Breakthrough in the Library (or is it a "Break in"?)

I went to the local library this evening to pick up a vegetarian cookbook on hold for me along with a few books about writing.  In the dark parking lot, I saw a girl, maybe seven or eight, walking—almost strutting—back straight, head high, a book clasped in an arm that swung as she walked.  She looked so content, maybe even a little proud of herself.  Clearly going to the library and coming out with a choice book was no small thing to her.  It was no small thing to me as a girl either.

When I was a girl, the brick, vine-covered building that housed an uncountable number of books was, of all places with a roof and walls, my favorite.  What a concept: a place that lent books and for free!  And as if that was not enough in itself, it was SO quiet—somewhere that did not permit loud voices, let alone loud, angry voices.  Where else was silence so protected?  The Vineland Public Library was about 12 miles away.   We went maybe once a month, maybe more often.  My parents could barely speak or read English.  I had been waiting impatiently to learn to decipher the code I saw in my father's newspapers, the only printed material besides cereal boxes and the like in our house.  My first time in the hallowed library, I decided I would read every book on its shelves (eventually every book in the world).  I started in the "A" section.  

Another decision made around the same time was that I would write books, too.  I announced to my parents that one day I would write things that made people laugh and cry.  It was hearts I wanted to reach with my words.  By then words had already become sacred containers for me, places to harbor the secrets I could tell no one but God to whom I wrote them.  Words and the necklaces they made strung together in sentences, were also my means of giving thanks and expressing my joy (the latter a state of being to which I did not feel entitled given my parents' suffering under Hitler).  So my tears and my laughter were held by my words; maybe that is what prompted me to say that is what I wanted and believed I could inspire in others.   

So, no question about it, I felt and heard the inner call, the congenital mandate to write.  Then life happened and along the way (very soon after my decision to be a writer), I was greeted in school and by others with great shaming and other discouraging messages, among them that to want to write was selfish.  There were much better, more generous things to do with my time that would help people.  Writing was only an option if I was good enough to stand out and clearly I wasn’t. 

Fast forward. 

Most visits to the sanctuary of a library in present day are bittersweet.  There is the delight of being in the presence of walls of books filled with pages lined with words.  A unique ecstasy and comfort all in one!  And there is sadness at knowing I will only taste the smallest fraction of those words.  An even greater sadness is that not one of those books on the shelves was written by me.  What happened?  How not to be overcome by a sense of failure—not in the eyes of others, but in my own heart?

Tonight, as usual, I felt the thrill of being in the library.  There is still no place like it.  

I decide to browse a bit after checking out The Vegetarian Kitchen and Writing from the Heart, etc.  I see the titles on the spines of the books that seem to me breathing entities—so full of life.  It is especially in the fiction section that I start to cave under the sadness (although I can get hooked among the “self-help,” personal narrative, or books about writing and parenting, too).  What do I feel? 

The voices clamor, accuse, condemn my failure, shout relentlessly (under the radar of the guardians of the library’s silence). There is no excuse, they say.  And it is clearly too late, they punctuate their solid case.  I have no answers for them.  I agree and agree.  But today—today, I am aware of such patterns and want to make a different choice.   So, meekly, at first, but with growing conviction, I try. 

I do not try to outshout the committee in my head, as a friend calls such convocation.  Instead, I speak lovingly and gently to me.  I breathe.  I acknowledge tenderly that it is true: I have loved writing all my life.  It is wonderful to know this has been a calling before I knew the word calling. How fortunate.  And yes, perhaps most of my six decades, I and my life circumstances did not yield to this love such that I created a body of public work.   

And—what if it is not too late?!

What if (in line with the theme that prompted me to write all this) I am meant to write like me—not to write like anyone else.  That’s the deal, isn't it?  The truth.  What if it is not too late to surrender to this life’s passion, to swoon (with awareness and consciousness) into the embrace of this Great Love.  What if nothing’s wrong?!  (Now, that’s a good stretch!)  What if the book I am completing now is the fulfillment of this longing and there is more fulfillment to come.  What if it is not selfish to want to write and to write.  Fiction, no less.  And poetry.  And rants like this one. 

What if, I can bless all those authors of published books, some of which would inspire and move me, and others not?  What if I can fully accept me as I am? What if it is really perfectly fine to write a long rant like this one in order to hold my experience more consciously and to offer it just in case my experience touches another heart.

I am reminded of a poem by Galway Kinnell, called The Sow.  It includes: 

for everything flowers from within of self-blessing;

though sometimes it is necessary

 to reteach a thing its loveliness

Surely that is what is happening within me: I am reteaching myself my loveliness.  Such self-blessing will bring about the full blossoming.  Ah, perfect.  My prayer/intention is to allow love, beauty and wisdom to flow through my words as naturally as a flower yields its fragrance.  

