Ordinary is largely a matter of perception. The other night, for example, was a perfectly ordinary Tuesday night for me. I sat for a while in the nave of a glorious cathedral, listening to the dulcet strain of harp music and the shuffling of stocking feet slide across a canvas labyrinth. Then I stood for a few minutes and noticed the way the light filtering through the stained glass turned the surrounding limestone from a fiery orange to a rosy red as a cloud passed over the sun. I moved on to a quiet side chapel where I sat in a rickety wicker and wood chair as a gifted healer, a true channel for Light and Love, placed her hands on my head and surrounded me with the pulsating energy of prayer. Finally, I descended into the crypt where I spent the next hour with a group of about thirty or so people reading, discussing and, perhaps most extraordinarily, writing poems about the ordinary.
Part of my work for the past few years has included leading programs that use seasonal poetry as a vehicle for reflection. Last night's program, exploring the poetry of summer, focused on the idea of the ordinary for, according to the church calendar, we're in the season of Ordinary Time. Without the anticipation of Advent, pageantry of Christmas, stripping away of Lent, and drama of Easter, the days of Ordinary Time seem, well ordinary. They plod on, one flowing into another. The liturgical color of ordinary time is green, which for those of us in the northern hemisphere is a pretty ordinary color at this time of year. Summer is in full swing and to quote Elizabeth Barrett Browning, "Earth's crammed with heaven and every common bush afire with God." German poet, mystic, healer and artist Hildegard of Bingen wrote about this fire in creation as viriditas-- the green-ness, vitality, fecundity that is an attribute of the divine, present in all creation. Barrett Browning goes on to write in her lengthy poem Aurora Leigh that only those who see recognize this viriditas in creation pause to take off their shoes, acknowledging the holy moment. For those who are unaware it's business as usual.
This idea of seeing-- being aware, awake, in the moment-- is a great lesson we can learn from Ordinary Time. For when we are awake and fully present in the moment we more easily recognize the extraordinary in the ordinary.
The poems I chose for Tuesday's program focused on this idea of seeing-- as the task of the poet (Denise Levertov's Looking, Walking, Being and Mary Oliver's The Summer Day), as a challenge when our mind wanders (The Moment by Billy Collins) and how seeing can reveal the rich beauty in an ordinary object we often take for granted (Pablo Neruda's Ode to Tomatoes). We began with a quick-writing activity by writing a modern cinquain on the subject of "ordinary" and then sharing what images or ideas came out of that. After reading and talking a bit about the poems I selected, we shared in smaller groups a time we recalled when we were in the moment and paying attention, like Mary Oliver's example in her poem. From there, I gave people a measly ten minutes (that's all the time we had left) to write a poem of their own, suggesting they pick an ordinary object and try writing an ode a la Neruda or taking an ordinary situation and see where writing about it took them, like Billy Collins did describing a June day.
The results of writing about the ordinary were extraordinary. We had a lot of odes-- to basil, clothes, cats, and a trustworthy car. Commuting was a popular theme. There was a witty rhyme about trying to get to work on time using public transportation and a musing about the ordinary scenes one encounters on the journey from one's door to one's regular seat on the bus. I'm always amazed at these programs, not only at the creativity and thoughtfulness that comes out in people's writing, but at their eagerness and generosity in being willing to share what they have written with the larger group.
After the program as I was back in the nave gathering up the dirty labyrinth socks to take home and wash (the not so glamorous part of my job as the coordinator of Cathedral Crossroads), a woman who hadn't shared with the larger group approached me and asked if she could read me her cinquain. She was proud of what she wrote and wanted someone to hear it. After she read her poem, she remarked that she was surprised that she wrote such a poem and thanked me for creating the safe space for her to open to the process.
