Commit

"The difference between involvement and commitment is like ham and eggs. The chicken is involved; the pig is committed." Martina Navratilova

This Sunday I'll be doing what I call a sermon (preacher's kid) on commitment at the UU Fellowship in Fayetteville, AR. Of all the churches I've attended in my life, I have to say that the Unitarian Universalists have treated me and mine the best. They are a welcoming congregation in every sense of the word--and they let me preach, too! I love standing behind a pulpit, looking out and loving the faces I see, "delivering" my sermon.

When I told my friends I would be speaking on commitment this Sunday, they were surprised. They have heard me speak on love, peace, community, gay rights. They've listened to a lot of my poems and basically heard my life story in verse. But they are curious about this commitment thing. Why now? What inspired this topic? I seem like a committed person to them, perhaps in more ways than one!

Part of the reason for my topic is that I equate commitment with love. We have to love something or someone a lot to be committed to it in a world where we can just move onto the next thing at the drop of a hat. We must be committed to creativity if we choose to write, paint, throw pots, or make music rather than be workaholics, zone out on TV, Face Book, or movies and video games. It's so much easier to admire, even buy, someone else's work than to make our own.

A wise woman once told me that a major component of commitment is simply showing up. We must be at our desks, our wheel, our easel, our bass guitar when we say we will in order for the Muse to know where to find us. The same is true of love. Even when the going gets tough, when we are out of sorts, or fear we are falling apart, sometimes the best we can do is to show up; and to keep showing up. So far, this bit of wisdom hasn't failed me. Believe me, I use it a lot.

My most recent proof of the power of commitment came through my daily journal (this is showing up). Now, I have been commited to the act of writing for many, many years. My filing cabinets are stuffed full of the proof of that commitment--poetry, short stories, a novel, essays, letters, memoir, songs, screenplays--you name the genre and you will find evidence of it in my drawers. (You know what I mean.)

However, I have not been as committed to getting my work out there as I have been to doing it. I have stretched myself thin trying to write, do yardwork, clean house, paint, sell books, cook and care for my family, including every bird on my 3 acre farmlette. They must have clean water and full feeders every day or they will fly away and I will never see them again. Ah, this is such an obvious metaphor for my fears that there is no need to say more.

Finally, months after a therapist told me as I complained yet again that I felt like a maid to "Get that image out of my mind and quit claiming that as who you are," I began to take her advice to heart. I am not a fast learner and have to take all advice into consideration before I act. It's my paranoid nature. Besides I'd been acting as if everything took precedence over my writing for a really long time.

Let me make it clear this is in no way the fault of my partner or anyone else. I was a compulsive cleaner before she ever came into my life. Besides, she had been telling me the same thing for ages, but you know how it is when it comes to attending to the advice of someone you love. For some reason, a complete stranger has more sway than the person who has lived with us for the past 11 years. Go figure.

So one morning I'm writing in my journal and I guess I had reached the end of my metaphorical rope. I just started writing: "I am not a housecleaner; I am not a yard man; I am not an entrepreneur; I am not a house painter or Mr. Fix It. I am a WRITER. I wrote this repeatedly. I am a WRITER and what I do is WRITE. And I will do WHATEVER IT TAKES to make this work for me in my life." Some of you who have attended AA like myself will recognize the "whatever it takes" line. It is an absolutely necessary promise. I wrote that entry in early June.

Now it is nearing the end of July. During that time I have received two new sources of income, enabling to me to contribute to my household budget and also to hire a little help with the things I find difficult to do now. I have enough to travel a bit, take some writing workshops, go on a solitary retreat now and again. I can concentrate on my writing and getting my work out into the world. I can write more blog entries.

A publisher showed up in my life and said "Sure, I'd love to do a book of your poems." So I'm pulling the poems together and sometime in September my first "real" book of poetry will be in print. I heard from a woman in the "Biz" and got some very good advice about my screenplay. The house isn't as clean. The yard needs mowing. The birds and and Leigh and I are fed, though. And the garden, weedy in places, continues to grow. We are all together and no one has left; not even the first wiener dog. In fact, I don't believe I've heard a single complaint. Only, "Go, Mendy, go!"