What if in truth, this has been happening all along?  

Thank you for listening.   

Are there ways in which you can reteach yourself your loveliness?  

Is there self-blessing you might bestow upon yourself in relation to writing—or any other form of self-expression?  (I would be delighted to listen, if you wish to post as a comment on this blog.)  

Moments in Writing The Tremble of Love

So one of these days, there will be a website and a blog for the book that I am completing, The Tremble of Love, an historical novel inspired by the healer, lover of life, the Baal Shem Tov.  A post like this one would then find its home there.  But for now, I shall post here, speaking these thoughts and feelings into the vast empty fullness of cyberspace where millions (or is it billions?) roam with not even a handful stumbling into this blog space.  Nonetheless, it feels good for a few moments to expand beyond the isolation of my little study and (what at the moment feels like) the enclosed space of my mind.

So here's what brings me to post.  The book contains many references to Kabbalah, the Zohar, the Book of Splendor, (arguably the greatest Kabbalistic text), and to Rabbi Isaac Luria, his 16th century community of Kabbalists in Safed, and his cosmology.  What I am facing is how much to include about Kabbalah and in what depth? This is a vast vast subject—a world.   I know that I want to birth two subsequent novels: one set in Safed and the other in Spain when the Zohar first emerged.  For those, I will immerse myself in Kabbalistic texts, teachings, concepts and practices.  The Baal Shem Tov was a great Kabbalist (some even say, the reincarnation of Luria, aka Ha'Ari).  So rightfully, there must be some inclusion of Kabbalah in The Tremble of Love.  How much then to elaborate on the sefiros and the creation of the world according to Lurianic Kabbalah?

There was a false messiah known as Shabtai Tzvi (Shabbetai, Sabbatai) whose movement is crucial to mention in the book and I do.  It is one of the threads pulled throughout the weave of the novel.  But I keep standing on the precipice and avoiding jumping into a deep (dark) exposition of Shabtai Tzvi's specific theoretical and practical  aberrations of Lurianic Kabbalah.  I do some of this--have to, but, much as I might like to wax more philosophical, I know this is territory in which I need more schooling and contemplation in order to be truly insightful.  And how much do my readers want and, perhaps more importantly, need?   I don't want to back away from what would be important and responsible (not quite the word, but can't find the right one at the moment) for me to elucidate.  I am also aware that this is not an academic, pedantic text and do not want it to have that flavor.  HELP!

Some days like today, I rewrite passages that I have already rewritten dozens of times, trying to convey true and useful context (about Sabbatean kabbalah in this case) without either oversimplifying or overcomplicating.  That is precisely the balance I am trying to find.  Truth is to find that place, often one actually needs a GREAT DEAL of knowledge in order to synthesize and reflect essence.

Postscript: It will help to kick the judge off my shoulder who likes to let me know that no matter how I am doing, it is wrong.  Might also behoove me to invite Trust to stand with and in me: Trust that I will do my best and be guided to what is needed that this book be a thing of beauty, inspiration, and love.  It is a primary intention for this book is that it be a sanctuary, that it serve as a refuge—not taking readers away somewhere, but leading them into their own hearts, the place of ultimate refuge. 

Metabolizing

An observation (for better or worse:)  writing helps me to digest and integrate my experiences more fully.  I sit in silence, first find the words to describe, then without knowing where they will lead, I seek the words that grasp and reflect my experience.  What happens in this process?  It seems that when I write into the experience* I discover more of what the experience stirred, taught, nourished, transformed, or created within me...  I also get in touch with my gratitude more fully.  To write this way, unselfconsciously in a spirit of exploration, actually leads to greater consciousness of the blessings in the encounters of my life.

*Brief example (just the naming of the events, not the deeper explorations, which I will do when I am able to devote more focused time).   On Saturday of this past weekend, I went to an all day conference called "Building a Home," about independent living of individuals with intellectual and developmental disabilities.  I sat in a conference room (that happened to be rented from my alma mater) in which 350+ parents had gathered.  I was there with my son.  I heard presentations by professionals in the field, parents, and by several individuals with Down's and other syndromes.  I have SO much to say about being in that vast field of hearts—all those parents whose dedication was palpable!   Being there with my wondrous son, making his way to shake the hands of all those who presented.  And what of the seed in my heart, just starting to germinate, about offering delicious, safe, inspiring writing groups for family members of differently-abled persons.

All this to explore inwardly—in addition to visiting a chapel on the Brandeis campus where 45 years ago (!!!) I found refuge in the deep of many dark nights.  Passing the spot where I first kissed the man of the "wrong race and religion because of whom" I would be disowned by family of origin, and with whom I would bear a remarkable son, now almost 40!  How much is this all to digest and metabolize.  Words help more than I can say in this process.

