Pat Schneider's Blog, page 6
March 31, 2013
AS THE SUPREME COURT DECIDES
I want everyone in the world to read October Mourning: A Song for Matthew Shepard. There is nothing about this book that is less than brilliant.
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Just holding it in your hand is an experience of art. Beautifully designed, the simplicity and elegance of the physical book perfectly positions the reader for what is to come. Weeping is what is to come. I have never wept so many times in one book as I did reading this slender volume. It is the true story of a boy in Wyoming, tricked by two other boys, beaten and left to die tied to a fence. Weeping comes, but it goes as Newman has us listen to every voice, not only the imagined voices of the players in the drama, but quiet voices, including that of the fence upon which Matthew died, the voice of the doe that (actually, according to police reports) was sleeping beside him when police found his broken but still living body after eighteen hours in 30 degree weather, his shoes stolen and his hands tied to the fence. Among many others we are given the voice of the moon, the voice of the town, the state, the girlfriends of the killers, the judge, the lawyers, the parents of the slain boy and the voices of the boys who killed him for no reason but that he was gay.
October Mourning is a book of poetry. A remarkable, incomparable book of poetry. I have been reading and writing poetry all my life, and I have never read anything like this. It is a gift to me as a writer; a challenge to reach farther and deeper. A challenge to me as a mother of gay children and straight children, for I have two of both. A challenge to understand more, to fear more, to love more, to understand more. Newman uses one poetic form after another, almost as if to say there is no form adequate to hold what she has to tell us. And it is her story to tell, for she herself is a player in the drama. I would be a spoiler to tell what role she played. Let me just say that October Mourning is more than a book of poems. It is a novel. It is a requiem. It is, as the subtitle says, “a song.” Sometimes tender, sometimes tough, occasionally even witty -- at least in irony, and in poetic form. The book is a story I could not put down. I stopped breathing now and then, but could not stopping reading. October Mourning is a masterpiece, complete with exhaustive notes at the end, telling me that things I thought were imagined are actually exactly true. Newman begins the book by saying that all of the voices in the poems are imagined; only the epigraphs are quotes from people in the story. It doesn’t matter. Every voice becomes one’s own voice, catches the reader on the fence, and changes the world, one reader at a time.
March 16, 2013
THE DAY “LIGHT” ARRIVED
Oxford editors, bless their hearts, overnight mailed my first copy of “How the Light Gets In,” and honestly, it is the nearest thing I have experienced to that unimaginable moment when a nurse lays into your arms a new-born child. Only this one took nine years rather than nine months to show its face.
I opened it at random to a passage where I had fallen outdoors in an intense snowstorm, and looking up into the falling snow, had an experience of ephipany. These are the words I read:
“ . . . happened to me after my left foot slid on hidden ice, and the weight of my body fell exactly onto my left hip, breaking it. Something ecstatic. Something too precious to lose. But into my attempt to catch that ecstasy comes the complication of impersonal nurses and a moment of triumph on a gurney, alone in an elevator with a young male orderly: I say to him what I want to say, across race, across age, across silence, across being strangers to one another, across the terror of fracture, across helplessness. Never mind what it was to him (a crazy old woman with a broken hip?). Never mind.
As I have said, my own writing that matters most to me are those pieces that have taken me out to the very edge of “what I know and do not know I know.” [T.S. Eliot] That fine point, that intense moment of seeing, of discovering—that is the writing that matters most. Not craft, although craft can be the tightrope that gets me over the chasm of silence to what I need to say.”
And the whole nine years seemed to roll into focus: the original question, what does it all mean to me now, now that I am seventy. What is spirituality? What is my own spiritual practice, now that I am no longer a member of any church or religious tradition? Is it possible that writing itself can be a spiritual practice?
And nine years later, knowing: Yes. Yes, it can be. It is my spiritual practice.
January 5, 2013
New Year Poem and News
Here is a new poem -- too new to know if it is any good -- to wish you a safe and happy new year. For those of you who want news of us – read on below.
HOW TO RIDE A PLANET
Well, you are in the shower
and it’s still dark outside.
