Drew Myron's Blog, page 22

Thankful Thursday: Scrawl

What fortune — It’s Thankful Thursday and National Handwriting Day!

Yes, it’s a thing. Established in 1977 by the Writing Instrument Manufacturers Association, the occasion may have its roots in self-interest  but it’s still a day that celebrates my favorite tools: pen and paper.

Early on, my literary life was formed with pen to paper: writing in a loose looping curves across pages of my school-girl diary, then writing sloppy and free in college journals, and later as a fevered reporter recording every word in my own scrappy shorthand.

It’s handwriting that has always connected me to mind, body and heart.

Sure, laptops and phone notes are the modern tools. But it’s handwriting that has the power to capture and reveal the self, my self.

Natalie Goldberg says handwriting is crucial to creativity:

“A writing practice is simply picking up a pen — a fast-writing pen, preferably, since the mind is faster than the hand — and doing timed writing exercises. The idea is to keep your hand moving for, say, ten minutes, and don’t cross anything out, because that makes space for your inner editor to come in.” 

Again and again, I say: How do I know what I feel until I write it out?

Handwriting brings my mother back, in a hurried scrawl of a recipe.

Handwriting provides lively tales of my grandmother’s life on a Washington wheat farm.

Handwriting reminds me of my constant shopping list of chicken, cream, and gin.

In meetings, I am the only one taking note. How do they retain important information, I wonder. That was always my trick; in college my study drill was to write and rewrite key information. Even now, when preparing for poetry reading or public speaking, I write and rewrite every single word.

Every day I write a to-do list and revel in the scratch-off.

Handwriting allows long letters to friends. In the slow-down of penmanship, however sloppy, I ease into the languid pace of contemplation.

For magazine stories, I always take notes by hand. And because eye contact is critical to a good interview, I've worked the trick of writing without looking (who knew this would be a great skill?!).

So yes, you bet, I celebrate National Handwriting Day. Today I wrote, by hand and heart, a dozen thank you notes. It was the best thing I did all day.

On this Thankful Thursday, I am thankful for the art and grace of handwriting. Write on!

Fragment, Tangle, Hold

1.
I wake with a question:

Is this sadness or defeat?

And then:

What’s the difference?

2.
I remember imperfectly.

Sometimes you remember everything as it happens: a soft voice, rain pattering the night, how you squeezed me so hard I couldn’t breathe and wished to stay this way — breathless and held.

You swear it to memory, as if ordering a meal: I’ll take this and this and this.

But the mind is a faulty photograph. The image wears, blurs, goes away.

3.
Caught in a tangle of photos I am suddenly crying for a life I don’t remember living. And yet, there I am, a toddler, on a bicycle, in a field. Here, the farm, the trailer, in my mother’s arms, my sister’s gaze.

I am nostalgic for what I did not know and now hold with a vague but fierce tenderness. With a hand of protection, I am both guarding and letting go.

4.
Nostalgia says, I didn’t try. I didn’t try hard enough. I could have loved more, loved better. Nostalgia hums with fondness and with guilt, leaves you doubled over what was lost, but even worse, taunts with what you didn’t know you had.

5.
Once, I made a rule:

Don’t give in to nostalgia, I said, It’ll only strangle you.

I was young. I willed away wanting. I would not long for what I did not have. I would not want.

But now, years later, the photos I hold are thin and fading. Hopeful faces, holding in, holding on. With an examiner’s eye I see happiness, and my heart makes a declaration: This is how it was. This is truth.

6.
Is this sorrow
or a relapse of calm?

the body a loneliness     walking 

mirror of survival 

7.

Holding

I could imitate the thrash and flutter,

how you touched me like an error. I am pleading

my case and you are in the distance singing. 

There's something in the collage of resistance, 

how you finally let it move through. Please, I beg,

give me a way of moving, let my limbs know lyric. 

Make it rejoice, you say, 

       to hold a burden is the terror.

