ESPECIALLY THE LAUGHING!

It was great! Loved it. Especially the laughing.

It’s been quite a week, three workshops in the north in the space of a week: Lochmaben, Newcastle and Ulverston – ‘tho today’s “Walking Stories” workshop has been cancelled due to snow and ice. Strange, really, I thought last Sunday’s workshop at Elshieshields Tower would have been a casualty of weather… or this Thursday’s one in Newcastle. But no, I ducked and weaved and avoided the snow, or it avoided me!

The workshop in Newcastle was well attended by writers from the Carte Blanche writing group. Thanks P. & J. for inviting me. Fifteen turned up at the Brunswick Place Methodist Church Hall, tucked down a side lane between Waterstones and Fenwicks. As always I tend to arrive too early, but prefer that as I like to do a recce, sniff my way around unfamiliar territory.

And it is unfamiliar, in the sense that I don’t mosey around cities that much, but when I get the chance I enjoy it. I enjoy people-watching. They look purposeful, busy, intent on to-ing and from-ing from work, home, shopping – or maybe, like me, just being what the French call a flaneur, meandering around the city streets, an easy amble, not knowing where you’re going, looping, doubling back, pausing… why did I take a particular route from Eldon Square to the Methodist Church? Or from the Hall to the Monument Metro station? Did I like the look of a building? What drew me?

Was it the sound of an accordion that pulled me one way and not the other? Or the sight of a fruit and veg stall, full of colour on a chilly Newcastle morning; the calls of the vendor, muffled in scarves and hat, buff and gloves, stamping feet behind a stall piled high with limes, lemons, oranges, aubergines. Some sympathy connects us; some reaching out, an unacknowledged recognition that it’s cold, we have to make a living, whether selling oranges, the Big Issue, poetry or dreams… but we’re alive in this big, bad messed-up mussed-up pulled one way and another world in a mesh of flesh, spirit and bone, pain and joy, rubbing along the best we can.

There was a great turnout for the workshop. Fifteen writers, poets, prose writers, much buzz and anticipation. Fifteen women sharing unexpected, or pondered upon, ideas, thoughts, rhythm, music in words and a lot of laughter. In fact, it’s this energy I took away from the workshop; this laughter over something silly and fun and warm and human and above all, playful.

We can easily forget how to be playful, especially when we get battered on all sides by politicians, seemingly hellbent on destroying not only the planet through climate change and global warming, but also the human spirit. The capacity of humans to experience joy, to share wonder, to respond to the sun’s warmth of spring (when it arrives!) is so uplifting. This capacity of playfulness, of expressing joy at being alive is also shared by our animal and bird friends. Who can’t resist a smile when we see lambs in a field of fresh, green grass, leaping and bounding on rubbery new legs? Or be fortunate enough to see an otter twisting and turning its supple body in water, as if it is water. Or hearing the squabble of sparrows in a hedge, or geese returning...

So precious, this spirit of joy – especially the laughing!

One of the exercises I set was to share Philip Levine's poem "The Fox" I then asked the group to write in response to this line: "I think I must have lived once before, as a ....." (fill in the blanks)

Here's Levine's poem:

THE FOX

I think I must have lived
once before, not as a man or woman
but as a small, quick fox pursued
through fields of grass and grain
by ladies and gentlemen on horseback.
This would explain my nose
and the small dark tufts of hair
that rise from the base of my spine.
It would explain why I am
seldom invited out to dinner
and when I am I am never
invited back. It would explain
my loathing for those on horseback
in Central Park and how I can
so easily curse them and challenge
the men to fight and why no matter
how big they are or how young
they refuse to dismount,
for at such times, rock in hand,
I must seem demented.
My anger is sudden and total,
for I am a man to whom anger
usually comes slowly, spreading
like a fever along my shoulders
and back and turning my stomach
to a stone, but this fox anger
is lyrical and complete, as I stand
in the pathway shouting and refusing
to budge, feeling the dignity
of the small creature menaced
by the many and larger. Yes,
I must have been that unseen fox
whose breath sears the thick bushes
and whose eyes burn like opals
in the darkness, who humps
and shits gleefully in the horse path
softened by moonlight and goes on
feeling the steady measured beat
of his fox heart like a wordless
delicate song, and the quick forepaws
choosing the way unerringly
and the thick furred body following
while the tail flows upward,
too beautiful a plume for anyone
except a creature who must proclaim
not ever ever ever
to mounted ladies and their gentleman.


fr. 'Stranger to Nothing - Selected Poems' Bloodaxe Books

ELSHIESHIELDS TOWER 'WALKING NORTH' CREATIVE WRITING WORKSHOP

KIRKLOCH, CRANNOGS AND KARAOKE – “Walking North, Elshieshields Tower, 17^th March 2013

Back from a lovely two days in the Borders. We drove up on Saturday, knowing snow was forecast for Southern Scotland and stayed over at Lochmaben. We had Roy-dog with us so to find a place for a walk was priority. We pulled up at Kirkloch, one of three small lochs that grace Lochmaben. There’s a walk around the loch that takes in the Castle on the far side of it. We walked along passing a carved wooden heron, otter, a large fallen down tree sculpted with giant leaves and the signs which explained the history of place.