The bathroom is a tiny one
your teenaged son and his father built
before either of them knew how.
It’s really dark outside.
It’s wet inside, but a cozy,
drippy, shower-wet
and you’re feeling pretty good.
Then you notice in the corner
of the shower, on a wet, white tile,
a rather handsome spider
trying with all her (?) might
to climb the wall.
You have tried to climb walls.
You watch her grope for purchase,
lose it, try again.
You wonder if the nice, wet warm
to you, is nice to her.
You doubt it.
Then you notice that her front legs
no longer can hold on
although the other six seem steady.
She can’t move from the square
she was on when you first saw her.
You imagine her fall. Can spiders swim?
You consider fear, and can’t find any.
You are not afraid.
Except for her.
You reach outside the shower
to a stack of navy blue and white cloths.
You choose white.
She is black – she will look good in white.
Carefully you hold the white terrycloth
below her back-most legs,
touch them with it,
and she drops onto the cloth,
an aerial acrobat
letting go of climbing walls.
She falls into the safety net.
You hold the white cloth
with its small black rider
between your two hands
and lay it gently on top of the pile.
How elegant she looks!
You wonder
how she liked her ride.
And you can see yourself
riding on a planet
that you, too, cannot comprehend,
let alone the greater questions:
who gave me a place to fall?
And why?
~Pat Schneider
December, 2012
This is to thank you for being in our lives, and to apologize for this wimpy holiday response to cards, calls, and just plain old love however it gets expressed.. I wish I was able to send you each a beautifully designed something or other, but I am still at the (hopefully far) ragged edge of a (so far) 2 and 1/2 month inability to walk without cane or walker -- blog and email is what I am able to manage right now.
We aren't sure (still!) of the exact cause of my left leg going on full strike, but a variety of western and eastern medical experts here in the valley and in Boston are deciding that it has its root in my having not realized (here I quote one of the doctors) "You cannot live the life you lived at 50 when you are 78!" In other words, to quote my Ozark grandma, "I plumb near wore my fool self out." I am, in short, having to re-invent myself from a middle-aged woman to an old woman. I like old women, so this is not a horrific idea for me; it's just that my skill bank at being an Old Grey Mare isn't of the highest caliber.
The good news is that my new book, How the Light Gets In: Writing as a Spiritual Practice, will be released by Oxford University Press on March 1st. Our youngest daughter, Bethany Schneider's first novel has been bought by various publishers for readers in five nations (US, Britain, France, Italy and Spain) and will be released in North America by Penguin in May. It is River of No Return, and her pseudonym is "Bee Ridgway" (my mother's maiden last name, and “Bee” is what her partner, Kate calls her for a first name. And our son, Paul Schneider's fifth book for Henry Holt will be released in September, a history of the Mississippi River titled Old Man River. His wife, Nina Bramhall is a professional photographer and tennis instructor. Laurel and her new wife, Emilie Townes, are moving from being professor at Chicago Theological Seminary (Laurel) and dean at Yale (Emilie) to being together at Vanderbilt -- professor of theology, philosophy and women’s studies (Laurel) and dean of the entire theological school, (Emilie). Becca is finishing her second term as chair of theater, speech and dance at Brown University and she and her new husband, Will Rogers, are both looking forward to her being just a professor again. She may have time for her kayak again! Our two grandkids are indeed grand: Sarah writing her dissertation in education, Natty entering college in the fall.
There are exciting things being planned for my book -- releases on both coasts, book party in NYC and possible readings and workshops in North Carolina, Sacramento, Ontario, -- maybe even Ireland. I plan to be fully mobile, up-and-at'em, by the first weekend in April when AWA's book launch here in the valley is planned the weekend of April 6 and AWA West and Pacific School of Religion’s planned book launch for me in Berkeley the weekend of April 27. I would love to see you at any of these events.
Warm best wishes and happy 2013. May all your days be merry and bright.
Pat
December 4, 2012
PARTY TIME!! THE BOOK IS DONE!