— Drew Myron

Good Books of 2019

Presents have been opened, rejoiced or returned, and the tree is now needles all over the floor. It’s time to look back at the year-in-books.

Frankly, I haven’t had a stellar year. Though I’m always reading, few books engaged my head & heart. I quit many (without guilt) and realized that, as with jeans, to get a good fit one must try, try, and try again. *

The upside is that my book malaise spurred me to explore. I reached beyond my routine of contemporary fiction and dabbled in mystery, fantasy, memoir and more. Some were thinkers, others sinkers, but I felt nicely stretched nonetheless.

Here, a few of the good books I read in 2019:

FICTION

The Middlesteins
by Jami Attenberg

Don’t judge a book by its cover (as I did, quickly dismissing this as adolescent drivel). This novel is original, funny, sad, sweet, with a spot-on grasp of family dynamics.

Chairs in the Rafters
by Julia Glass

A little-know novella by the bestselling author of Three Junes. As always, Glass delivers evocative prose with complex characters.

Educated
by Tara Westover

Yes, yes, everyone and their neighbor read, raved or loathed this memoir. This was such a page-turner I read it in one full swoop, glued to the couch for an entire day.

The Dry
by Jane Harper

This gripping mystery thriller is thick with atmosphere. An easy read, it was the ideal who-done-it to take me out of my head.

NON-FICTION

Don’t Let Me Be Lonely
by Claudia Rankine

Published in the George W era, this multi-genre inquiry is as politically and emotionally relevant as ever. Smart and incisive, with a seamless blend of poetry and prose, Rankine dives deep into culture, race, terrorism, depression, medication and media.

Stranger on a Train
by Jenny Diski

With wry and incisive prose, this travel memoir is less about landscape and more about people. In search of solitude, the British writer traverses the U.S. by train and finds herself drawn into the complex lives of ordinary strangers.

How the Light Gets In: Writing as a Spiritual Practice
by Pat Schneider

A warm and interior look into the motivations and circulations of the writing life. With her signature grace, Schneider invites readers to contemplate their lives and deepest questions through writing.

POETRY

If the House
by Molly Spencer

Layered, textured, rich and deep, this debut collection of poems is stunning. Poet David Biespiel sums it best: “Her portrait of life’s silences is fundamental and mysterious. Here is a riveting, deeply moving book of marriage and its dissolutions—between husband and wife, between a woman and her home, between dream and memory.”

The End of the West
by Michael Dickman

Dark, violent, conversational, essential, enigmatic — and beautiful.

Irksome Particulars
by Matt Cook

A pocket-size collection of irreverent prose poems, each no longer than a page and most just a few lines long, from the former poet laureate of Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

FAVORITE BOOKSTORES

Where are you shopping? This year I was excited to discover and revisit these independent book shops:

Bart’s Books
Ojai, California

I stumbled (literally, I was on a walk and was looking for exercise, not books) when I found an outdoor bookstore. Open since 1964, Bart’s is the largest independently owned and operated outdoor bookstore in the U.S. With a selection of nearly one million new and used books, Bart’s is quirky, kooky and wonderfully bookish.

Klindt’s Booksellers
The Dalles, Oregon

Open since 1870, Klindt’s is the oldest bookstore in Oregon. With its original hardwood floors, cabinets and bookshelves, the narrow shop oozes history while packing in plenty of contemporary treasures. 

Powell’s City of Books
Portland, Oregon

Filling an entire city block in downtown Portland, since 1971 this is both mecca and disneyland for readers and writers. Not to see Powell’s is not to see Portland.

* I’m still searching for the perfect jeans.

Thankful Thursday: Brightly Shining

The Week in Review 

I wore soft sweaters. Ate too many cookies. Meandered through days without demand.

An old woman who rarely speaks, stared at me and asked: Do you like me?

Yes, I replied quickly, I love you. And felt the relief of a truth.

A leaden sky blurred time. I fought a sadness that did not take root.

Caught in holiday softening, I forgave grievances and felt goodwill.

