We think of stories as words, whether spoken or written. But where do those words come from? When the last word is spoken, where do they linger? Where do they live?
Hugh Morgan Hill, loved by many as Brother Blue, died last month at age 88 in Cambridge, Massachusetts. I first encountered him on the Cambridge Commons when I was an undergraduate in the 1970s. There was no flyer for an event, no stage, no time of performance, only a slender man dressed in blue, out under the trees telling stories with his whole body. The story I heard him tell that day was one he told many times about a teacher who'd inspired him. I can still hear him rhythmically repeating one of the story's refrains, "blue eyes, true eyes," as if it were a song. I can still see the way his hands danced in the air, the way he seemed to be telling the story to me alone.
Some thirty years laters, on tour with The Passion of Mary Magdalen, I was scheduled to appear at Club Passim in Harvard Square. It was a Monday night. The only people there were the host, my husband, my cousin, the act that followed mine, and a man I was sure had to be Brother Blue. When I approached him to ask, he said "Yes, baby, that's me," pleased but not at all surprised to be recognized. I told him a little about my book, and then got ready to go on stage.
For this tour (and every one after that)I had decided to depart from the standard reading format. I opened by singing the first three paragraphs of the novel blues style. That night as soon as I started singing, Brother Blue leapt onto the stage and started singing with me--in the voice of Jesus! So I sang back to him in the voice of Maeve (aka Mary Magdalen) and we had a sung, impassioned, improvised lover's quarrel on the stage. "Baby, you know I love you," he sang. "But you left me," I sang back. "I've been searching for you all this time." Words to that effect. It's not the words I remember so much as suddenly finding myself alive in the story, confronted with a wild, living Jesus.
According to Brother Blue's wife Ruth Hill, curator of oral history at the Schlesinger Library, Brother Blue was once a struggling playwright. As he described his plots and characters to his friends, he discovered his gift for oral storytelling and for improvisation. I never aspired to be anything but a novelist, but after months of touring and telling stories, I found it strange to go back to the written word. I missed my body. I missed that electrifying-anything-can-happen moment I knew with Brother Blue. That moment where he lived his life, that gift he gave to anyone lucky enough to be drawn, however briefly, into his story.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Untying my tongue
I have spent the last ten days tongue-tied, if such a term can be applied to writing, responding only when necessary to email or messages directed to me on twitter. I still have not written in my journal. I have not worked on my novel. This blog today is my first step towards returning to writing practice. I can't write or speak without saying first:
My mother-in-law has just moved from her home of sixty-four years into an eldercare home where she can receive nursing care that we are unable to provide.
My husband has just received a diagnosis of prostate cancer.
Also, preceding the first event and during the delivery of the diagnosis, we both had flu. We don't know what kind, but it was severe.
There was a kind of grace in having the flu. We had to stay home; we had to sit with each other and take care of each other and grieve with each other. Although I wasn't able to visit my mother-in-law in person while I was sick, I spent much of the time during the week leading up to Halloween traveling between the worlds. My mother-in-law has alzheimers and zero short-term memory. She often seems to be a meditative state between waking and sleeping. During my own fever-doze, I felt I could communicate with her directly, soul to soul, and help prepare her for the change that was coming. I also spoke to the spirits of the land she has loved and tended for so long and to the spirits of the land across the river where she was going.
I also spent a lot of time crying my heart out. Fever is good for that, too.
The place my mother-in-law has moved is part of a movement in eldercare called the Eden Alternative, based on the idea that elders should be part of the flow of life. Islandview is home to an extended family of caregivers, including mother and daughter RNs, six elders, four cats, four dogs, and a cockatoo. Employees can bring their babies and toddlers to work, and grandchildren are in and out. That sounded great in theory. I am happy to say after hanging out there the last couple of days, it seems to be working out in practice. Here is a description of my mother-in-law's first afternoon from an email I wrote to my sister.
"The place really is sunny and homey. I sat with Olga for quite awhile in the living room while Douglas did paperwork. The other residents were friendly but not demanding of attention.
At one point the most gorgeous calico cat decided to make it her mission to sit on Olga's lap, which wasn't entirely easy since Olga wasn't helping. The cat tried one approach, then another, searching for a way to sit on her that would be comfortable for them both. Finally she settled in across Olga's stomach and chest. She lifted her nose to Olga's cheek a couple of times, then kneaded with her paws careful to keep her claws extended and not in the fabric (unlike my cat). At last she rested and purred loudly for about ten minutes. Although Olga reputedly does not like cats to sit on her, I think she was comforted and perhaps flattered. And probably warmed, too. The woman who runs the place says this cat was the guardian of the 103 year old woman who died recently. I hope she has decided to adopt Olga."
