Letter to Michelle

(photo from donkey dish .com)

Dear Michelle,

While everybody is busy writing to your husband,
I thought I'd send this letter to you.
I was sitting in church Sunday
trying to pay attention but my mind kept wandering
to the Peace Open Mic later that night, and I'm thinking,
"really, what's left to say?" We're all so disappointed
with the way things are going
you know, war-wise particularly. I'm not one to place blame;
after all, there I was in church
supposed to be focused on the body and the blood
but it was all the bodies and all the blood
I kept seeing behind my closed eyes.
Don't ask me if this was inspired
by the Christ–I don't know for sure.
It's all a mystery to me. But I started
writing this letter then
from the stark middle of those images and I thought
maybe it was time to appeal to you,
you know, a little woman-to-woman, hoping you might listen
if I could get the words right, make my plea clear,
take us both somewhere we haven't been before.
I was so taken with this idea, this letter to you,
that I didn't make it home
but pulled into the first coffee shop I came to, dug around my bag
until I came up with a pen and a teensy pad of paper
that wouldn't hold a paragraph of mine, even on a good day.
I ordered coffee and sat down to get started but happened to sit
right in front of a little Christmas tree which preoccupied me
a moment and that's when I saw the photo hanging on the wall.
As a veteran, it caught my eye and held my attention.
It was a field full of American flags,
big ones, full-sized, billowing in an unpredictable breeze
and I knew then this letter just had to be.
The photo is titled "Valor, Innocence, and Justice"
and was taken by Ellen Gregory of Farmington, Arkansas.
It's hanging in the Perk Coffee Shop in Fayetteville,
a great buy at $50, just in case you're interested.
Hanging there with those red, white and blue words,
"Valor" and "Justice"but it was the "Innocence"
that got to me. Please know,
I write this in all innocence; a patriot,
a flag billowing in your direction.
It seems I digress, but I believe in synchronicity and all the signs
(and photos) were right for this letter to you.
I should probably start over after this lengthy prologue.
The letter itself is really not that long.

Dear Michelle,

The next time you lay down with your husband and for a moment
he is just a man, your man, the man you love more than anything,
put your arm around him, pull him close,
your breasts against his chest
and think...peace.
Wordless, let your hands and body say
with all the love you feel inside
that thousands are counting on him to save their lives.
Remind him he is a mother's son,
your husband and your lover,
father to your daughters. No words now–
stroke his head, his hair short and graying
with the pressure of too much power,
and remind him that other mothers, wives and daughters
love their men
the way that you love him.
Place the palm of your hand over his beating heart
and try to imagine life without him–
gone to war, to kill the "enemy," some other mother's son.
Imagine him coming home estranged or crazy or in a flag draped box.
Remind him this is Christmas and there will be
such flag wrapped packages
delivered to mothers, wives, and daughters
when the doorbell rings
and they were expecting UPS or FedEx,
but it's a captain and a chaplain.
Woman to woman, I'm asking on behalf of all women here,
in Afghanistan, in Iraq, everywhere--to let him know by loving him
that we don't want this anymore.
Show him you'll do anything,
anything--one long romantic, rose-filled, red wine, candle-lit, well...
you know the rest...anything for him,
if every mother's son or daughter
could just come home for Christmas dinner.
Michelle, my last good hope,
clasp his hand, embrace his body, entwine your legs with his,
and hold him tight, tight.
Let your heart drum out this simple word;
for you, for him, for all of us..."peace."
Whisper to him in his sleep,
"Peace, my beloved. Let there be peace."
You know hearts speak louder than words.
Let peace be in your every breath,
in your laughter and your love until he hears it,
until he gets it loud and clear
and wakes up with a changed heart,
thinking he has had a great idea, "Why not? Peace!"
I'm writing you because I need this hope;
the belief that things can change, wars can end
and women are the arbiters of change.
Thanks for reading this, Michelle. I know you must be busy.
I meant no disrespect.
Poets go where their minds lead them,
even beneath the comforter
with the President and First Lady. We can't help ourselves.
We still believe in dreams and visions, foolhardily following
the wanderings of our imaginations.
Please consider what I've asked you here.
I have every faith in you.