Fall on your knees became my new refrain.

I was reminded of the real work ahead.

The Work of Christmas

When the song of the angels is stilled,
when the star in the sky is gone,
when the kings and princes are home,
when the shepherds are back with their flocks,
the work of Christmas begins:
to find the lost,
to heal the broken,
to feed the hungry,
to release the prisoner,
to rebuild the nations,
to bring peace among the people,
to make music in the heart.

 — Howard Thurman

 

It's Thankful Thursday, a weekly pause to express appreciation for people, places, things and more. Some weeks are tougher than others, but every week offers some small thing that redeems and heals. What are you thankful for today?

Grocery & Gift Lists

I carry a perpetual grocery list that gathers like a nest in every crevice of my life. Every week it’s a scratch of urgent needs: chicken, tonic, wine. Write, buy, repeat.

And in my head, I carry a gratitude list: a jumble of small, pressing appreciations.

Because attention attracts gratitude and gratitude expands joy, it's time for Thankful Thursday. This week I am thankful for:

Cuties
You know the sales pitch: small, sweet and easy to eat. Also, adorable in scale. These miniature oranges (technically mandarins) get me through these long winter days. Admittedly, they have a sordid backstory, and out of guilt I did take a long break. But here it is, holiday season, and I’m back on the Cuties.

Also: I’m thankful for this publication. Superb research, writing, and design.

Book Gifts
I’m not a great gift-giver. I labor over gift guides and scan every conversation for hints on what to buy that says, “How did you know?”

But I never know.

Because I love books, I assume everyone loves books, and that’s why each year I give books, books, books to family, friends, neighbors, strangers . . . But I’ve come to my senses (begrudgingly) and realized one person’s treasure is another’s homework assignment. My family groans silently with every literary gift.

Still, every lid has a pot and every book a reader. I can’t stop matching books to people. This year I’ve cut back on book gifts — but I did find an exact right match with this book and this book and this book.

Also, I’ll include this caveat: You don’t like the book? Pass it on. Re-gifting is allowed and encouraged.

Grandma, the movie
The best movies are the ones you don’t even know you want to see. This week I stumbled into a gem: Grandma, a dramedy with sharp writing and great acting from Lily Tomlin and Julia Garner. Released in 2015, it’s now on Amazon.

A friend sends a poem
This week a friend sent me this poem. A poem is a gentle ‘thinking of you’, and isn’t that the best gift of all?

Between Autumn Equinox and Winter Solstice, Today

I read a Korean poem

with the line “Today you are the youngest

you will ever be.” Today I am the oldest

I have been. Today we drink

buckwheat tea. Today I have heat

in my apartment. Today I think

about the word chada in Korean.

It means cold. It means to be filled with.

It means to kick. To wear. Today we’re worn.

Today you wear the cold. Your chilled skin.

My heart kicks on my skin. Someone said

winter has broken his windows. The heat inside

and the cold outside sent lightning across glass.

Today my heart wears you like curtains. Today

it fills with you. The window in my room

is full of leaves ready to fall. Chada, you say. It’s tea.

We drink. It is cold outside.

— Emily Jungmin Yoon

It’s Thankful Thursday, a weekly pause to express appreciation for people, places, poems, and more. What are you thankful for today?

Love this line (and entire book)!

“If you write the truth, you will change the world.

If you write privately, you change your own inner world,

and that changes the outer world.

If you write publicly, you give voice to what is,

and that assists what is becoming.

If you help someone else to write the truth,

you may not live long enough to know it,

but you will have changed the world.”

— an excerpt from How The Light Gets In: Writing As A Spiritual Practice by Pat Schneider

Over the years I’ve read a great many “how-to” books on writing and the creative process. I devour the really good ones and press them eagerly into your hands: Writing Down the Bones and Poemcrazy and In the Palm of Your Hand: The Poet’s Portable Workshop.