There is more in the container of this two day weekend waiting to be more fully absorbed in the fire of contemplation—contemplation fueled by words chosen carefully by the heart.  Nothing rote.  No commercial logs feigning a glow in some facsimile of a hearth.  The words and the fire have to be genuine and burn hot or it isn't worth the time. (I know I switched metaphors: but digestion is its own kind of fire, isn't it?)

 I'll be back.

Essay Excerpt from an application for AROHO Gift of Freedom Award for women writers

I will introduce this excerpt with a little context. I grew up in the shadow of the Holocaust.  My parents, recent immigrants, bought a farm, hoping to be close to other "greena" (roll the "r"), the Yiddish word for refugees. As it turns out, my childhood unfolded in a virulently anti-Semitic pocket of rural New Jersey.  I was desperate for friends, but as the only Jew and quite an anomaly in my elementary school and even on our road, I had none.  The story I reference below is the first I ever wrote—at the age of seven. It was about two girls, the first rejecting the second who wanted so much to be her friend but was so terribly different from the first.

Essay Excerpt:

I was making my way to the sad but true ending when it struck me: I could write whatever ending I wanted.  In my own stories I could be like God.  I could make anything happen. The girls could become friends. It was an extraordinary discovery.  Not only did I have the power to invent happier endings than in real life, I could create worlds where people expressed kindness, love, and respect for each other.  Not too much later, I learned something perhaps even more remarkable, another pivotal, even life-saving discovery about writing.  Not only could I make things up, I could tell the truth.

            I had learned by then not to share either my troubles or my joys with my parents. It was best not to risk adding to their burdens of grief and guilt for having survived the Holocaust.  So when the children on the school bus searched my head for horns, because their parents told them Jews are devils, I wrote about it.  And when my third grade teacher ordered me to stand in front of the class on Passover and eat Wonder Bread or else, I wrote about that.  I wrote about everything that happened around me and within me.  I wrote freely, addressing the one I believed was safe to tell and who would be glad to listen.  The ultimate guardian of secrets and my best friend, God, the one I called HaShem, The Name, became my confidante.  HaShem was the invisible presence to be found in gleaming stars, in my dog’s eyes, in the moon, the night’s silence—everywhere, offering me consolation and company in a world wrapped in fear and struggle.  In my writing, I could talk about fear, without dreading that my words would hurt my parents.  And I could write about joy, despite the fact that I believed I had no right to it. Under my pillow with a flashlight sneaked from the kitchen, I wrote about spinning naked in the meadow until falling down in the tall sizzling grass, happy—in spite of The War.

Writing has always been my lifeline.  It is not only the way I express my deepest thoughts and feelings, it is the way I find out what they are.  Writing is a way to meet myself in my own heart.  Words are the vessels in which I carry the treasure discovered there, beautiful or not, to the world.  The eagerness and inner excitement with which I awaited learning to write, still accompany me over fifty years later, as I approach the blank page, and the blank screen.  Words are no less wondrous to me now….

Between the ages of 10 and 12, I attended a Hebrew Day School, where one of my teachers, an ecstatic Hassidic rabbi, taught Torah standing on top of his desk.  We would explore one word or phrase in Hebrew for hours, holding and turning the words like multifaceted jewels to see what they reflected in the light of our understanding.  The Rabbi often had tears of awe in his eyes as we did this.  I had moist eyes too, which I tried to hide from my classmates stifling their giggles at our rabbi’s eccentricity.  Words continue to be the most mysterious, miraculous, and attractive “objects” in my world.   No pleasure, play, or work is more sublime than choosing and arranging them to convey meaning, beauty, and inspiration.  

  

Weeds and Peonies by Donald Hall

I was led to this poem recently—a beauty!  Said to be the first poem that the poet, Donald Hall, was able to write after the loss of his wife, the stunning poet, Jane Kenyon.  Praise the poets of the ages compelled to hold ineffable experiences in the containers of words then share them.  (And lest you forget, there is a poet within each of us.)

Weeds and Peonies

by Donald Hall

(from his collection: Without: Poems 1999)

.

Your peonies burst out, white as snow squalls,

with red flecks at their shaggy centers

in your border of prodigies by the porch.

I carry one magnanimous blossom indoors

and float it in a glass bowl, as you used to do.

.

Ordinary pleasures, contentment recollected,

blow like snow into the abandoned garden,

overcoming the daisies.  Your blue coat

vanishes down Pond Road into imagined snowflakes

with Gus at your side, his great tail swinging,

.

but you will not reappear, tired and satisfied,

and grief’s repeated particles suffuse the air–

like the dog yipping through the entire night,

or the cat stretching awake, then curling

as if to dream of her mother’s milky nipples.