Lochmaben, thought to have been named after the Roman god of youth, Mapon. As the sign says (and I’m paraphrasing here, from memory): “2,000 years ago people perceived things differently than we do now. They worshipped water of all kinds.” Well! What a great idea! Maybe we could try perceiving things like that in the 21^st century… and our ancestors lived in Crannogs. Or they did on these small lochs. Islands where wooden round houses were created to protect humans from “wolves and bears which lived in these parts then and are now extinct.”

Back to the car for coffee and sandwiches. We sat and watched a heron, striking markings, white neck, clean grey stripes, dark grey wings – they all are slightly differently marked and this was a beauty.

And then to the hotel, which was fine, the accommodation was an annexe in the garden and was warm clean, comfortable – and allowed dogs to stay. We did read a sign, chalked on the blackboard outside saying:‘Karaoke TONIGHT!’ – oh-oh! Nothing wrong with a bit of a sing song… tho' it meant only a couple of hours sleep as we tried to sleep thru 'green green grass of home and 'why why why Delilah!?' (Wales had beaten England in the rugby! It was a good match!) … but the room was warm and clean and the hotel owners very welcoming.

We decided to do a recce, as there was a couple of hours 'til dark, and find Elshieshields Tower which is only a mile or two outside Lochmaben. I’m glad we did as there are a lot of lanes around meandering into the hills and down and alongside rivers… I have to say that it's the perfect place for a quiet retreat, reflection and creative writing workshop, especially one using the outdoors as part of the workshop, as I do. Although the sleet-y rain meant we didn’t stay outside for long!

Six people turned up out of eight, which, considering the weather, I felt was pretty ok. Two live in the hills and were understandably snowed in, the snow falling Saturday and Sunday at higher ground. Participants mostly knew each other from the Crichton Writers, Powfoot Writers, Glasgow University Dumfries Campus – although not all participants had experienced a writing workshop before, so hugs to you who dipped you toe in for the first time and shared your observational skills of birds and empathy.

We gathered around the wood-burning stove, tables and chairs so arranged that the large stove, burning oak and pine logs, became part of the group. An essential part; like our ancestors worshipping water, fire was also a god, or goddess, and a necessary part of survival and social gatherings. I love tending a fire, sweeping the hearth, feeding it, keeping the flame alive… yes, I could worship fire and water, earth and air..

We began with a warm-up exercise, grounding ourselves in the physical, the senses, then moved on to the imagination, before heading into more sustained pieces such as “What does NORTH mean to you?” Then moving on to explore other languages that we may not understand, but can get a sense of meaning from tone, sound, rhythm.

We discussed the importance of paying attention to details, as scientists and naturalists do. One of the handouts I gave the group was this:

“Walk Silent and Seeing:

The attention to detail that is expressed by these groups is unique. Each one has their own way of silent contemplation, but the end result is overwhelmingly similar. The Sámi ideal, as expressed by Valkeapää, focuses on the cycle of life that I explained earlier.

step by step…smell of green, the first grass…blue heather…Angelica…wood sorrel…upland waters…towards the sky…from peak to peak…these lands…the valleys…the high mountain slopes…over the forests…towards the coast…meadows…reindeer calf moors…land where the calves are born (The Sun, My Father, #69)

Bear Heart describes a similar importance of the smaller details and adds a degree of respect. The respect that he writes of is an inherent need in all-living things. Through this observance, one can enhance their own life:

You can’t walk or run all the time. Sit down occasionally and see your surroundings. If you go in and out of a house every day, there may be one particular blade of grass on the lawn that always stands there watching you go by, but you don’t even notice it because you’re preoccupied with getting to work on time. You’re thinking about the traffic, you’re thinking about the day ahead—“When I get to the office I’m going to do this and do that”—and you miss the little blade of grass that stands as a protector, trying in its own way to filter the air so we can all breathe better. The grass and its relatives are beneficial to our bodies, so next time you rush out, stop, look down, and say thank you before you go on. It’s an injection of joy and beauty into your life. That little blade of grass has life just as we have life. Sit down and notice the world around you. (The Wind Is My Mother, pg. 228)

Thoreau’s favorite subject to write and philosophize about is attention to detail. He spoke frequently of the observant traveler, and silent contemplator”

Taken from: http://www.utexas.edu/courses/sami/diehtu/siida/religion/transcend.htm

The workshop ended with Em’s home-made soup and bread, Geoff’s flapjacks and brownies, the fire still part of the gathering, warming us as we laughed and chattered, shared info on events, such as the two creative writing workshops I’m tutoring in June and August at Brantwood, one with New York writer George Wallace, the “Southlight” magazine Issue 13 coming soon and the Dumfries & Galloway Arts Festival 2013 - links at the end of this blog.