I had been slowly chipping away at my dream. My intentions were good. I had been writing for years. Yet, it was my courage and commitment to claim the WRITER I am; for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health that helped me make the final turn. And quite suddenly, within six weeks time, all these things began to fall into place. And I swear, laugh at me if you will, I feel for the first time beloved by God, or the Great Creator, or whatever you call your Higher Power. That is the truest blessing of claiming my commitment.

I wanted to tell you about it because I don't want you to waste any more time. Who are you in relationship to what you love, your dreams? It is a marriage; no less than the one you have to your life partner. It is a vow taken to create your own happiness, your sense of fulfillment, your absolute joy in being here, now. It is a right relationship to the Creator who endowed you with certain gifts. Waste no more time. Who are you? To what are you committed? Say it out loud. Write it down. Do it now. Change is waiting for you to make the first move.

Art and Fear

It's the Sunday morning before HOWL, my monthly open mic poetry reading celebrating women's voices in Fayetteville. I should be preparing for that event, finishing up poems and cleaning up an essay I'm reading in concert with 4 other women from my writing group, Hen's Teeth. Instead, I'm writing a blog post which is long overdue, but probably could have waited until tomorrow. Still, when the spirit moves you, move!

I have borrowed the title of a book I highly recommend, Art and Fear, as the title of my blog post today. It's a phrase that any artist, new or old, highly acclaimed or just starting out, can identify with. (I realize that sentence ends in a preposition but I must continue.) This is the sort of thing I'm talking about. (See, did it again) Sometimes we must move past our fear of writing according to grammatical rules and simply write what needs, what is driving us, to be written.

The book, Art & Fear: Observations On The Perils (and Rewards) of ARTMAKING by David Bayles & Ted Orland is a remarkable book; really, a necessary book for all those who create art of any kind. Making art is scary--of that there can be no doubt. Even an old-timer like myself, writing and encouraging writers for years now, gets shaky when something new is on the horizon. Bayles and Orland say that uncertainty is as much a part of the creative process as imagination. They call uncertainty a virtue, in fact. "Uncertainty is the essential, inevitable, and all-pervasive companion to your desire to make art. And tolerance for uncertainty is the prerequisite to succeeding." (p.21)

Why am I dealing with this now? Sure, I've encountered my share of uncertainty all along this journey through writing and reading my work. But in 18 years, I've never published a book of my own. Chapbooks, sure. And 3 CD's. I've had my work published in other magazines and books. But I have never had a fine-bound book of my very own. I've always worried that my poetry was meant for the stage instead of the page. People needed to hear it to appreciate it. Whether this is true or not, I never gave them the chance to buy a copy of my poems and read them alone in the privacy of their own homes.

Now, all that is changing. I have had an offer to publish a book of my "hit singles" from the past. Most of these poems were written quite awhile ago, when the dam first burst, and poems came pouring out of me with enough force to create electricity for hundreds of homes. I've read them, truthfully, all over the country and even in South Africa. They have been heard on CD in places like Iraq and Afghanistan. But nothing has ever frightened me more than putting together this book of my bard-like poems. How can I stand beside published, acclaimed, academic poets and assert with confidence that my work is just as important, no matter how different, as their work is?

Really, I am scared shitless. I am completely uncertain about how my work will be received in this new format, much less accepted. Who will want to buy or read my book when they have all these highly recommended prize-winning poets to choose from? (Darn those prepositions.)

So I am trying to develop my "tolerance for uncertainty." I've done well, so far. I was able, even when just beginning to write, to stand before a group of people and read and perform my work. But I come from a family of preachers and my courage and confidence before an audience seemed inherited. My hands didn't shake for long before I was enjoying the limelight like the ham I am. (Apologies to Dr. Seuss.)

But a book; a book where folks could sit down and read and criticize my work carefully. I mean, appreciate my work. Yes, appreciate every word and nuance; each image and metaphor, repeatedly if they like. This is the way I must look at the outcome. The way I will look at it as I pull these poems together, edit, and hand them to my publisher. And, of course, continue reading Art and Fear on a daily basis.

You'll be hearing more about my forthcoming book, expected "out" in September. I will give you the title now so you'll know where to look: It will be called "A Little Lazarus" from one of my partner's and my publisher's favorite poems. The rest is still a mystery, even to me. So you'll have to wait, breathlessly I'm sure, for the outcome.