But this one has worked another sort of magic that feels both affirming ( I do that!) and inspiring (I feel that too!). This dense treasure is not new nor flashy. Instead, it’s a deep and thoughtful reflection of writing and the writing life, penned by the poet who pioneered Amherst Writers, a writing workshop method that believes every person is a writer, and every writer deserves a safe environment in which to experiment (I agree!).

In reading and re-reading How the Light Gets In, I feel seen, understood, and a little less alone in the writing life. If I could press this book into your hands, I would, I would, I would.

Waving: A Day of Veterans

God bless America, says the elderly man sitting next to me.

And for a moment, I feel what he might mean. A wash of nostalgia, sentimentality and weight. Is this how patriotism feels?

I’m conflicted about war memorials, Love it or Leave It bumper stickers, and the red, white & blue. Even the holidays— Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Veteran’s Day — make me uneasy. Too much macho, testosterone, blow-‘em-up-and-boast-about-it.

I’m a pacifist. A lover, not a fighter. I want to make art, not war. I could be a Quaker.

Yes, yes, I’m happy to live in the land of the free. I’m not ungrateful. I recognize sacrifice. I married a veteran, and yet, I bristle at these glorifications masked as honor.

But here I am, on a bus in a parade, filled with elderly men who have served in the Navy, Army, Marines. The street is lined with people of all ages, smiling, holding flags, and waving at us. As we drive past, a woman puts her hand to her heart. A man mouths thank you. A group of children hold a banner they made: We love you, Veterans!

The heart swells. Who wouldn’t like this?

***

People say, Thank you for your service. I can’t say what I don’t fully grasp, and instead I ask: What was it like?

It was fun, says John.

My heart sinks. Surely I misheard. I’m expecting honor, duty, sacrifice. He’s 90, he didn’t mean it, he misunderstood. It’s not suppose to be adrenaline and exuberance. But war, like life, is rarely lived in black and white. Fun could mean camaraderie, could mean purpose, could mean belonging. Fun could mean young.

***

Inside the bus, the radio plays Anchors Away and we are lifted in an easy joy. Our group, in their 70s, 80s and 90s, is all smiles.

Look, I say, the children are waving to you. And John, his spine bent in such a severe curve he can hardly look up, even he is waving.

Isn’t that something, he says, as his frail hand rises to acknowledge the praise, waving and waving. All these people out here for us.

***

Photographing the Suddenly Dead (an excerpt)

We no longer have to name
the sins that we are guilty of.
The evidence for every crime
exists. What one
must always answer for
is not what has been done, but
for the weight of what remains
as residue—every effort
must be made to scrub away
the stain we’ve made on time.

— Kevin Powers
from Letter Composed During a Lull in the Fighting 

* Names and identifiers have been changed to protect privacy.

Weigh Station

1.
It can break your heart how much the smallest moment can matter. 

At the nursing home I stop to chat with Grace. When I give a bright hello, she lights up as if she’s been waiting all day for someone to see her. We talk a bit but the conversation gets rocky as she struggles to find words and a sense of time. We wander a trail —  a jumble of cars, a dog, her hair, the pain of a recently trimmed toenail.  

I nod along. I've learned to let the conversation wander between past and present. It doesn't matter if the story makes sense, if it's true, if it's today or 20 years ago, just that there's comfort in the telling.

 Like a poem, we're not looking for fact. We want music, mood, connection. 

2.
A woman visiting her mother overhears our conversation.

I don't know how you do it, she says to me.

Well, I say, shrugging, I'm not a nurse. They do the hard work. 

I tell myself I'm removed. That I feel what the nurses can't, because distance is a form of self-preservation. Like I'm compensating. 

 But it’s not true; we’re all carrying an invisible weight.

3.
Who can describe the weight of love —

late we learn how heavy,

when grief is the flood we float above

and love is the break in the levee.

 — excerpt from Weight, by Pat Schneider 

4.
Years ago I was given a card with a simple message: Live your poem.

I didn't know what it meant, but liked how it felt. 