Here’s one of the poems we shared, read by Vivien Jones:

Fr. TREKWAYS OF THE WIND

They come to me


and show books


Law books


that they have written themselves


This is the law and it applies to you too


See here

But I do not see brother


I do not see sister


I cannot


I say nothing


I only show them the tundra

I see our mountains


the places we live


and hear my heart beat


all this is my home


and I carry it


within me


in my heart

I can hear it


when I close my eyes


I can hear it

And I can hear it


even when I open my eyes

But they keep coming asking


where is your home


they come with papers


and say


this belongs to nobody


this is government land

everything belongs to the State


They bring out dingy fat books


and say


this is the law


it applies to you

What shall I say sister


what shall I say brother

You know brother


you understand sister 
 

Nils-Aslak Valkeapaa

fr. http://www.dialoguebetweennations.com/n2n/pfii/english/OleHenrikMagga.htm

LINKS:
Creative Writing Workshops, Brantwood: http://www.brantwood.org.uk/courses.htm
Dumfries & Galloway Arts Festival 2013: www.dgartsfest.com
Southlight magazine: www.southlight.ukwriters.net

Writer-in-Residence, Swarthmoor Hall, Ulverston

Lay down these words

Before your mind like rocks. From ‘Riprap’  by Gary Snyder

Writer-in-Residence, Swarthmoor Hall, Ulverston

For many years now, the connection between creativity and spirituality is something I’ve been pondering.  Add the land and how we dwell in it on it with it and you have three things that ignite my imagination.

Being invited to contribute new poems and a short essay to David Hart’s anthology “Is a religious poem possible in the early 21^st century?” (Flarestack 2004) was one of the rocks along the riprap path of my journey from there to here. ‘There’ being an encounter with silver birches when I was a child. I thought the birches wanted me and if I let go, I’d never get out…what was that about?! I had no idea, but it’s been something that’s been an itch to be scratched, a mystery to be solved.  

Such encounters with the ‘other’ is something writer John Burnside also talks about in his article ‘Celebrating the animal encounter in poetry’ http://www.newstatesman.com/sci-tech/sci-tech/2012/08/celebrating-animal-encounter-poetry

Along the way I encountered ‘Touch the Earth – a Self-portrait of Indian existence’ compiled by TC McLuhan. This book spoke to me like no mainstream religion had, speaking as it did through stories of life spent in and of nature. Why worship ‘something’ indoors when you can find wonder all around you and we’re part of that wonder?

As Oklahoman writer and Kiowan Indian, N. Scott Momaday says when he talks about Oklahoma: “To look upon that landscape in the early morning, with the sun at your back, is to lose the sense of proportion. Your imagination comes to life, and this, you think, is where Creation was begun.” (From ‘Touch the Earth.’)

So, after completing my PhD in 2011, “An Exploration of Identity and Environment through Poetry” I felt the need to explore the connections between poems and prayers, creativity and spirituality and how, perhaps, just perhaps, if we rediscovered a sense of wonder, a sense of the sacredness of the land and our connections to it, we might, hopefully, not destroy it.

With these ponderings in mind I contacted Jane at Swarthmoor Hall, former home of Margaret Fell who married George Fox after her husband Thomas died. Fox was the founder of the Quaker Movement. Not that I know much about Quakers, except they are pacifists. I know the Hall though and especially the fields, beck and woods close to it. They were our childhood playground, where my Barbie doll, called Jane Bond, was regularly dived into the beck as I pretended she swam underwater on some mission in her role as a spy… where ‘me and my friends’ would paddle, laugh, argue, swing from trees, pick bluebells and blackberries and muse on life from the ages of 10 until we were 16.

In an email to Jane I shared my ideas. She invited me to meet with her and, after a positive meeting last week, agreed that I could be writer-in-residence at the Hall. Part of my role will be spent writing in response to time spent there, its grounds and gardens. In 2014 I’ll be tutoring creative writing workshops themed around the musings I wrote about earlier.

Having Swarthmoor Hall as a base from which I can draw inspiration, create new writing, share my discoveries with others through my own work and through creative writing workshops, is something to be treasured. I tend to think of poetry as a form of compost, recycled energy; that we create something out of nothing and give it back to the universe in a poem, or in a prayer – or perhaps poems are prayers? I don’t know. I think the residency may prove to be a valuable rock on the riprap journey.

Geraldine Green 1.3.2013

http://www.swarthmoorhall.co.uk

http://geraldinegreensaltroad.blogspot.co.uk