Peace,
Mendy

As promised in my previous tips and cures post, here is the poem/letter that came to me while sitting in a little country church gazing out the window at the headstones in an old cemetery. It is a peace poem, which I keep saying I'm going to quit writing, but they keep coming to me and I simply can't ignore them. Let me know if you think I should send this on to the First Lady. If I get enough affirmations, then off it goes!

The Winter Writing Blues—A Few Cures

What does a writer do when you just don't feel like writing? You know, you've had this sinus thing for a couple of weeks, a foreign object flew in your eye, you're arguing with all your best pals and your gal, and it's cold and dark by 5pm. These kinds of things can really stymie your creative urge. You just want to lie down and let it pass, but the problem is that it will pass much more slowly if you don't do something about it. Here are a few suggestions for dealing with the winter writer's blues:

1) Write anyway. I know you don't want to hear that, but it's true. There's only one way out and it's through. Now, what I do is allow myself to write anything. This includes lists, letters to friends, letters to the editor (even if I never send them), holiday greetings, journal entries (highly recommended for mental health), post-it note quotes, blog entries, even a long email to a friend or family member. They all count. Let them count. At the end of even the shortest day, you can say "I wrote today."

2) Let inspiration lead you. In my next post I will include a poem that came to me while sitting in church. It has absolutely nothing to do with the sermon, which I vaguely remember had to do with John the Baptist, who is in himself an inspiration with his wild locust and honey eating ways, but the poem turned out to be a letter to the First Lady, Michelle Obama. I tuned out the sermon and tuned into my own creative mind. I had to get past the Southern church upbringing of "pay attention to the preacher," but then I had a lot of practice imagining other scenarios than the one I happened to be in at the time, being a preacher's kid and all.

3) Do not wait to get the inspiration onto paper. If I had had a pen in the pew (what happened to those stubby pencils and information sheets that used to be stuck in the rack by the hymnals? They were so perfect for writing notes and drawing pictures) and if the bulletin had any space left at all after a dozen announcements and the church wasn't so small that the entire congregation was visible from the pulpit (I do believe in being discrete both with poets and preachers), I would have begun the piece right then and there. I prayed my thought wasn't that fleeting, shook the pastor's hand and was the second one out the door. I headed to the first coffee shop I could find, which was darn close, praise the Lord.

3) Always carry the tools of the trade around with you, in some form or another. I had to dig before I could find my pen and a 2" square notepad, but I never hesitated to use it, although the writing filled half the tiny notebook by the time I finished. And I admonished myself for not having a little more paper and at least a couple of pens in that crazy bagalleni I carry around for just that reason--so I can put a bunch of crap in there, like paper and pens! Now some poets swear by napkins, but I am too heavy-handed and end up with inky smears on raggedy paper. It's better to be prepared.

4) Allow yourself to be creative in other ways. Cook a hearty, wholesome meal or just comfort food. Make a pie or cake and then give some away. I find fresh pumpkin pie to be particularly inspirational. It's the best and really nothing like the kind you make from a can, even if it's organic canned pumpkin. Canning takes the light out, and my god, you don't want that, particularly at this time of year. Do some drawing or painting. Get out of your head. Let your fingers do the talking. I made an entire illustrated book of my anniversary trip with Leigh in the mountains of WNC using stick figures. It was a big hit.

5) Go some place different. Try church or synagogue or George's Majestic Lounge for a little live music. Nothing, I mean nothing, inspires the creator in me like live music. Take in an open mic somewhere and listen to someone else's writing. Even if all you take away is "I can do better than that" well, go home and prove it! Watching crafts people at work, sitting alone on a hilltop, going to hear Handel's "Messiah," strolling through an art museum, studying seed catalogues for spring...try something different. You must allow yourself to be inspired. Give yourself permission, then go!

6) And last, but not least, although it may be your least favorite suggestion, get some exercise. It's tough I know, especially in winter, but a simple walk opens the mind and heart in the most surprising ways. I find I need to walk from 2-3 miles for the best effect, but even one will help. If you're lucky enough to have access to a pool, swimming is great, but don't overdo it or you'll just eat and fall asleep. "Chop wood, carry water." Do this for an hour. Stretch into some yoga. Do not clean house or wash dishes or do anything that resembles regular chores. They are endless and you will keep doing them and never write. Save them until after you've written your first draft and are editing in your mind.