Your uncertain, but determined author,
Mendy

Link to find out more about the book "Art & Fear," and/or to order from an indie bookstore.

Just One Thing

I woke this morning early, perhaps 5 am. I know many of you are groaning at this bit of information, but sometimes for the writer and artist, it's necessary to get up when no one else is awake. Or simply stay up, as the case may be. Personally, I like to know the morning is coming, that the light is changing incrementally as our earth turns toward her blazing star.This morning, the moon was still on the horizon when I woke. A bright spot in a dark navy sky. And I heard the first bird sing. There's something so special about that. The trill of notes seems to be sung just for you, even though you know it's not true. It's "only" life inside a winged and feathered creature finding a way to burst forth into expression. How much more should we be singing the praises of creation; we who have voices and words and the ability to play music, sing, and dance?

Try this at home: set your alarm for 5 am one day this week. Put the coffee pot in your room if you must. Set two alarms. Sit quietly, looking out a window, listen to the rising day. Grab a pen and paper and beginning with the first thing you noticed, write a poem about it. Make it a haiku or a prose poem, a song lyric or a sonnet. Just write the poem. We are called upon to celebrate and commemorate life as poets and artists. Sometimes we must get up very early in the morning in order to do it. Leave your poem in my comments if you like. I would love to read them. Share it with someone.

I bought a great little notepad from Malaprop's Bookstore in Asheville, NC while I was there visiting last week. Each note is printed with, "I will do one thing today." Beneath that it says, "Thing."

Yesterday I mailed out a CD to a local DJ with some songs I'd co-written on it. And although I did many other things yesterday, I was most proud of the one I did that I'd written on my notepad. Today's is "write a blog post." I am doing that now. There is something to be said about the surety of doing one thing; just one, to forward your creative process. I had to get up very early in order to do this. So might you.

Try it. Make your one thing tomorrow: I'll rise at 5 am and write a poem. You might just find you like it.

Like Eve awake before Adam,
I heard the first bird sing.
She trilled from the branch of an unseen tree
music just for me.
From her tiny breast she
filled an entire dawn with dancing notes,
left me longing
to sing my own song
so easily and free
with only the dimming moon to hear.

______

Thanks for visiting A Creative Life at www.ozarkhillpoet.blogspot.com. If you enjoyed this post please share it with your friends via the green "Share" button below. Posts are also available via email (2-4 a month, no spam).

Have You Noticed?

Okay, so it hasn't gotten any easier to be uplifted with what's going on in the world right now. I believe the Gulf oil crisis is enough all by itself to keep us depressed and angry for years to come. However, those feelings will only leave us stuck in despair and lead to a personal crisis when we can't afford that either.

Although I am not burying my head in the sand, I limit the images I see and the news I hear concerning BP's big fiasco. I do what I can in my family to keep it green and wait for the next way I can see to help. When I can I will write about it, but the injury is still too fresh. At the same time, I know I must write, and I must encourage you to write as well. Here is a prompt that helped me.

Take a look around you, no matter where you are. Right now, as you're reading this. Look at your room, out the window, around the park where you may be sitting on a bench reading. Now ask yourself the question: Have I noticed? Write it at the top of a page and answer it. This will put you square in the moment where you will realize what the wonderful Zen teacher and writer Cheri Huber says, "You will never be given more than you can handle in the present moment."

Have I noticed?

How the morning light caresses the high branches of the trees outside my window long before it touches anything else? How the sun locates a hole in the world even while it is still so low in the eastern sky, takes aim and shoots a ray like an old sci-fi film hitting those three or four branches with its bright magic, giving them an energizing buzz, while all around them other limbs are slowly waking. Have I noticed that some mornings I am the lucky zapped limbs, and sometimes the lazy malingerers, sleeping deep in a dream of dark green until the bright light of a hot sun awakens, startling me into remembering, "I'm alive! Must grow. Must green. Must make oxygen!"

Have I noticed how day lilies are so appropriately named? How their big heads are bent and closed in the shadows of dawn; wet, heavy, dull with their outside skins showing. Then a little light strikes, and kapow! they are all glorious orange and red and yellow, open to the sky and the loving beams of a perfectly placed star. Have I noticed how the dew moistens the grass as Leigh leaves footprints when she walks, wetting her shoes as she trails out into the early morning to let the chickens out of their coop? In an hour, it will all be dry, sucked up into the air, waiting to fall again with night, the other side of day.

