Two nuns and a penguin approach you at a bar, and you tell them you’re a writer. When they ask you what you write about, how do you answer?
Holiness and death. Everyone has something sacred and something to which they devote themselves, whether it be spiritual or just an iPhone, or self-improvement which I think is just a part of capitalism. But mainly I write about death, indirectly. That we die and our lives are small and insignificant and trivial but we feel them to be immensely important and singular, and so they are and we are. I can’t get over this conundrum and so I write about it because in writing all the weird feelings and thoughts can become significant or they gain voices and lives of their own and I take comfort in this. I take comfort in beauty… continue reading
I’ve been working on getting “The Essay Exhibits” ready to hang at the Orwell Free Library and I think all the pieces will finally be up later today. On Wednesday, October 16th at 7PM I will be reading from Made Holy, answering questions about the book, and signing and selling books! I hope you can join me. Bring cash or checks to buy a book.
Thursday night, I met three amazing writers while reading for the New England Review Vermont Reading series at the Vermont Book Shop in Middlebury. Check out Sarah Wolfson’s beautiful book of poetry A Common Name For Everything published by the Green Writers Press and Sara London’s book Upkeep. You can also hear the work of NER Summer Intern, Middlebury College student, and writer, Rahat Huda by listening to episode 7 of the NER Out loud podcast which she worked on. It was a privilege to read with them.
Promoting Made Holy has at times felt overwhelming. But when I read the essays that speak to the current social issues we are facing right here in Vermont and across the nation I feel empowered and carried by something bigger than me. I am grateful to be of service in this way and to have a voice and a platform to talk about addiction issues.
As the season changes, I feel the familiar pull of the inner world, the longing to retreat, to hunker down and hole up. It’s a good feeling mostly. But this season is rife with fears of melancholy and depression for me. And while I have a number of ways to cope, I feel the beast of it in every corner. Of disease I make myth because in my culture we are barren of stories, guides, healers who move beyond the medical models instilled by psychiatry and western medicine–both entrenched in the masculine model (patriarchy and capitalism) of the industrial complex. And so, this black dog or angry beast or shadow self grows.
In my groups, many people offer up suggestions on how to cope with depression: Light box, eating less (for real), exercise and fresh air, meditation, and one man whom I admire said it was soul work. Depression arrives to call us back to ourselves and to remind us that we have healing and a healer within. I am skeptical but also the places that bear light for me are often spiritual and internal as well as of genuine connection with others.
Mostly I believe that depression is a social disease that comes from the despair of trying to live in a society that stifles human creativity and devalues human life. This morning, over breakfast at a friends, she discussed the ways dividing ourselves into liberal and conservative create a divide that can often shut down communication between members of a community such as those in Orwell. Our response to people we don’t agree with lays out the way we will treat them–the standard for treatment. This is hard when we feel under threat, attacked, and like our human rights are at stake. It doesn’t feel like there is room for this level of compassion. But there is.
The deepest wound of capitalism is our loneliness and our lack of connection to each other. We too often do not see ourselves in our neighbors. This beautiful essay “A Letter to my Children: Historical Memory and the Silences of Childhood,” written by Timothy J. Stanley, discusses this loneliness along with the “drearily mundane reality of ordinary people doing evil things”.
Stanley quotes the great philosopher Hannah Arendt and her understanding of loneliness, which she discusses in relation to Nazism: She argues that loneliness violates human beings’ contact with others, and undermines common sense “which regulates and controls all other senses and without which each of us would become enclosed in his (sic) own particularity of sense data which in themselves are unreliable and treacherous..”
He goes on to discuss how mass culture fosters loneliness and encourages us to replace others with whom we engage with Others we fear. “[Mass culture] replaces others with whom we are connected with Others whom we fear. It encourages the folly of abandoning the public sphere for the dubious safety of private fortresses”. We become consumers rather than producers of a shared culture.