I could go on and on as usual. But here are a few tips for now and I will post my next entry with the poem I wrote following my own instructions. Oh, yeah, and don't go all heavy-handed criticizing your work while you're in the "don't feel like writing stage." Accept it for work well done at a time when you really didn't feel like it. That makes you a writer.

The Moon's Distant Call

It's yet another rainy fall day and I'm beginning to wonder what happened to the dry Arkansas weather I remember from childhood. Still, there are moments that aren't to be missed if you are paying attention. Right now, I wait for a break in the rain and take long walks along the dirt (mud) road that runs by our house and check out the autumnal changes. Although it's hard to see through the mist and rain, the leaves appear to be coloring earlier this year. We are headed towards Western North Carolina, the Blue Ridge and Smokey Mountains soon, hoping to see the best of fall in several states: Ar, TN, and NC.

In the meantime, I find plenty of beauty to celebrate right here at home. I wanted to post a little poem I managed to fit in between the screenplay, the novel, the cookbook and a couple of readings. I wanted to briefly remind my writers and readers that all you really have to do is pay attention, be present with your surroundings, and the beauty will appear. Then, if you want to share it, don't forget to write it, paint it, sculpt it, play it into a song. Sharing beauty is like spreading the wealth--it increases every time you pass it on. Someone will be inspired.

To bring the point home, I will tell you a brief story: The other day Leigh discovered an obituary on the web that was written for a wonderful man from Oklahoma. It seems the family had used one of our hospice publications during his illness. In that publication is a poem I wrote called "Leaving." And in this obituary of a man I did not know, was a quote from my poem. It brought tears of gratitude to my eyes to know that some folks I've never met were touched by this poem, enough to include it in a final statement about their beloved father, grandfather, husband. You never know whose lives you will touch when you put your work out there, so do it. In this world, at this time, we need all the inspiration and beauty we can get.

The Moon's Distant Call

Last night, luxuriating
in the steaming waters of our tiny hot tub,
watching the day go down to dusk,
I saw what I thought was a hummingbird
perched in the river birch beside the steps.
She sat so still, I grew confused:
bird...leaf...bird...leaf...bird?
She appeared to be watching the waxing moon;
slender as my little finger, green as a twig,
a furled leaf not yet flown.
I could swear she was watching the harvest moon
ballooning huge above the Ozarks.
Her tiny shoulders slightly slumped,
as if considering the long flight
from Fayetteville to Mexico on 1" wings.
But mostly she seemed, like me, lost
in the beauty of a 3/4 moonrise on a cooling breeze.
Motionless, she remained among the branches
until I gave her up for leaf at last
and looked away.
When I happened to glance back,
she was gone. Not a leaf then!
Not a leaf! But a moon-lover like myself,
there now, sipping her last
from the feeder before bed,
as I must have my chocolate chips
to sleep through the night–
with a large moon beckoning,
keeping watch
for wherever we might land tomorrow.

Mendy Knott Oct. 2009

Fish Tale: A Love Story

I've decided to change my format, and have a couple of things in mind to see if they will help with the frequency of my blogging. I'm in the process of learning to use a laptop, so that should keep these darn entries a little shorter, at least for a time. And I've decided that I need to write a little more about everyday things as opposed to an entry I feel I must compose and make perfect everytime before I post it. As you can see, this can prevent me from blogging at all for long periods of time. But now I have this laptop thing, well, shoot, I can take you to the screened in porch (porch-sittin') or lounge in front of the fire (fire-sittin') and maybe put you in the boat and take you fishing, although this would elicit strong disapproval from my partner, no doubt, since really, the water would be mere inches from my computer.

Speaking of fishing, however, let me take you on a little Saturday morning ride in the "Fish Tale" which is the name of my tiny '70's Sears boat which sports a trolling motor only. The boat looks like one of those old-fashioned life boats when they were made from aluminum--something an Atlantic fisherman might use in times of trouble. It has a V-hull and is no more than 10 feet long. This makes finding a trailer for it quite difficult. So I just load it up in the back of my Toyota pick-up, strap it in (yes, I know how that sounds), and drive the 10 miles down the road to little Wedington Lake. This 170 acre lake was dug by mules by the CCC when times were nearly as tough as they are now. Let's dig some more spring-fed lakes, and clear some paths, and build cabins and lodges instead of highways and starting wars. Sound like a plan, anyone?