Have I noticed? Have I noticed these small, important parts of my day? Have I noticed that these little miracles occur momentarily, in every season? Because not to notice is to somehow fail each other and our Earth, to be a little less than human, to give up the passion which enables us to live up to our potential and love our lives.

This ability to take note of the world around us is a potent gift, one that burdens us lightly with a responsibility to our world. If you pay attention to the smallest things, you will experience great rewards. Have you noticed how that works, yet?

Night Rose

As black oil gushed into the deep blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico, I had the privilege and pleasure of seeing the Pulitzer Prize-winning nature poet, Mary Oliver, read last week. For some reason, the experience brought on an unaccountable fit of despair and hair-pulling angst. I worried that great art, especially expressed so gently and beautifully, should have this effect on me. Instead of inspiration, I felt desperation. Good grief! How in the world, I kept asking myself, does the woman manage to block out two wars, oil pouring into the Gulf, and the systematic destruction of our planet long enough to write nature poems? Hundreds and hundreds of incredibly descriptive and soul-stirring nature poems? For the rest of the night I felt "slain in the spirit," as Southern evangelists like to say you must feel before you can experience salvation. They may be onto something.

This world, truly, is full of grief for the sensitive soul. It is all too easy to despair over the destruction of the natural beauty of Earth, the original creation. We weep at the poor quality of life the great majority of the human race suffers while the few wallow in wealth and greed. What can we do that is more constructive than beleaguering our loved ones with the burden of our quite real and even justifiable response? Being ashamed of our feelings doesn't help. Only action can ease our troubled minds.

Exactly how, you may ask, can we reshape this dark place of grieving and despair so that our sensitive souls are not frozen by bitterness at what is, in fact, reality? We must remember that reality occurs on different levels at the same time. The wild rose blooms even as another species goes extinct from human carelessness. Drawing attention to the rose doesn't mean we ignore the dying dolphins. We must find a way to shape the wet, raw clay of grief into some slight but recognizable form of beauty, then fire it with our imaginations–a discipline that requires us to sit down with our art, even when it feels most painful and impossible. How, how, how do we go from this hair-pulling angst to creating a poem or painting?

First, we must accept our sensitive selves and the feelings we experience as part of an artistic nature. This can be difficult if you don't have friends around who are happy to indulge your freak-out for a night or two. Allow yourself the space and time to experience what may feel (and look) like a form of temporary insanity . Then lock yourself in your room with pen, paper and a book or two of poetry or prose. Begin reading. Find a poem you love. Read it over and over again. Read it silently. Read it aloud until a sense of calm begins forming like a small cloud in the distance. Then copy it by hand, word for word, onto a clean sheet of paper as if it were new. As if it rose from your own imagination in the immediacy of your grief.

We don't have to start over from scratch. At times our pain may be too great to construct a creative piece from the scraps of our sorrow. This is a good time to let those who have gone before us, have suffered these feelings and prevailed, lead us though our healing and back to the balm of our own words. The Richard Wilbur poem, "Love Calls Us to the Things of This World" is just such a poem to me. It eases my heart and calms my wild, unruly spirit. It is, for me, poetic vailium, a diazepam for the soul, a simple cure for my existential anxiety with no hangover. Why don't you try it? Begin here, with this poem by Mary Oliver:

The Roses

One day in summer
when everything
has already been more than enough
the wild beds start
exploding open along the berm
of the sea; day after day
you sit near them; day after day
the honey keeps on coming
in the red cups and the bees
like amber drops roll
in the petals; there is no end,
believe me! to the inventions of summer,
to the happiness your body
is willing to bear.

Art and Heart Connections

One of the best benefits of putting your art out into the world are the connections that come about from your act of courage and trust. I've met so many interesting and beautiful people, artists and appreciators alike, since I've been writing, hosting poetry events, and reading my work to unsuspecting audiences! You never know when that six degrees of separation will shake your hand and say, "Hey I know you!"

When I lived in the Asheville area I applied for and received a NC Art Council Grant to spend a month at a fine arts center in South Africa. All I knew at the time was that it was in Zululand and was called Caversham Press. I flew from Asheville, NC to Durban on the Indian Ocean in South Africa via Atlanta, GA. You got to go through Atlanta to get anywhere if you live in the South.