How do we rebel? Here in Orwell I have met quite a few rebels and they are mostly farmers (hill people) and folks who want to create a different way of life. They understand that as long as we participate in the system of exploitation commonly known as the forty hour work week, we cannot heal, connect, or deeply engage in our world. As long as we maintain our to do lists above all else, we will never find time to lay and the grass and watch a chubby caterpillar or the clouds, bring food to a neighbor or spend a day in deep connection with loved ones because we are saddled to our lists, our work, our finances, our debt and not to each other.
It’s not black and white. It’s always gray. But I want more breathing room. Less drudgery. More connection. Less isolation. More spiritual journey. Less careering.
Above all else I want to be in service to this world and the people here. What can I offer today? A cup of tea, a conversation, these words, a hand? I know there are layers of privilege here. People can’t walk away from their jobs, they have mouths to feed and a mortgage to pay and so on. But most of us can argue for a different world simply by choosing different priorities. Taking time to consider what we value and how we serve each other. Yes, serve.
Ask yourself, How can I be of service today? See what happens.
The Essay Exhibits is up! Here’s a peek.
I’m so excited about this show and I hope you can all catch it at one of the libraries this year. Here’s the exhibit schedule.
For those of you who live in the Burlington area, I hope you will join me THIS FRIDAY EVENING from 6PM – 8PM at BCA (the Firehouse Gallery) upstairs for a reading, book signing, and celebration of Made Holy.
The best part about publishing this book is that so many of my friends and family have reached out to me with their own stories and emotions about loss, longing, sorrow, grace, and love. They’ve said, in various ways, I’ve felt that too. I realize that in sharing my most vulnerable self, I am giving others permission to share theirs, and that is a level of healing I never realized was possible.
I always thought I’d write an esoteric book of abstract poetry, fragmented essays, or academic gobbledygook. But Made Holy is exactly the opposite. As this book makes its small way in the world, I am heartened by how much love we all really possess and how much we want to connect with each other in these deeply vulnerable ways. We long to share our true selves and to not worry about the judgement of others. We long to let go of our fears and the shame we’ve been made to feel about who we are. My hope is that we will keep working on this and that we will speak our truths with courage to each other, and listen with courage, compassion, and acceptance to each other.
Here is what my sister Alida wrote about the book:
We are ever-flawed beings~ but ever meant to love and be loved, to be made holy not by learning perfection but by stepping into grace, learning forgiveness, and accepting every part of ourselves. It is incredible to me how raw the feeling of loss can be, so many years later, when that mourning is given shape in these beautifully written words. It is an unabashed desire to be truthful, to share through a most personal experience the parts of life & humanity that are common to us all, that takes me deep into these pages.
P. S. Still need a copy of Made Holy? You can order one from the publisher (buy two and shipping is free) or on Amazon.
Tonight at 8pm CST (9pm in Vermont), my sister Alida and I will be discussing my book, Made Holy, in Chisholm, MN –my hometown! We plan to go live downtown in the Pocket Park.
I want to have an opportunity to talk about the process of writing this book & why I wrote it.
I never thought I would write a nonfiction book about my life. I have always been a private person, secretive even. So crafting essays about some of the most intimate parts of my life would have seemed like a nightmare to my twenty-something self.
Yet, everything changed in my life around the age of 28. And slowly over the years these essays came to me in the dark hours between feeding my babies, in the early morning light of winter over cold cups of coffee, and at the edge of sleep. Writing is a solitary endeavor one toils over, drafting and redrafting, crafting and cutting apart, refining and redoing. Nobody becomes a writer casually or on accident. It has taken me years to perfect sentences, develop my craft, harness the stories that flew like kites at the edge of my dreams. They always presented like siren calls from somewhere deep within that also felt far away, and every time I built the ship that would sail them, it took months and years. I know, it sounds crazy, but that is writing and the deepest joy comes out of writing well and giving the gift of one’s labor to the world–a tiny boat in a massive sea that sails into oblivion.
Mid-summer and I am dreaming of bees. My husband, dream midwife, has given me seven days to ride a horse in my dreams, but I sleep late and wake and forget as my youngest nudges me up, Come, play. In the field adjacent to the house, a hidden stream between us, my husband and oldest son are tending the plants. Music winds its way to me from the little speaker they have brought. I lift my hand to them.