So, it's Saturday morning, early, like before 7 am. You really must get up early if you are an artist or a fisherman in order to nab some of the best time of the day. I'm not kidding about that. Leigh helps me get the boat on the truck, then leaves me to my own devices as to how to get it off again at the lake. It's not so hard with a ramp. The happy part is that I'm on my own. Here is another lesson for you creative types--time alone is absolutely necessary. You don't have to be writing or painting to need it either. You need to just be alone doing something fun or doing nothing at all. Got it? Things happen then.

I shove off. It's about 50 degrees and I'm pretty bundled. I've got this little Rapala thermos full of hot coffee my friend Kam sent me, a tackle box, two rods, an oar, and my trolling motor. The mist is still rising off the lake. Wispy ghosts rise in peaks and spikes, then disappear about five feet above the water. I hear a woodpecker's jungly call. I see one of those precious little green herons hanging by the water watching for minnows. I take some pictures, torn because I really should have a line in the water by now, but I NEED these few photos. Maybe I'll include one here if I can figure it out, or make Leigh help me. It is so quiet, although there are a few campers in the campground ( a place I highly recommend for the roughin' it type). Soon enough I'll smell their campfires, but for now I feel like I have just discovered this tiny paradise for the first time. I am alone on a lake with the sun beginning to peak above the tree line. It just doesn't get much better than that.

Except then I catch some fish! Yeah, two big beautiful catfish, all sleek and blue-gray, clean and sleek as a brand new car. They hit hard and put up a good fight. Took me off guard. I love that kind of surprise. Then I caught a couple of the prettiest goggle eye I've ever seen. Beatuiful, easy to unhook, fun to return to the lake. I only keep the ones I plan to cook. Usually I have one fish fry a year. The rest of the time, it's catch and release, which is easier on both me and the fish.

I was out about four hours, circling around, casting, drifting, drinking coffee and soaking up nature. I still had plenty of time when I got home to do some chores and go watch the football game with friends later. (Go Hogs!) Yet it changed everything for me. My day was holy, then, sacred and special. I felt I had brushed the fingertips of god as we both passed through creation in that misty early morning light. This is where I find the greatest joy in being creative; where I gather my greatest lessons. Alone, in nature, paying attention. Really, try it sometime. It will change your day.

Souvenirs

You can see from my previous post that I was truly inspired with the beauty of the Pacific Northwest as I spent last week on Whidbey Island in Washington State. My trip was made possible by the generosity of my artist friends, Jane and Chad, and my partner, Leigh, who so sweetly and willingly stayed home to take care of the farm and critters and to work while I ran off on holiday. Now, some of you may say that wasn't quite fair, depending on the kindness of friends and spouse to make my vacation possible. But honestly now, could you refuse? Or would you, like I did, consider it your responsibility to bring something back, not just for them, but for everyone you know? Would you honor the artist's duty to SHARE your trip with as many people as possible?

I take that responsibility seriously. The second day I'm away on a trip almost anywhere, I find a place to buy post cards. Even though the price of a stamp has seriously risen since I first started sending post cards at ten, it is still one of the most cost-conscious ways I know of sharing your journey with friends and family. I think I sent fifteen post cards from Washington, writing a bit every morning, and posting it on my way out to daily adventures. Pictures of whales, Douglas firs, prairie and farm land, sailboats, and eagles flew all over the country and made someone look and remember a trip, an adventure, or an animal they once saw that stayed with them; that meant something to them.

Jane painted two watercolors while we were there, and sketched and photographed endlessly. Chad taught a felting and fabric arts class, inspiring 13 women to take themselves and their art seriously while having a hilarious time doing it. There's no telling what piece Chad will create with the rocks and inspiration she brought home from her trip. I recorded our journey in my journal and penned a poem that tried to speak to the beauty of women friends traveling together and making the most of their time away. We all brought home memories in a physical form, something to be shared with those who could not go this time, and those who may never be able to go. This is our responsibility as artists and creative individuals.

What? Responsibilities for the free-spirited artist? Art is not simply a way to make a name for ourselves, or just a job, or even an adventure. Of course, it can be all those and so much more. But there is a higher calling to us as creative individuals. The Earth and her beauty have been severely damaged by humanity. We owe it to our blue-green planet and to future generations to share what beauty we find out there with each other and with those who have forgotten how to care. After all, if we use the fossil fuel to fly somewhere, shouldn't we give something back, a sort of carbon/art trade? To me, it feels not only like the least I can do, but like I might actually make a difference even if I never know how or where.