I've come to realize that as much as my path is about my own writing, it's also just as importantly about the ways in which I am called to help create that safe space and offer encouragement for others to discover how writing can open their own doors. And that, is an extraordinary opportunity for which I am truly grateful.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Friday, June 17, 2011
An Epicure in Mathemagic Land
I recently learned that I am an Epicure. Not as in a person with refined taste in food and wine-- although I am that too. The first thing I do when I get stuck on a writing project is wander into the kitchen, open the fridge and cabinet doors and see what inspires me to break out the pots and pans. Getting my creative juices flowing in the kitchen helps feed my writing, as well as stomach. And if I'm stuck because my inner critic is being a bit too vocal, a glass of Prosecco or Bordeaux usually gets her to loosen up enough so that I can get back to work.
No, the kind of Epicure I discovered I am has more to do with the philosopher who lends his name to the term than the website where you can search for recipes from the now defunct Gourmet magazine.
A few Saturdays ago I had the opportunity to attend a one day workshop on the Enneagram. The Enneagram is one of those personality type of tests that is often mentioned in spiritual communities as a helpful tool for understanding one's journey. As the presenter aptly noted, people find out what their Myers-Briggs type is and think, "Oh yeah . . . " but when they find out what their Enneagram type is they say, "Oh shit!" I've taken a few abbreviated on-line Enneagram tests before and thumbed through a book or two on the subject so I wasn't completely unprepared for the experience; however, it definitely wasn't like the warm fuzzy feeling I had about myself when I discovered I was an INFP.
Many of the challenges faced by a 7 (the Epicure or Enthusiast) are already things I know to be true about myself: I like to keep my options open which means I have a hard time making a decision. I am an eternal optimist but get frustrated with people who are negative or blame others for their unhappiness. Of course, this also means I tend to deny or downplay any pain or sadness in my own life. Like Epicurius, my underlying motivation is the pursuit of pleasure and avoidance of pain (or so the Enneagram says). Boredom is something I try to avoid at all costs. Consequently I have an active imagination and many interests to prevent me from ever being bored (another reason I usually have a book with me at all times as well). Unfortunately, because I am interested in so many things, I sometimes. . . okay I usually have trouble focusing on any one thing and I get easily distracted.
Which brings me to how being a 7 impacts my writing. After my dissertation was finished and the dust of graduation and the subsequent celebrations had settled down, I told myself it was time for me to to also settle down and get writing. The problem was that I'd sit down at my desk and spend the next hour trying to decide which project I should tackle first. Should I finish editing one of the essays from the personal essay class I just finished at the Writer's Center or pull out one of the essays I'd started but never finished? Then there's the short story/novella I started a few years ago while on on a retreat at a monastery on the banks of the Hudson River-- the story that came to me in the form of a vivid dream and wouldn't let me sleep until I got up and started writing it down. But then again, the YA novel that I began for last year's "Three Day Novel" contest still needs to be finished. And I have the prologue and some notes from the story I started crafting on holiday in Ireland that lends itself to a novel. But maybe something easier? I could easily knock out a chapter or two of the do-it-yourself retreat book I have outlined. And it wouldn't take much work to turn my dissertation into a book. Hmmm. . . or how about some poetry. Or the children's book about the hedgehog butler, Gustav Prickly?
You see my problem?
When I was a kid whenever we'd have a substitute in elementary school the go to lesson plan seemed to be showing the Disney classic, "Donald Duck in Mathemagic Land." While I didn't love math all that much (and still don't) what I did love was the scene of the chaos and clutter in Donald's mind and how his guide encourages him to clear out the clutter and get organized. Like Donald, my mental energy (and physical and spiritual) is often all over the place. This is my personal mathemagic equation: too many ideas + hard to make a decision x not enough focus = a classic 7.
So I'm trying to find ways to cope-- to do my own virtual mental housekeeping in order to help me focus my energy. Unlike Donald Duck, I'm a visual learner so file folders-- electronic or cardboard, don't really work well for me. Instead, above my desk I've created a patchwork quilt of Post-It notes to try to get my writing projects organized. Each endeavor is color coded by genre and contains a few notes as to the subject. They're then lined up in neat rows on the wall above my desk by level of completion. Ideas that have just started to germinate are on the top row while projects that simply need some final editing are on the bottom, with everything else in between. When something is finished, it then gets moved to the wall beside my desk.
