‘IT WAS LIKE A
SACRAMENT’
WALKING STORIES
LEAVING FOOTPRINTS – APRIL 27TH 2013
Five came to last Saturday’s workshop. And the sun shone.
I always have too many writing exercises and stimuli but
that’s ok as I love the idea of having a framework prepared, yet be flexible
within that framework – makes for an organic workshop – that’s the plan,
anyhow!
Apart from switching the kettle on, making tea/coffee,
handing out home made flapjacks or brownies in welcome, we always start by
sharing writing from the previous workshops, reading it out and having the rest
of us workshop a piece of prose, or a poem, extract from a novel, or a piece of
writing by someone else they’ve enjoyed and want to share.
It works well, as it gives time for newcomers to settle into
the rhythm of the day and get to know the group. We welcomed L. to the group,
whom I’ve met before at other workshops and whose writing impressed me with its
strength and mystery.
We spent longer than usual on workshopping writing, which
was great, as it means that the group are well into writing, producing strong
pieces of work that they’re willing and comfortable enough to share with
others. Spurred on by hot drinks and laughter, not to mention sunshine, the
morning flew by. Here’s one of the
exercises I gave, choose ONE of the following kicker lines and write in
response – from which some very fine writing was produced:
For seventeen years
her breath in the house fr. ‘High School Senior’ Sharon Olds p82 ‘Selected Poems’
And the barn was a
witness fr. ‘The People, Yes’ Carl Sandburg p.89 ‘Harvest Poems’
I thought it made me
look more ‘working class’ fr. ‘Turns’
Tony Harrison p.301 ‘Staying Alive’
Even this, this pelt,
this shell fr. ‘Witch Circle’ Peter Redgrove p.36 ‘The Harper’
Walking in the
breakdown lane fr. ‘Walking in the breakdown lane’ Louise Erdrich p.29
‘Original Fire’
I had planned to theme the outdoor exercise around the idea
of writing in response to something they’d not usually think of writing about –
my idea was to go down to Canal Foot, look at slag banks, discuss how Glaxo
Smith Kline was built on the site of old iron ore mines; walk by the canal,
show them the cattle market, abattoir, or the stone pier by the Bay Horse with
its massive iron capstans… write in response to the workplace, routine,
factories, offices… or something we’d think of as ‘ugly’ (bearing in mind
beauty is always in the eye of the beholder!)
I am so pleased that someone suggested we walk from home. I
immediately said: “how about a walk along the lanes to Swarthmoor Hall?” The
idea was taken up enthusiastically and six of us, plus Roy-dog headed off up
the lane to the Hall – a short walk from home.
The day was fine, blue-skied, hot sun, blow-y
washing-on-the-line drying kind of day – uplifting the spirits, hawthorn leaves
greening the hedges and we entered the drive under the archway.
PEOPLING THE
INVISIBLE
Jane was welcoming and said “Yes, feel free to wander
around, There’re prints in the hall from the Printfest festival in Ulverston that's on right now, and make sure you see the ‘living quilt’ flower bed!” I had Roy with
me so couldn’t go inside the hall or down the long garden into the wildflower meadow,
but that was fine as it was hot, I had my camera and was content to sit in the
sun, take photos and do nothing but reflect, saying to the group
take as long as you like, have a think about who lived here, what their lives
might have been like, what their stories might have been. Imagine people
walking in the lanes and fields to come listen to George Fox preach from the
balcony there – the one that's like something from Romeo and Juliet….
I gave them this exercise to do: choose an object, something
odd, quirky, something ‘ugly’ (in large inverted commas!) and write in
response, or write in that object’s voice, perhaps hold a dialogue with it.
We walked back through the fields, down to Springfield Beck
and through the woods, pausing to pick wild garlic, take photos, throw a stick
for Roy, discuss what we’d seen at the hall, ideas they had from the visit,
something vivid that struck them… the woods were full of celandines and
windflowers, bluebells not yet out, but still in bud and home to a warm room,
full of sunlight.
The group wrote like they wouldn’t stop! Always a
heartwarming sight for a creative writing tutor to see! And they produced some
great writing, a mix of poetry and prose, which I’m hoping will join writing by
others in the group in a small anthology to celebrate nine months of workshops,
beginning with a pilot one last year called 'Writing the Wild' held at Swarthmoor Hall and ending at Jane’s Farm on
May 25th.
I handed round a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye called ‘Wandering
Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal’ and asked someone to read it out loud,
which K. did beautifully. The day ended with J. sharing a song she’d written, hadn’t
sung or played it before, but shared it with us. In a sunny room she sang and
played her guitar. The group’s laughter and writing, sharing and trust energised
our home. Thank you.
Geraldine Green May 1st
2013
“Wandering
Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.”
"After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
‘If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any
Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.”
Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate.
I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor,
wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her.
What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four
hours late and she
Did this.
I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway,
min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?
The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly
used—
She stopped crying.
She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical
treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get
there, just late,
Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on
the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.
She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just
for the fun of it.
Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while
in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.
Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call
some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took
up about 2 hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her
life. Answering
Questions.
She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool
cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out
of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It
was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler
from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with
the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better
cookies.
And then the airline broke out the free beverages from
huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight,
one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us
all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar
too.
And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were
holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some
medicinal thing,
With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling
tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones
and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.
Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of
confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.
They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other
women too.
This can still happen anywhere.
Not everything is lost."
- Naomi Shihab
Nye