Rural Vermont feels like the shire, my husband says. It blooms full towards autumn ripeness. I prefer fairy lands and secret hovels and hidden cabins in the woods. I prefer bodies of water, long fields, a distance when looking.
I drink coffee and I think of bees. Erotic buzzing, multitudes, queen-ruled, a song like lips making a sound the ear only feels. I walk in the grass barefoot and do no work. I cut wild flowers and place them in a clear glass vase. My husband leaves for work. The two boys have a tea party with mint licorice tea, round crackers, stuffed animals. They hum and bicker and love. They grow hungry, thirsty, tired.
My husband dreamed of a golden horse dancing in the field outside this house the night before our first son was born. We did not live here. His grandfather did at that time. Cavallo means horse in Italian, which is something they also eat in Italy. It is one of our first son’s names, for his grandmother’s line–Italians and for the horse in the field where her mother once lived, June. I knew that he would be irrevocably mine, but I tethered him to Nana in this small way, like a spell. Eventually this magic worked and he dotes on her as she does him.
He was born under the sign of my mother, Aquarius. Like her he is thin, red-haired, original. Moses, is his first name. A name that came to me like a storm that never lifted. No, not Mo or Mose, I would say to my husband. It must be Moses. After he was born and grew, I wondered over the name. Why it possessed me. Why I insisted he carry such a mantle all his life. Mo, I say. Mo, like a quiet place one might find respite.
On and on they go, the two of them creating worlds. For a moment, I listen. They are fetching a pen for “research.” They lose interest. “Want to have a battle?” one asks. “No, I’m doing research,” says the other. “After my research,” he repeats, the word a charm on his tongue. He has no idea what it means, he is only four. Something to do with a pen and paper. I think about what I would like to research: bees, linens, islands, furniture carved of wood, large beds with fluffy pillows, tea that clears the mind.
We leave in two days to travel halfway across the country. To land in the bay of loons. To romp and rollick and read. Sun, water, wave. Tree, bird, stone. Wind. Summer, in the life of teachers: its soft and balmy breeze, its blanket of sun each morning, its long evening flush with fireflies, a scrap of moon above the treetops. The late fire around which we speak of things we would not, by any other light, admit.
I laze and consider the quickness of flies, how I would move if I moved like an ant, what I will make the children for lunch. I do not think of the third child I want. I do not think of the fortune teller’s words. Two children, she said. Perhaps a third, but they might not make it through. I was twenty-something then. Now this phantom child haunts me. I try to call her name: Ruth, June, Jude, Camilla, Matilda, Matisse, Elouise. I imagine if I find her name and sing it out to her she will come. Yes, she. But dare I taunt the gods.
I think of a line of poetry I once wrote: Bee, bee, bee. Once, you called the bee from me.
I make lists. Gratitude. To do. To pack. I make calls. I feed the children. They go on creating worlds–houses made of pillows, chairs in a line become a path to keep their feet from hot lava. Cars, podcasts, horses. Dragons. Stones. Scrap of blanket balled up and smelling of the blackberries they picked from the yard.
We moved to this house two years ago and have been slow to make it our own as we do not own the house. This spring I dug up the grass and planted a garden. My husband began farming the field. I made a rock garden and planted flowers. We cristened a fire pit in the early spring air. Each season here like a thickening emotion, a scent I call forth in my mind–always, the way it feels occupies me most.
Though I have avoided this out of a sense of fear and anxiety, my first book will come into the world this September. Its birth, a long coil of labor, a fierce abandon-ing of allegiances for truth, a hope of another world, a whisper at my ear–this is what birth feels like, which is what Peggy, my midwife whispered to me during the birth of my second son. The first had been born by C-section. I am the kind of person who needs a midwife at my ear whispering these words all the day long–this is what it feels like. This life.
Now the bee and the horse and the children still wrapped in their games. Now the turn of the day, the leaving, the work, the labor, the speaking and planning and doing. Now the sun hot in the sky and the field, a green expanse. Now the laundry, the dishes, the organizing, the pitch and purchase of the day.