.

A raccoon dislodged a geranium from its pot.

Flowers, roots, and dirt lay upended

in the back garden where lilies begin

their daily excursions above stone walls

in the season of old roses.  I pace beside weeds

.

and snowy peonies, staring at Mount Kearsarge

where you climbed wearing purple hiking boots.

“Hurry back.  Be careful, climbing down.”

your peonies lean their vast heads westward

as if they might topple.  Some topple.

What is it about losing a mother?

I was re-reading some posts in a blog I started almost exactly a year ago shortly after my mom's death.  (The blog is Speaking of Miracles. www.speakingofmiracles.com) I shall post something here that was posted there a year ago to the day.

"What is it about losing a mother?  Here I am, doing some work and I come across a picture of my mom eating a meal on a sunny balcony with my oldest son.  I stare at her smiling and then realize, or is it feel: she's dead.  My mother is dead.  It is more a feeling than a statement.  An irretrievable part of me is gone even if my belief is that her spirit is not gone.  Nonetheless, something profound and unnameable has been lost--a loss unlike any other I have known.  This does not mean that I will not recover.  But I will not be the same." 

I warmly invite anyone who has lost their mother to address the question "What is it about losing a mother?"  (Write in any manner, including stream-of-consciousness writing).  If you would like to share this, please click below on "comment. It would be wonderful to hear some of your responses.  If you post a comment and do not wish it to be public, just let me know.  I will see it before it is published and can simply indicate that it not be made public.

"Getting Cozy" with Teenagers

I sit in a room with seven young women between the ages of 14 and 17.  It is a Sunday afternoon and they have come to my home, (the location of the Dance of the Letters Writing Center), to write.  We call these afternoons, "Getting Cozy."  This is a bunch who could easily have "I'd rather be writing" bumper stickers on their cars if they had cars.  It is deep winter in New England and a perfect day to hunker down with writing.  But then, isn't most any day?  

I have offered a few sparks to inspire today's writing.  The primary spark was to play the girls a video of the Starbucks Love Project, in which people from 156 nations, sang "All You Need is Love" on the same day in December of 2009. (For every voice, Starbucks and (RED) donated money to buy and distribute medicine for aids therapy in Africa.)  The reflection of our stunning human diversity and the hope of our unity never ceases to inspire me and moved the girls today as well.  starbucksloveproject  

The silence in a room of people all focussed on what they are creating moment to moment is incomparable.  It is one of my favorite energy fields, (this and being in the midst of a group of meditators). I hear pencils scratching across pages, the tapping of keys. There is pausing and staring into space, then resuming.  In a half hour's time, we will have created what did not exist when we entered the room and first sat together.  Small universes are being created out of "the blue."  

In a few moments, we will read to each other, bearing witness to the emergence of people, places, ideas, fantasy, emotion, and more.  We will be stirred by suspense, laugh together, and feel deeply touched.  Our curiosity will be aroused along with our amazement.  Listening, we will again and again, appreciate the infinite powers of the unleashed imagination, given full permission (and gladly invited) to do its thing. 

There really is no place that I would rather be.

Here's a mind stopping question that can generate some writing, perhaps stream of consciousness.  A question to revisit and write about on different days, in varied states of being.  Maybe after a deep, still meditation.  Or after an exhilarating walk or run.  Could be great to sit down for 10 minutes, less or more, and write after making love or right after an intimate encounter with a friend, your child, a tree.  Come to the statement & question with discomfort, anger, fear.   Here goes.  I thank my friend, Jayanti, for handing this to me last night:


We are all one.  What does this mean to you?


Take a few breaths.  Be present.  Write beyond spiritually-correct answers. 

The Beginning

Almost the end of January in New England, and it's pouring today.  To the right and left of my house, sudden ponds form from the combined snowmelt and ceaseless heavy rain.  Strong winds wrestle the pines and hemlocks visible from my window.  The weather on the days I gave birth to each of my three children is vivid: the glory of peak foliage celebrating my first son's arrival; verdant spring when my daughter emerged, and a frozen, brilliantly white winter the morning my third came—his arrival an unforgettable unity of tumultuous and miraculous.  Then again, what birth is not to some degree a blend of tumult and miracle?

Today, in a climate of unseasonable warmth and rain rains, this blog is coming into the light—a dormant seed sprouting from a subterranean, fertile darkness.  The desire to share the joys of writing, particularly journaling, has finally made its way to the surface.

In this ever-expanding container, a virtual basket, I shall gather and share the harvest of a half century love-affair with writing.  This ever-new, intimate relationship just gets more satisfying and delicious as time comes on.  I welcome you to the feast.

Pull up a chair and a journal, laptop, or whatever you writing implement of choice, and join me in harvesting the feast of your life.