Allow your inspiration to be your next souvenir. Share it with a friend or neighbor or even a stranger. Paint a picture, write a poem, dye some wool, invent a tune, write a letter, post a blog. Do what comes naturally to you, but do it. To quote ole John Denver, "I know I'd be a poorer man if I never saw an eagle fly." That one line sang in my soul every time I saw an eagle lift its wings on Whidbey Island. Because John took the time to write about his "Rocky Mountain High", put it to music, sing, and record it. I thank him for that souvenir. Next trip, bring home one of your own to share.

Busman’s Holiday

Busman’s Holiday
(for the artists of the Pacific Northwest Art Center)

When artists get together to travel
every day is a busman’s holiday
replete with materials and tools of the trade.
Everything they touch taste smell see hear
is a subject they must cover with paint and pen,
vibrant with color and texture,
complex with metaphorical expression,
drenched in light.

The eagle must be photographed, collaged,
praised in words that lift the language
above the common waters of casual conversation,
striving to attain the heights of feathered flight.

The feltmaker, the poet, the painter,
determined to re-create the great state of Washington,
mix it up with watercolors, words and dyes.
They want something it takes two hands to hold
to take back to their friends; a pirate’s booty
in rubies of fresh-picked raspberries,
jewels of polished cherries glinting in a noonday sun.

Always, always they must give some away.
This is their tithe, their ten per cent of Whidbey bounty.
Taste the tart sweet of her fresh fruits.
See the damp, gray fog sifting green through Douglas firs.
Smell the salt clam chowder of the Sound.
Hear the lonely chime of a swaying buoy.
Feel this rock, so smooth and so round.
They won’t go home empty-handed, no!

Artists do their best work when they play.
For us, LIFE is a busman’s holiday.

—Mendy Knott

Sometimes You Win...

In June of 2008, I had one of those crazy bugs that bites the writer, taking them by surprise, and took on a project unlike any I had done before. I wrote a screenplay.

I first became interested in the art of script writing when one of my best buddies, Kam Parker, wrote one in Asheville, NC. I admit when she asked me to read it, I had some reservations. I had never read a screenplay (although I’d read plays) and feared that I wouldn’t care for the style. And seeing as she is one of my best friends, there’s always, “What if I don’t like it?” I had nothing to fear. It was a page-turner. I couldn’t put it down. Even better, Leigh read it and she is picky, picky, picky about anything fictional. She loved it, too. The bug had gotten under my skin.

In June, Leigh suggested offhandedly, after listening to me talk about fishing on the phone, “Why don’t you write a screenplay about fishing with your friends?” Let’s see, because who will be interested in that? Nobody is going to produce a movie about a bunch of butches who love to go fishing? Loyalty and friendship are too sentimental for this century? Who cares?

Turns out, I cared. For once I didn’t think about the audience, the producers (or publishers), the sentimentality of truths I hold to be self-evident. I wanted to do something for me. I wanted to write a screenplay about what I love, what I believe in. Along the way, I gave up worrying about the fact that gay plays don’t make any money, can’t find a market, etc, etc, ad nauseum. They don’t call it a screen play for nothing. And they don’t call us gay for nothing either. I determined to be gay while I played with my writing.

First I checked out the internet for contests or calls for gay screenplays. I mean, we watch movies, too. It’s the 21st century, after all! Somebody has to make gay movies. I’ve seen ‘em myself. And sure enough, I stumbled across a contest called the One in Ten Screenplay contest. They accepted 300 entries from around the world, and the deadline was Sept. 1. I admit “around the world” gave me pause. But only momentarily. This gave me the deadline I needed to get serious.

I got together with Kam in a Dallas motel room where essentially we locked ourselves in until we came up with the basic tenets, plot, and lots of dialogue. I knew what I wanted to do and say, and she knew how to make it work. We scribbled hard for a week. I titled it “Men Only.” Then I went home and worked some more. I worked all summer with many calls and emails to Kam. We exchanged screenplays and edited for each other. I sent “Men Only” out to my friends and took almost all of their advice. Leigh read it over and over. “Cut, cut, cut,” she’d say until I reminded her we weren’t to the filming part yet. But cut I did. And finally, I liked what it said. I liked my characters and what was happening in the story. It seemed like a decent story to me. And it was funny, I thought. But it just didn’t look right on the page.