After seven years of writing the book, another year of hoping for acceptance by Oxford, then a ninth year of working with editors, proof readers and indexer, I am convinced that this is the best work I have ever done. And I did not do it alone. I am deeply grateful to all of you who have supported me in the writing and in these past two years of near solitude as the final i’s were dotted and t’s crossed.
Sometime before the first of January I will begin to post upcoming events on my website calendar. I do hope to see you in the new year.
January 16, 2012
PROGRESS REPORT ON "LIGHT"
I have just signed the final draft of my contract with Oxford for my new book. How the Light Gets In: Writing as a Spiritual Practice. Publication is a certainty now, but it will take many months to arrive as an actual book. It has been my only writing project for seven years; the fact of the contract is a dream come true. Many of you who have written with me in workshops and retreats over the past seven years have listened to bits and pieces and given me encouragement, and quite a few of you have read drafts of chapters, given me feedback, found my glitches and rough spots, and companioned me in its creation. That is how it ought to be. I often think of a good workshop as a quilting bee – a group of people sitting in a circle, stitching together a work of art. This is the simple truth: I could never have done this book without you.
October 27, 2011
I HAVE KNOWN HER . . .
The good news is, we are writers. The good news is, there are always more stories to tell, more songs to sing, more poems to give birth to. The good news is, we each one hold an immeasurable treasure of craft – the language that came down to us from our ancestors: ancient, beautiful, already ours in our unconscious minds. And the good news is, we have all of our lives practiced the language of our own contemporaries – all day every day as we talk in words, think in words, and at night when we dream in words.
The bad news is, if we are doing writing that matters deeply, it is much of the time going to be scary as hell. And every distraction will seem a better option than our art, our writing.
I’m there, now. At the scary place of having a contract for the book I’ve worked on for six years, and waited for a full year to find a publisher. I have just one more chance before my deadline to make the book as true, as beautiful, as finished as I possibly can. Scary!!!
I am taking Emily Dickinson as my mentor. After all, she lived a short walk from my house. Her bones lie five minutes from where my bones move around on McClellan street. She writes this about the soul:
I've known her from an ample nation
Choose one;
Then close the valves of her attention
Like stone.
The “one” that she chose, I believe (taught gratefully by Dickinson’s best interpreter, Dorothy Oberhaus) – the “one” that Dickinson chose was her writing. She offered it as her gift to the world, and as her gift to what she understood God to be. She chose that “one” and then she shut the valves of her attention like stone.
It is required of me, and it is difficult. I love my friends, my writing companions, my work teaching and leading groups. But today – this day – I turn. I choose one. And I ask blessing from my friends and writing companions as I try to close the valves of my attention like stone.
TWO FOR THE PLEDGE OF ONE!
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Peter and I are among the poets who are pledging to each write thirty poems in the thirty days of November again this year. Just as some friends run to support cancer research, poets in our neck of the woods are writing poems to support the work of the Center for New Americans toward literacy among our immigrants and refugees. Last year 80 poets together raised over $25,000.p
pPeter and I will each write a poem for every day in November, and we invite you to join us, join the party and write thirty poems of your own. Or pledge something per each pair of our poems. Last year, some of Pat’s supporters pledged $1 per poem, some pledged much less, and a few pledged more. Every bit helps.p
How to do it: go online to http://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/pat-schneider/30-poems-in-november click on "Give Now," and you’re your tax-deductible pledge. When you have completed your donation, follow the instructions to print a receipt.
Money raised from the 30 Poems in November! project will be donated to the Center for New Americans (CNA), a non-profit community-based education and resource center for immigrants, refugees, and other limited English speakers in the Pioneer Valley. The organization offers free English classes, free literacy classes, free child care for students, family literacy, and many other services. Your contribution will go directly to CNA's Family Literacy Project.
On Friday, December 2nd we'll have a public reading and celebration at Smith College and all local poets who participated in the project will be invited read one of their poems.
On December 1, Peter and I will send, to each of you who pledge, our thanks and two poems – the one I like best of his, and the one he likes best of mine.