I still have a lot of ideas (I've added a few Post It notes to the top row in the past few weeks) and I still have a hard time trying to decide what to focus on (only one project has moved to the completed wall). Somehow though, as I sit here at my desk staring at the fruit colored pieces of paper lined up on the white wall my mind doesn't race quite as much and I can feel my body settling into my chair as I debate between two pink pieces of paper-- an essay on my obsession with death as a child or one about growing up with an aunt with developmental disabilities.
Of course, as I ponder my choices I notice that the pink is remarkably close to the color of the watermelon I cut up this afternoon and put in the fridge which would go really well with the yellow heirloom tomatoes (which are themselves remarkably close to the color I've assigned to poetry). I think I hear my inner critic starting to grumble about my getting distracted again but there's also a half a bottle of Riesling left from the other night which should appease her.
No, the kind of Epicure I discovered I am has more to do with the philosopher who lends his name to the term than the website where you can search for recipes from the now defunct Gourmet magazine.
A few Saturdays ago I had the opportunity to attend a one day workshop on the Enneagram. The Enneagram is one of those personality type of tests that is often mentioned in spiritual communities as a helpful tool for understanding one's journey. As the presenter aptly noted, people find out what their Myers-Briggs type is and think, "Oh yeah . . . " but when they find out what their Enneagram type is they say, "Oh shit!" I've taken a few abbreviated on-line Enneagram tests before and thumbed through a book or two on the subject so I wasn't completely unprepared for the experience; however, it definitely wasn't like the warm fuzzy feeling I had about myself when I discovered I was an INFP.
Many of the challenges faced by a 7 (the Epicure or Enthusiast) are already things I know to be true about myself: I like to keep my options open which means I have a hard time making a decision. I am an eternal optimist but get frustrated with people who are negative or blame others for their unhappiness. Of course, this also means I tend to deny or downplay any pain or sadness in my own life. Like Epicurius, my underlying motivation is the pursuit of pleasure and avoidance of pain (or so the Enneagram says). Boredom is something I try to avoid at all costs. Consequently I have an active imagination and many interests to prevent me from ever being bored (another reason I usually have a book with me at all times as well). Unfortunately, because I am interested in so many things, I sometimes. . . okay I usually have trouble focusing on any one thing and I get easily distracted.
Which brings me to how being a 7 impacts my writing. After my dissertation was finished and the dust of graduation and the subsequent celebrations had settled down, I told myself it was time for me to to also settle down and get writing. The problem was that I'd sit down at my desk and spend the next hour trying to decide which project I should tackle first. Should I finish editing one of the essays from the personal essay class I just finished at the Writer's Center or pull out one of the essays I'd started but never finished? Then there's the short story/novella I started a few years ago while on on a retreat at a monastery on the banks of the Hudson River-- the story that came to me in the form of a vivid dream and wouldn't let me sleep until I got up and started writing it down. But then again, the YA novel that I began for last year's "Three Day Novel" contest still needs to be finished. And I have the prologue and some notes from the story I started crafting on holiday in Ireland that lends itself to a novel. But maybe something easier? I could easily knock out a chapter or two of the do-it-yourself retreat book I have outlined. And it wouldn't take much work to turn my dissertation into a book. Hmmm. . . or how about some poetry. Or the children's book about the hedgehog butler, Gustav Prickly?
You see my problem?
When I was a kid whenever we'd have a substitute in elementary school the go to lesson plan seemed to be showing the Disney classic, "Donald Duck in Mathemagic Land." While I didn't love math all that much (and still don't) what I did love was the scene of the chaos and clutter in Donald's mind and how his guide encourages him to clear out the clutter and get organized. Like Donald, my mental energy (and physical and spiritual) is often all over the place. This is my personal mathemagic equation: too many ideas + hard to make a decision x not enough focus = a classic 7.
So I'm trying to find ways to cope-- to do my own virtual mental housekeeping in order to help me focus my energy. Unlike Donald Duck, I'm a visual learner so file folders-- electronic or cardboard, don't really work well for me. Instead, above my desk I've created a patchwork quilt of Post-It notes to try to get my writing projects organized. Each endeavor is color coded by genre and contains a few notes as to the subject. They're then lined up in neat rows on the wall above my desk by level of completion. Ideas that have just started to germinate are on the top row while projects that simply need some final editing are on the bottom, with everything else in between. When something is finished, it then gets moved to the wall beside my desk.