In a last minute frenzy I called a writing teacher and playwright here in Fayetteville. His name is Bob Ford and he has seen his plays produced in great cities all over the U.S. But the really remarkable thing about him is his willingness to help just about anyone with their creativity. He does so much for the Fayetteville theater community with a gracious generosity. I knew him because I took his screenwriting course when I first moved here. I went to his plays and had watched him work. He knew this stuff and I knew he could help me, if he would.

He did. All the way from Mexico, where he was on vacation, he took the screenplay, scanned over it, and told me immediately, in one single page, what it should look like. In short, he taught me screenplay-ese in a one-page lesson. Although it was easy to read his directions, it was much harder to follow them. I rewrote the whole damn thing. Again. But when I finished this time, it looked and felt right. I put my all into it and that’s the best anyone can do. I sent it in before the deadline.

There was a long wait. Of course, you don’t really wait for these things. You go on with your life, which for me meant writing and teaching and working and feeding the dogs and chickens. As November 15 approached, I began to get nervous. So many times I told myself not to worry about it. Win or lose, I’d done a good thing, a brave thing. I had been true to my dreams. So I tried not to wish too hard.

On Monday, November 10, I got a letter from the contest director which listed the top 25 writers. I couldn’t believe my eyes! There it was: “Men Only by Mendy Knott from Fayetteville, AK!” Okay, so they got the state wrong, but they spelled my name right. As far as I was concerned this was success! In that list were screenplay writers from England, France, Las Vegas, Hollywood, New York. And then there was me, from Fayetteville, Alaska. I did let them know, just in case I made it any further, that the abbreviation for Arkansas is AR.

The day before the final notice for the top 3 was announced, I got a note from Mike Dean the coordinator letting me know, that indeed I had gotten second place in the contest! Now you can go to Scriptdoodle’s One in Ten Screenplay and see my name for your very own self. It’s worth a look. I won $500 and the privilege of having these “connected” people shop my play for me for 6 months. From February to July, they will send “Men Only” out to dozens of producers, directors, agents and the like. My plan had worked! I got a toe in the door my first try. I am amazed, grateful, happy. I thank Kam and Leigh and all those who read and believed in me and my play. I am quite gay about my play.

The main thing I learned is to be true to yourself. Listen when people give you advice on how to write. Listen to yourself about what to write. Keep coming back to your own experience. Believe. Then work, work, work. Ask questions. Get a book or two on the subject. Use the internet to research your dream. Use all the tools at your disposal. There are more than you think. Once you’ve put the work out there, move on to the next thing. Don’t wait. There isn’t time to wait. There are more ideas and dreams to realize than can ever be done in a lifetime. So get started. Because sometimes...sometimes, you really do win.

You Gotta Love It!

My writer’s group meets once every two weeks. We call ourselves Hen’s Teeth because committed writers are “scarce as hen’s teeth!” We also happen to love chickens and a couple of us raise a few hens and roosters. At the end of each session, one of us assigns writing homework which is usually based on an exercise gleaned from one of the many wonderful writing books that inspire us. Our exercise this week struck me as a unique way to get in touch, not only with good writing, but with a deep gratitude for life.

The exercise comes from Writing Toward Home, a book by author Georgia Heard. Here it is for you to try at home:

“Each day for a week, fall in love at least 3 times. Write it down. Describe in detail what you fall in love with. What is the feeling that comes over you when you experience this falling in love? Each time we fall in love, something that before was closed inside us opens and creativity begins to flow.”