Best wishes,
Pat and Peter Schneider
October 26, 2011
WRITE WITH ME
I have added to the calendar on this website a weekend retreat in March and one in September to welcome a few people who would like to write with me in the intimate setting of our home in Amherst. Participants will be limited to ten. I will lead most of the writing sessions, and will be joined in some by another AWA trained workshop leader.
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In the March retreat I will be assisted by Kate Hymes, a poet and educator living in the Hudson Valley, New York. She is a certified and affiliated AWA workshop leader with over twenty years experience as an educator both in teaching writing at local two and four year colleges, and over ten years leading workshops for people who either wish to or do make writing their artistic practice. She is a Cave Canem fellow, www.cavecanempoets.org and she serves as co-chair of the board of Amherst Writers & Artists.
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This is a springtime picture of our home in Amherst. It is about 150 years old, a farmhouse built during or shortly after the Civil War. It is a short walk from our house to Emily Dickinson’s grave and homestead, to Amherst College, to the University of Massachusetts, and to the center of this college town.
Please feel free to call if you have further questions or would like a registration form. 413-253-6353. Click here to download our mail-in registration form.
-- Pat Schneider
September 29, 2011
CELEBRATE WITH ME
My new book, How the Light Gets In: Writing as a Spiritual Practice, has just been accepted by Oxford University Press. I could not be more grateful. I believe this is the best writing I have ever done, six years of slowly weaving together the fabric of my writing life and my spiritual life, asking difficult questions of both, and trying to find and understand what it means to be a writer who takes seriously the mystery at the heart of creation.
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I have had such companion pilgrims in this journey, writers gathering here in our home every Wednesday and Thursday evening for the last thirty-two years, and writers across the United States and in Ireland, Canada and Japan who have written with me, listened to my writing, and taught me.
My long-time companions in writing have been my teachers as well as my workshop participants, and they have celebrated with me this week. They were with me in the writing. Out of the twenty-four participants, all heard me read portions of the manuscript, and a dozen or more read the entire manuscript and offered suggestions for change.
And so this writing is first to celebrate my thirty-two year community of writers here in our home, and secondly to celebrate my new book, and the time I am giving to myself to bring it to its final form for publication by Oxford University Press. I hope you will celebrate with me, and that we may write together sometime in one of the workshops or retreats that I will be leading now and then: one-day, weekend, or five-day in Amherst, across the US and in other countries. You will find those listed on my calendar of events on this website.
March 13, 2011
THE HUNGRY GHOST
This morning I went to a rare and wonderful bakery in Northampton -- so rare, in fact, right now it is a finalist in the Craig Claiborne competition. At "The Hungry Ghost," (http://www.hungryghostbread.com/) bread is made from native, original wheat that people in our valley can grow in their back yards and sell to the bakery. The first time Peter tasted it, he looked at me surprised, and said, "This isn't bread -- it's . . ." and fell silent, happily munching away, at a loss for words. The bread is baked over wood fire in a huge brick oven that almost overwhelms their tiny building. When you step inside, you almost float in the flour-filled air. I congratulated the co-owner, and commented that she must get the word out that they are a Claiborne finalist. She answered that her daughter, Anna, is doing a great job of promoting them on the web, then turned to Anna and said,"And also on -- is it 'Tweeter?'" Anna gave her mother one of those "Mo-om!" looks that I, mother of three daughters, have learned to understand by heart, and said patiently, "It's 'Twitter,' Mom -- and what you write is "tweets."
[image error]I stood there in the slight fog of flour, remembering my own bread-baking days when our four children were young, hearing both the slap of new dough being worked in front of this huge brick oven now and the slap of my own hands working it in front of my oven then, and felt joy move through me. I love this ancient art, bread-making, the strong young man's arms as he kneaded the dough, the mother and daughter overseeing the work, the original wheat grains still vibrant and alive in this valley, and a new generation tweeting and twittering toward a whole new world. Oh may it be at peace. May all its people have the bread they need, and may we cherish and protect what is precious from our past as we create our new future together on this planet.