At Caversham I met the owners, Malcolm and Ros Christian and worked with their apprentice Sean Strohle to create my first visual art poetry collaboration. What resulted was an amazing fold-out primitive art piece called "Passages Through Poetry" and friendships with these three fine people that will last forever. Not to mention that I have seen some of South Africa and fallen in love with the place, her people, and their artwork.

Malcolm Christian is one of the truly great art mentors of the world. Sure, that's my opinion, but ask anyone who has ever listened to him more than 10 minutes and they will affirm the fact. He talks about creativity and you can't help but listen, can't help but get fired up and want to burn up the page with your own creative blaze. After Malcolm, you understand the importance of art in creating a better world, the connectedness of all the lines we write and all the lines we draw. Like the aboriginal songlines of Australia, our work connects us to our ancestors and to those we may never actually meet. In this world of you tube and blog posts, the world is much easier to traverse than it was, even in 2001 when I went to South Africa.

The picture above is a small proof, but you know for yourself what is possible if you are willing to send your art out into the world, free to make whatever mark it may. This is a picture of Nomkhubulwana, a Zulu word for Mother Earth, and a perfect symbol for Mother's Day I might add. She appeared at the Fayetteville Farmer's Market upon it's 2010 opening the first weekend in April. Nomkhubulwana is made entirely, no pun intended, from used TIRES! She is gorgeous and life-sized. I hung around her for a long time, snapping photos with the spring blossoms behind her, so different from the trees in South Africa from which she came. I thought about my time there, my friends there, Zululand, the people, the incredible world of elephants and giraffes roaming free. I sat and stared, suddenly homesick for Malcolm and Ros, the midlands near Howick, and the Leopard Lodge where I spent a week near the home of the Zulu king.

When I got home from the market, I sent a picture of the elephant to Malcolm at Caversham where fall is coming on even as our spring bursts all unbridled from the winter's bare trees. And this is what Malcolm wrote back to me:

"It is a sculpture made by a friend of ours, Andries Botha, and in fact I went to her naming ceremony in Durban prior to the beginning of her journeys. It was a very moving ceremony performed by an elderly African Game Ranger from Umfolozi Game Reserve, close to where you and Sean stayed at the Leopard Lodge. He ‘sung’ her into existence and named her Nomkhubulwana. She IS great!"

So you see, my friends, it is a small world after all. If you have never visited South Africa, you cannot imagine its vastness, and it is just one part of the giant continent that is Africa. Now imagine that an African artist wants to create an elephant as a message of peace to send around the world, and that artist just happens to hale from South Africa. Okay, then remember that a NC poet so wanted to see Africa in her lifetime that she applied for a grant, won it and ended up in South Africa at a lovely fine arts residency called Caversham with a mentor called Malcolm. And Malcolm just happened to be friends with artist, Andries Botha, who created the elephant. Now think how all these lines got tied together in the little town of Fayetteville, AR in the Ozark Mountains, and you just have to believe in the miracle we call Art, now don't you?

This is the official end of my post, but if you want to know the story of Nomkhubulwana, read on.

NOMKHUBULWANA

Nomkhubulwana is a heavenly deity who, being a virgin is closely associated with young marriageable girls. In addition, she is associated with the sky where she lives in the rainbow and the multi-coloured rainbow snake is to be found in the pool where the rainbow ends. It was Nomkhubulwana who taught people to build their homes following the hemispherical construction of the rainbow.

Nomkhubulwana appears in the morning mists and children and girls are the first to see her. She usually appears to girls in the maize fields and so is associated with good crops and good rains. As she does not age, she is always of the same age-group as maidens. Men must not look at her for fear of being struck by blindness or incurable diseases.

According to many women, Nomkhubulwana is naked except for a string of white beads around her waist. Nomkhubulwana may be appeased by the observance of nomdede, a festival prepared for her by girls and unmarried women. Days in advance they prepare beer and food for the festivity. On the morning of the feast the young women put on the clothes of their lovers or brothers and take some cattle to the grazing fields. They take turns in feasting and herding the cattle.