Got it? Three times a day for one week, allow yourself to fall in love with something--person, place or thing--and write about it. That is, “freewrite” about it, meaning don’t think about it too much. Write whatever comes into your mind without editing or even lifting your pen from the page. Simply write until you run out of things to say or your hand gets tired, whichever comes first. My experience thus far is that I might not realize I’m falling love at the time, but when I reflect on my day, I never have trouble remembering three instances and how I felt when they occurred. See if you find yourself, and your awareness of the fat generosity of Life, expanding with each writing. Following is a short write I did after having dinner with friends, Liz and Susan:

I fell in love with the moon swimming out from behind the clouds in the parking lot of Hunan’s in Fayetteville as we exited with two of our best friends. The conversation at the table had been thick with recent loss and potential loss, lightly salted with jokes and laughter. I ate a lot, but barely tasted the food I realized later, filling a hole that was both physical and emotional. Listening intently, I wanted to help but didn’t really know how. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair–this was cigarette talk to me. But hell, nobody smokes anymore. Except me. No apologies, just please, please, please let’s go outside. And when we do, there she is. Rolling in rough weather, nearly full white globe that human-whispers me, “Always here, changes predictable, yet I’m different everytime you see me. Light in the darkness, slow-moving meteor, crazy mentor, I am the moon.” We discussed this writing exercise over Chinese food and fortune cookies, wondering if we really fall in love with something 3 times a day. All our heads swivel on their stems to regard that fat white goddess racing between tatterd black curtains of clouds, and Liz and I sigh together, “Now there’s something I could fall in love with...”

Start with Your Art!

The Power of Persistence–Start with Your Art!


I am writing today, not because I feel like writing but because I feel like I need to write. There are so many other things that need to be done. There are causes to fight for and an election coming up and two wars to protest and my partner is on her way to her first big conference as a vendor for her small publishing company. My bed is unmade, the dishes pile up in the sink, and I need to decide what to fix for dinner. It’s a matter of priorities. And because all these other things take priority on so many days of the week, I decided that what I need to do first is write a new blog entry.

It’s so easy to become inspired by a class, an eloquent speaker, a well-written book, a passionate poem. How fine it is when the fire is in the belly and we know, not only what we want to say, but what needs to be said; what the world needs to hear. Somehow we’ve stumbled on the watering hole where the answers lie magnified and crystal clear at the bottom of the well, and all we have to do is draw the water. And keep on drawing. If we can just keep it up, we can help. We know we can. We do have something to offer. We have these gifts. The answers are right down there. See them? They’re right there. Our proposal, book, screenplay, installation will be ready in, say, six months or a year. Of course, you’ll need another year or so to find a publisher. Once you do, it will take another year to see the work in print. And then, if it’s still relevant; if the world still needs an answer to that particular question...well, we’ll get back to you on that. You know, it’s starting to look like I might as well go ahead and bake some oatmeal cookies for that potluck, sweep the floor, wash the clothes, and clean the petri dishes out of the fridge.

There are so many things I could be doing right NOW. The Arkansas Adoption Act is going on the ballot and we need to protest. There’s a peace march next Saturday I have to attend. Why, this Saturday alone, there are five different activist organizations I support having potlucks, membership drives, and rallies. Not to mention that I could save money if I spent more time expanding my garden, cooking all my meals at home, riding my bike to the library. I’m sure my family and friends would love it if I would emerge from this closet I call my study for more than a couple of hours a day. The question isn’t so much how, but why do I keep doing this?

The short answer to why we persist in our creativity in the face of adversity, and in a world that so blatantly discourages authenticity, originality, slow food, home-cooking, and the long answer is–we can’t help it! We crave what is real and can’t be satisfied with short cuts, fake solutions, spam and american cheese on white bread. Quick solutions to big problems: war, the economy, global warming--don’t cut it for us. Part of us knows deeply and intuitively that creation took billions of years and that our evolution as whole human beings will not come quickly either. What we CAN do is begin, and then persist.

Of course, we don’t persist in our art, our writing, to the exclusion of all other work. All work is, or has the potential to be, creative. That is the highest achievement of a life fully realized. We don’t want to compartmentalize our creativity. We want it to be part of everything we do. But part of growing that originality is practicing it, and the place to start is with your art. THE PLACE TO START IS WITH YOUR ART! How quickly, once we begin to truly practice our art, we find our creative, authentic selves showing up in other areas of our lives. Our friendships seem to involve those of like interests. We hesitate less when a workshop or class is offered that might benefit our writing or painting. The book we need falls off the shelf or is handed to us by a bookseller or a friend. There just happens to be a volunteer position on the local literary rag or someone sends you a request for submissions.