I have that same feeling today, talking with Grace, who is pleasantly confused. And Addie, who is terrified until you soothe with soft words, your hand in hers. Or Manny with the vacant eyes. Or Florence who sings through her confusion, and Violet who has lost speech but still lifts her brows in animation.*

These small moments of pause, of dark and light, I don't know what it means, or if it means anything at all. But I know how it feels — quiet, present, full — like a prayer, like a poem. Like one very small thing of value, of weight. 

5.
Presence, writes Maria Popova, is far more intricate and rewarding an art than productivity.

6.
There is, of course, a desire to fix. But most times there is no fix, or none of which I am able. I am weighted with the inability to do anything.  

And so, I am a container that accepts, absorbs, fills.

I offer no tangible goods. Hold little value, have no weight. 

7.
My husband, a good and hardworking man, is a fixer. Houses, cars, hearts — he alters, mends, smooths, and shapes. Everything can be made better, whole. 

I envy his urgency and action. With each sad story I bend to hear, my cup fills and overflows, and I think it would be better if I could just act: fix something. 

Listening doesn't cure a stroke, restore vision, or heal a break. Empathy is not medicine, and in these dim days my happy hellos can ring hollow. I can't do anything but hold a mood or a moment, and wonder, then, how something so small can weigh so much?

* Names and identifiers have been changed to protect privacy.

September: Give me your hum

1.
I’m writing postcards to summer:  Wish you were here. Miss you already. Come back soon. 

This is metaphor. And not. For years I’ve fought this season with the same refrain: not ready, not ready, not ready.

2.
And all at once, summer collapsed into fall, wrote Oscar Wilde.

3.
 It's the sharp shadows of September that pull me down, how the light both leans in and tilts away from beauty. Into these shortened days, dampness moves too quickly.

4.
It's always too soon. I'm never ready. If autumn is the season of letting go — heat, light, leaves — then summer is the blast of energy I briefly harness and just as my trust reaches full speed, summer falters and slips away.

5.
I married in September, and spent Septembers at a high mountain lake where I learned to embrace the language of change: cloister, clarity, crystalline, warmth, nourish, now.

I know autumn brings good things, but slowly, quietly, and with shadows of doubt.

6.
Now I am older and see everything as it was, and as it wasn't.

7.
Happiness is just the patina of memory. Even patina — a soft wash of time and wear — is cousin to sepia, which surely belongs to September.  

Was I born longing? It's melancholy I know best.

Invocation At The End of Summer

I call on the spirit of summer’s end,  
of tangled roots and the earth’s 
mold. Give me your hum.                               

I call on things that thrive in byways—
snakeroot, aster, dock. The teasel 
that pricks, the pod that slips away. 

 Give me light, charged with a flush 
of quick shadows—the sun stretched
flat across the grass, sullen, satisfied.

Let me feast on the overripeness of things,
the spice of apple that dazzles wasps 
and spins deer in drunken staggers
over the field. Give me your heat.

I call on things that sweeten and fall— 
butternut, pippin, the fluttering hearts
of rosebud—the luscious drip of evening,

 a shuddering of birds rising up 
and settling, the last secrets of the katydid.

 Let me put my head among the leaves. 
Let me listen.

— Shirley McPhillips
from Acrylic Angel of Fate

Thankful Thursday: Terroir

In the vineyard

mahogany vines hang heavy 

against a wide blue sky

the day spreads a feast     just for us

say       yes     now

 
drink the mystery 

of cedar and soil

 
taste the dark gloss 

of plump summer fruit

 
know the terrain 

of this generous world 

— Drew Myron
from Thin Skin

Please join me for Thankful Thursday, a weekly pause to express appreciation for people, places, things and more. Joy expands and contracts in direct relation to our sense of gratitude.

What are you thankful for today? What makes your world expand?

Note: Terroir - noun - ter·roir
The combination of factors, including soil, climate, and sunlight, that gives wine grapes [ and people ] their distinctive character.