After the day’s work they leave the calabashes with drink and food, such as beans and pumpkin seeds, on an overhanging rock for Nomkhubulwana to enjoy. Thus her blessing is sought in their love life, for good harvests and cattle raising.

Of Woman Born: An Open-Mic of Your Own

Of all the actions I've taken, all the roles I've fulfilled, all the jobs that seemed important at the time: soldier, cop, bookseller, poet, screenplay writer, editor–none has been more gratifying or more helpful to my community than starting open mics where women can celebrate their voices and tell their stories to an active listening audience.

I have hosted an open mic in every town in which I've lived for the past 15 years. I took over Cafe of Our Own from Laura Hope-Gill who started it in Asheville, NC sometime in the mid-90's. It became a huge success with a faithful following of 50-60 women attending and as many as 15 women reading on a Saturday night at Malaprop's Bookstore downtown.

Moving further out into the Black Mountains with my partner, I wondered where I would start my next open mic. To my surprise, just 20 minutes away was another independent bookstore called Blue Moon Books in Spruce Pine, NC– population 2000. There I began Eve's Night Out on the fourth Friday of every month. We had a great group of women who came from as far away as Johnson City, TN and from Asheville, NC. The readers set a high bar for fine poetry and wonderful stories, and they are still meeting today just down the road in Burnsville, NC.

Now, here I am in Fayetteville, AR hosting HOWL (Herwords Out Loud, or Her Out Words Loud, if you're picky about that sort of thing). We have anywhere from 20 to 40 regular attendees, both men and women, those who read and those who listen. We meet at Nightbird Books, Fayetteville's independent new bookstore owned by Lisa Sharp, the third Sunday of every month. I've had as many as 12 readers and singer-songwriters perform in one night. Our voices range from the practiced performance poet to the woman who shakily reads her poem for the very first time.

Our ages range from 16 to 76. We are lesbian and straight and somewhere in between. We are daughters and mothers and grandmothers, but most of all we are sisters in the word. We are giving birth to our stories, poems and songs and we are proud of our lives, even when what we have to share is hard. We are survivors and cheerleaders. We are learning to love and forgive and create and recreate together. We are making something bigger together than the sum of our parts. HOWL is the center of our community where we mourn our losses and celebrate our accomplishments with writing. This reading is a vital heartbeat in the community of women here in Fayetteville, just as it was in Asheville and in Spruce Pine.

You, too, can start a women's open mic reading – anywhere you live, no matter where you are. This post is about how to do just that. It's easy. The hardest ingredient to fill is your commitment. "If you build it, they will come." Here's the recipe for a "cafe" of your own:

1. One or two women who take on the host's position. That means someone who introduces the readers, keeps the flow going, reads her own work or that of other women poets in between readers or when there's a shortage. These must be women of commitment and passion, willing to send out a once-a-month email or flier and remind the community that the event will be happening.

2. Keep the same date every month. Do not change the time or place unless absolutely necessary. Have the reading no matter what, barring terrible weather. Changes confuse everyone and makes it difficult for new people to find you. Get on face book and on other calendars of events.

3. A space that is friendly to you and supports your event. I love independent bookstores best because they are the perfect place for readings. Being surrounded by books is comforting and it is the host's duty to encourage participants to shop at the bookstore who is generously giving their space so your event can happen. A good cafe is also a plus. Mutual benefit is always a good idea. You want them to want your event to happen in their store.

4. An audience who learns to listen actively. I have had the best audiences in the world, I think. No one talks when a reader is at the mic (even if there is no mic).They are listening with open minds, hearts, even their bodies lean forward into the words of their sister who has found the courage to stand before them and share something as personal as a poem or story about their life. Applause is optional. Usually a poet will ask not to be applauded if they don't want it. Otherwise we clap, or hoot and holler if the reading calls for that and we get excited.

5. Invite a special guest once in awhile; an author or published poet. These writers inspire us and raise the bar for our own writing. There's nothing like a monthly deadline and listening to the work of others to make our own writing better.

6. I make my readings women only. I have been challenged on this point. Men are invited to be part of the audience. And believe me, those men who come to listen to women read are admired and appreciated. Women need a space that feels safe in order to share what is intimate to them. There can be no competition, only acceptance. And so, I keep the space behind the mic for them and for them alone. They read their own work, or they can read work written by another woman. I maintain that this is essential to women's empowerment. Their ability to branch out and read to larger audiences begins here, at HOWL or Eve's Night Out; at a Cafe of Their Own.

