the way, I don't know what to do please help
Session #2 (April 10):
PROMPT:
Kwame Alexander's curated, "community-style" poem, "Social Distance."
MY WRITING:
"She is not thinking about the next time they will see each other
She is not thinking about the last time they saw each other
She is not thinking about the empty grocery shelves"
She is thinking about how many pieces and edges and parts and bits there are in love. How it is such a grand, wild thing. How you can't see it or touch it or appreciate it or understand it, ever, really, and especially if it is right in your face all the time. I remember feeling a love/hate longing toward my dad when I was growing up. I didn't feel this way toward my mom, because she was constant; she was always there when I needed her. I wanted my dad to be around more and I wanted to feel that he loved me like I loved him and I was also pissed that he seemed to not want to be around as much. In his absence I recognized love in a way that I couldn't quite recognize with my mom because she was there, she was a given. It was his love that I had to vie for. I only understood what love felt like, wholly, in the absence of love. I have been gearing up for this week for a few weeks now, this week where my sons are with their dad and I am alone. Not alone where I go to yoga, see friends, see family, see boyfriend, see sons every day at school. Alone alone. I was reflecting today about the shoulds. How I should feel about things. How I am supposed to feel depressed and lonely and ashamed and guilty and lifeless when my kids are with their dad. How if I did not feel those things, then I would be a bad mother. I will have failed. I was also reflecting on love again and how giant it is. How I can't fully understand it but how I seem to come closer in its absence. The depths of color and texture to it, how it molds you, I seem to come closer to it when my kids are with their dad and I can taste how much I love them. How it is in my throat and in my empty hand, like I need to bite down bear down. I could decide NOT to feel depressed, ashamed, guilty this week. I could FULLY DIVE into these PRECIOUS days that I get to have to write, to read, to hike, to just be in my house, to get back on the side of life where I am grateful, as grateful as I can be
I am touched! Writing sets me free. Thank you for believing in the process!
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