Suddenly we find we do have time to flip a few pancakes for peace. We can spare $20 for the local AIDS foundation. We have an hour to spend on the fridge or putting dinner in the slow-cooker. We ask our partner or a friend to share a writing exercise, an art idea, or a gardening project. We watch a movie or read a book in a whole new light, as a learning experience and not merely entertainment. What can they teach us about ourselves and what we are striving to do in our lives? (If the answer appears to be “nothing” turn off the movie, close the book.) We begin to look at our lives in terms of the long view; not what we can accomplish in a week so much as what we can accomplish in a year or two, or even a lifetime. Maybe we stop focusing on what publishing house will pick us up and make us famous and begin to consider what individual will be touched by our words, will take comfort, or find some help, some hope in what we have to offer.

Who out there will be inspired by our persistence? Everyone who knows that, despite the fact we raised three daughters, home-schooled them and got them into college; or that we suffer from a chronic illness, or teach biology to a bunch of restless adolescent boys, or write boring technical manuals, or expend precious energy painting houses to pay the bills, we also maintain a creative practice. We produce! This is amazing! This is admirable! This, my friends, is noble. What you and I must remember is that the very things that seem to (and sometimes do) drain us, also feed us. Challenges stoke the fire of our persistence. What appear to be obstacles, charge our batteries and will not let us quit. They are signs, daily reminders, that our work is needed; is needed now, will be needed tomorrow, will still be needed years from now when it is finally finished. Believe....

Say it Loud, Say it Proud

On a Sunday near the end of August, I was invited to speak at the UU Church in Eureka Springs, AR. Perhaps you’ve heard of Eureka Springs, a beautiful, quaint little town built on a series of hills, (or perhaps a serious hill) in the northwest section of the Arkansas Ozarks. It’s a great place with a grand mix of hippie liberals and Christian conservatives, lots of regional art and crafts, and tons of good food and music. Writers go there for retreats and to workshops at a place called Dairy Hollow. It’s a cool place to escape the blazing heat of the Arkansas summer sun. I highly recommend it for a daycation, a staycation or a vacation, depending on “where you’re from,” as we say around here.

The exquisite little UU church on the hillside was rebuilt by its congregation and it is a lay Unitarian Universalist church. A “lay” church has no regular pastor, but invites speakers to come and inspire them on Sundays to be the fully open and welcoming people I find most of them to already be. I wondered what I could say to these good folks that might encourage them, enlighten their journey, help bring them joy in an economic recession that is affecting all of us, but plays hell with a town almost entirely dependent on tourism.

I decided the best thing I could do was tell them a story. Virgina Woolfe laughingly said that “if you tell them a story, they’ll buy you a car.” She thought that telling stories was the easiest thing in the world to do and simply couldn’t imagine that people would pay good money to hear her tell one. Well, I didn’t get a car, but I did get taken out to a wonderful lunch and was given a free overnight for me and my partner at a fantastic little B&B called Pond Mountain. Fair trade, I would say! We had a great time (more about this lovely getaway later).

So I told them a story. My story. In poems. Starting with childhood and working my way through middle school, the police force, finding my writing self and my true love in the Appalachians, all the way up to becoming a poet for peace and an activist for justice. I used events that occurred in my life; true events that I’ve written about over the past 15 years. These are not complicated or complex poems, but they reveal a sometimes complicated and complex life, as stories and poems do when we tell the truth. Because that’s the way life is. Complicated, sometimes complex.

They are also stories of compassion and learning and change and evolution. And the truth is we have to trust ourselves, if only a little, to be able to share our stories. We have to trust the universe that sharing our stories will touch someone else’s life because we are, all of us, connected. And somewhere out there in an audience of fifty listeners, or five thousand, or five, somebody needs to hear our story so they can put their own in perspective. Inevitably, at least one person comes up to me after a reading and says, “That happened to me.” “I know what you’re talking about.” “Thank you for telling that story; I wish I was that brave.”

You are that brave. We need to be that brave, for ourselves and for our traveling companions on this journey we call life. We need to tell our stories and listen to the stories of others. Stories, in the end, are one hand reaching out to another, grasping it, joining the circle of humanity as we learn love and acceptance.from each other. So say it loud and say it proud. Stand up and tell us your story by any creative method you choose. Don’t hide it beneath a ton of symbolism or cynicism. Simply tell, write, play, paint the truth of your experience and you will inspire others to rise up and tell their story, too.

Now, let me tell you two stories:

“A Little Lazarus” by Mendy Knott (4 min)
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“Revival” by Mendy Knott (5 min)
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