Begin here. Begin now. Show up and keep going even if it's 5 people at first. Sit in a circle until it grows large enough to have an audience and a mic. Every person counts. Just keep showing up and let people know you are doing it. If your host has the passion and commitment to creativity, women will come. And if they come once, they will return. Good luck! If you have questions, leave a comment and I will get back to you. Or go to the HOWL Women's Open Mic page on Face Book.

Power to the women--write on!

A Little Women's History During March Madness

If we don't know...

that the first person to go over Niagra Falls was a woman who couldn’t swim, one Annie Taylor, an elementary schoolteacher in a wooden barrel

or that Mozart’s fame depended on his wife Constanze’s inventiveness and good business sense

or Mehitable Ellis “Auntie” Woods stole a commissary wagon in order to make regular supply runs to Union soldiers on the front lines

If we are unaware...

that Aivia Lubetkin was a commander of the Jewish resistance movement in the Warsaw ghetto who made her escape through the sewer systems of that city

that African American dancer Janet Collins turned down the opportunity of a lifetime with the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo because they would have required her to wear white make-up
but
she eventually became the prima ballerina for the NY Metropolitan Opera anyway

If we’ve forgotten...

That it was Mary Leakey and not Louis who discovered the “missing link” in Tanzania, demonstrating that humans originated in Africa, not Asia

or that cartoonist Dalia Messick had to change her name to the more androgynous “Dale” in order to get her comic strip “Brenda Starr” published in 1940

If we don’t know...

that Mary Read and Anne Bonny were pirates in the 1700’s
and
that Mary (alias Mark) Read was a cross-dresser
and
that the two women were lovers aboard a pirate ship

If we’ve somehow failed to remind our schoolchildren...

that Queen Liluokalani fought against the annexation of Hawaii by the US in favor of a government by her people and that she spent 9 months in jail for her efforts

that the world’s first self-made female millionaire was Madame C.J. Walker (born Sarah Breedlove), an unschooled black orphan who earned her fortune through the development of a hair preparation process for African American women

or that Rear Admiral Grace Hopper helped design the first large-scale digital computer, the Mark One

If the facts have been misplaced...

that Conchita Clintron mastered over 1200 bulls in her career as a bullfighter and was arrested at her farewell appearance int 1949 for refusing to kill the bull

and that Cosmonaut Valentina Tereshkova was the first woman space traveler, orbiting the globe 48 times in 1963

If we haven’t been reminded...

that Mary Lyon, founder of the Mount Holyoke Female Seminary, the first school of higher education for women in this country, had to weave two blankets to exchange for her admission into boarding school

that Julia Ward Howe wrote the text to the Battle Hymn of the Republic for a mere $4

If we haven’t thanked...

Gertrude Muller for the child car seat
Margaret Knight for the square-bottomed paper bag
Hannah Slater for cotton thread
Mary Engle Pennington for refrigerated railroad cars
sisters Patty, Mildred, and Jessica Hill for composing “Happy Birthday to You” in
1893

If we forgot or never knew...

that legal secretary Iris Rivera was fired in 1977 for refusing to make coffee for her boss

that Alice Stebbins Wells was the first female cop in the US, sworn into the LAPD in 1910 and was forced to wear a badge that read “Police Woman’s Badge #1” because she was constantly being accused of wearing her husband’s badge, thereby imper-sonating a police officer

that Assistant Attorney General from 1921-1929, Mabel Willebrandt, brought 49,000 bootleggers to justice and achieved 39,000 convictions

If a single schoolgirl hasn’t heard...

that on the night of April 26, 1777, 16-year-old Sybil Luddington rode from town to town in New York and Connecticutt to warn the colonists that the Redcoats were raiding Danbury, covering double the distance of Paul Revere and saving the day for the Patriots

then they don’t know enough
and we don’t know enough
and nobody knows enough
to make basketball more important than women each March,
to tell his-tory but not hers,
to omit a women’s study program from a college curriculum.
We can’t allow ourselves to continue to forget
how far we’ve come, how much we’ve gained
how hard the struggle’s been
or that even in 2010
we haven’t reached equality yet.