I still have a lot of ideas (I've added a few Post It notes to the top row in the past few weeks) and I still have a hard time trying to decide what to focus on (only one project has moved to the completed wall). Somehow though, as I sit here at my desk staring at the fruit colored pieces of paper lined up on the white wall my mind doesn't race quite as much and I can feel my body settling into my chair as I debate between two pink pieces of paper-- an essay on my obsession with death as a child or one about growing up with an aunt with developmental disabilities.
Of course, as I ponder my choices I notice that the pink is remarkably close to the color of the watermelon I cut up this afternoon and put in the fridge which would go really well with the yellow heirloom tomatoes (which are themselves remarkably close to the color I've assigned to poetry). I think I hear my inner critic starting to grumble about my getting distracted again but there's also a half a bottle of Riesling left from the other night which should appease her.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Paying Attention
So, I've decided to start a blog. This isn't exactly revolutionary. There are probably hundreds, if not thousands of people who are starting blog on this very day. And to be honest, this isn't the first blog I've started. When I traveled to Ireland a few summers ago I blogged to keep friends and family appraised of my adventures. The following summer, Mulling over the Mullet became Wandering in Wales (and Syria, Lebanon, Berlin, Prague, etc.) as I had an opportunity to travel to seven countries in two months. But since then my summers have been spent at home and my writing on walls has been limited to an occasional comment about a friend's cute kid or the perfunctory passing along of birthday greetings on Facebook.
There was a time when I wrote on walls a lot. When I was three I constantly scribbled "stories" on the rough surface of the cinder block walls in the basement of my childhood home. My parents eventually gave me paper and my first grade teacher (appropriately named Bliss) gave me the encouragement to turn my experiences into stories, thus Terri Lynn, the writer, was born.
It seems fitting then, that all these years later, having just finished a doctorate degree in Spirituality and Story, I am drawn to writing on walls again. It's a coming full circle that I need to pay attention to.
When I was traveling, both in Ireland and in Wales, I took countless pictures of crumbling stone walls in old abbeys and churches. What all these pictures have in common is that in each there is a door or window that serves as the focal point-- a threshold providing a glimpse into a world beyond the wall.
The quote from Annie Lamott that I chose as the tag-line for my blog comes from her book Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life. Early on she talks about her students who "kind of want to write but really want to publish." She goes on to say that writing helps you pay attention, helps you wake up.
Wake up. Pry open the door. I first typed "pray open the door" and maybe that's part of this endeavor as well. Pry open the door, pray open the door, peek through the key hole, peer around the corner, look out the window. Pay attention. Write over the threshold. That's what this blog is about. My journey in writing over the threshold . . .
There was a time when I wrote on walls a lot. When I was three I constantly scribbled "stories" on the rough surface of the cinder block walls in the basement of my childhood home. My parents eventually gave me paper and my first grade teacher (appropriately named Bliss) gave me the encouragement to turn my experiences into stories, thus Terri Lynn, the writer, was born.
It seems fitting then, that all these years later, having just finished a doctorate degree in Spirituality and Story, I am drawn to writing on walls again. It's a coming full circle that I need to pay attention to.
When I was traveling, both in Ireland and in Wales, I took countless pictures of crumbling stone walls in old abbeys and churches. What all these pictures have in common is that in each there is a door or window that serves as the focal point-- a threshold providing a glimpse into a world beyond the wall.
The quote from Annie Lamott that I chose as the tag-line for my blog comes from her book Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life. Early on she talks about her students who "kind of want to write but really want to publish." She goes on to say that writing helps you pay attention, helps you wake up.
Wake up. Pry open the door. I first typed "pray open the door" and maybe that's part of this endeavor as well. Pry open the door, pray open the door, peek through the key hole, peer around the corner, look out the window. Pay attention. Write over the threshold. That's what this blog is about. My journey in writing over the threshold . . .
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