The Defiant Gardener - Part II

Defiant Gardens: Making Gardens in Wartime by Kenneth Helphand

Yesterday I was inspired by something as simple as the title of my spouse's library book. It's called "Defiant Gardens: Making Gardens in Wartime" by Kenneth Helphand. The book is a fascinating account of gardens planted in internment camps, in Warsaw ghettos, even on the front lines during times of war. Anyone who believes gardens inspire and promote peace should read this book. I love the book and the concept, but it was the title that inspired me to write the following poem. I'm quite sure that Mr. Helphand (don't you just love that name?) did not intend his title to inspire this particular poem. However, the poet must go with whatever comes crashing into the mind, shattering the original observation into bits and pieces to be reformed into a poem.



The Defiant Gardener

I am a defiant gardener,
attacking the soil with pick, shovel, rake
until the patch surrenders up her stones.
I hack and yank at weeds like enemies.
The burgeoning garden is a battlefront
and I, the conquering warrior.
This, of course, is not the right approach.
I watch Leigh and try to learn.
She observes and weighs where each bed will lay.
The consummate garden hostess knows
every plant must feel at home.
But I was born to dig.
In a no-till garden this is not an attribute.
So I dig trenches and post holes,
start new garden spots, bury my dog
and hope Leigh lets me help her plant a tree.
I'm also quite good at bonfires,
burning sticks which we have aplenty.
I'm sure my Astrological signs
influence my defiant gardener status.
Mostly fire, I have not one single sign in Earth.
Therefore, I'm flailing away to contact it.
I'm an alien on foreign soil.
I unearth rocks and toss them into Al's cow pasture
or throw them at the guinea
when he beats up on my rooster, Handsome.
A defiant gardener has little interest in the pretty parts.
I leave the planning and the planting to Leigh.
I harvest with the same intensity
of purpose with which I dig--
"git 'er done."
Only when I water do I find connection
watering slowly I soak deeply
at rest finally in the garden
I relish the various greens
of spinach and collards
spiky onions near the broad-leafed squash
the purple of a late evening sky
cooling eyes and the smell of wet earth
fills my nostrils while
warm hands pat the seed within
and the defiant gardener discovers
peas at last.

The Defiant Poet-Part I

Spring is upon us, faithful readers. Time to try your hand at writing some poetry. "Ah, but I'm no poet," you groan. "I wish she would get over the poetry thing and talk about writing stories." Writing a poem is simply telling a story in verse. I believe everyone has a little poet inside them. A poem cries out to be born every time something special, something emotional, something which fires our passion occurs in front of us.

Poetry requires paying attention. We have to notice the two bluebirds considering the wooden birdhouse shaped like a church as their potential summer home; a place they can raise a family. Then we have to allow the feelings that arise to bloom and take up space inside us--so much space in fact, they demand an outlet. Finally, we must take pen in hand as soon as possible and capture the details. This is telling a story. And writing a poem.

Using the craft of poetry: line breaks, vivid imagery, maybe an occasional rhyme but mostly rhythm, is simple enough for a child to do. In fact children all over the world do it. They write poems in classrooms, sprawled belly down on porches, or sitting cross-legged high in back yard tree houses. Nothing stops them. They aren't afraid to write bad poems along with the good. The quality of the poem is not at issue. Cupping the moment and the feeling in their hands and heads is the point. They are defiant poets. They let nothing stop them, and neither should you.

Here are a couple of my first poems written at age 7, when I was in the first grade. The first poem, entitled simply "Spring" was written as I sprawled across the small back stoop of my house in Houston, TX in 1961. Already you can see the Realism in the budding poet.



Spring

Spring is here.
The birds are saying tweet, tweet, tweet.
The trees have leaves on them.
Butterflies are playing on flowers.
Fruits are growing on trees, too,
and grass is turning green.
The flowers are turning all colors,
and the flyes are eating our food.

My second attempt, after we had covered poetry in school, came out a little more formed; not quite so freestyle. It did have the honor of being the first poem in my class's poetry book! You can see the Emily Dickinson, no?

The Rain

I love to see the drops
of rain,
Falling on the window
Pane.
They splash and splash,
on the ground;
and make the little puddles round.



A defiant poet lives in all of us waiting for someone to hand her a pencil. Give her one. Set her free.