After all the deep grieving I did last week, I am now feeling huge relief that my mother-in-law is safe and cared for. She seemed quite peaceful today. And she is very much her regal, yet-goodnatured self, ready for a new adventure, willing to be pleased. So many of us identified her with the place she created. It is good to be reminded that she is who she is no matter where she is. There is a core nature that seems to transcend even memory.
Now my husband and I must turn our attention to information gathering, decision making, treatment, and recovery. We are at the bare beginning of this journey. We have gathered, so far, that his prospect for recovery from cancer is good but that sex as we have known it and cherished it for thirty-one years may change irrevocably and unpredictably. He is seventy; I am fifty-six. Our age difference, which has hardly been noticeable to us, may begin to make a difference. Nothing is certain. We know that. Everything and anything can change at any moment as if can for any and everyone. And does. Every moment.
There. I just needed to say that. My mother-in-law has left home for her last home. My husband has prostate cancer. We are all held in the mystery no matter what. Tomorrow, mystery willing, I will begin to write again.
For pictures of my mother-in-law's land where she ran a school for many years and where we now run a center: http://www.highvalley.org/ My website is still: http://www.passionofmarymagdalen.com/
My mother-in-law has just moved from her home of sixty-four years into an eldercare home where she can receive nursing care that we are unable to provide.
My husband has just received a diagnosis of prostate cancer.
Also, preceding the first event and during the delivery of the diagnosis, we both had flu. We don't know what kind, but it was severe.
There was a kind of grace in having the flu. We had to stay home; we had to sit with each other and take care of each other and grieve with each other. Although I wasn't able to visit my mother-in-law in person while I was sick, I spent much of the time during the week leading up to Halloween traveling between the worlds. My mother-in-law has alzheimers and zero short-term memory. She often seems to be a meditative state between waking and sleeping. During my own fever-doze, I felt I could communicate with her directly, soul to soul, and help prepare her for the change that was coming. I also spoke to the spirits of the land she has loved and tended for so long and to the spirits of the land across the river where she was going.
I also spent a lot of time crying my heart out. Fever is good for that, too.
The place my mother-in-law has moved is part of a movement in eldercare called the Eden Alternative, based on the idea that elders should be part of the flow of life. Islandview is home to an extended family of caregivers, including mother and daughter RNs, six elders, four cats, four dogs, and a cockatoo. Employees can bring their babies and toddlers to work, and grandchildren are in and out. That sounded great in theory. I am happy to say after hanging out there the last couple of days, it seems to be working out in practice. Here is a description of my mother-in-law's first afternoon from an email I wrote to my sister.
"The place really is sunny and homey. I sat with Olga for quite awhile in the living room while Douglas did paperwork. The other residents were friendly but not demanding of attention.
At one point the most gorgeous calico cat decided to make it her mission to sit on Olga's lap, which wasn't entirely easy since Olga wasn't helping. The cat tried one approach, then another, searching for a way to sit on her that would be comfortable for them both. Finally she settled in across Olga's stomach and chest. She lifted her nose to Olga's cheek a couple of times, then kneaded with her paws careful to keep her claws extended and not in the fabric (unlike my cat). At last she rested and purred loudly for about ten minutes. Although Olga reputedly does not like cats to sit on her, I think she was comforted and perhaps flattered. And probably warmed, too. The woman who runs the place says this cat was the guardian of the 103 year old woman who died recently. I hope she has decided to adopt Olga."
After all the deep grieving I did last week, I am now feeling huge relief that my mother-in-law is safe and cared for. She seemed quite peaceful today. And she is very much her regal, yet-goodnatured self, ready for a new adventure, willing to be pleased. So many of us identified her with the place she created. It is good to be reminded that she is who she is no matter where she is. There is a core nature that seems to transcend even memory.
Now my husband and I must turn our attention to information gathering, decision making, treatment, and recovery. We are at the bare beginning of this journey. We have gathered, so far, that his prospect for recovery from cancer is good but that sex as we have known it and cherished it for thirty-one years may change irrevocably and unpredictably. He is seventy; I am fifty-six. Our age difference, which has hardly been noticeable to us, may begin to make a difference. Nothing is certain. We know that. Everything and anything can change at any moment as if can for any and everyone. And does. Every moment.
There. I just needed to say that. My mother-in-law has left home for her last home. My husband has prostate cancer. We are all held in the mystery no matter what. Tomorrow, mystery willing, I will begin to write again.
For pictures of my mother-in-law's land where she ran a school for many years and where we now run a center: http://www.highvalley.org/ My website is still: http://www.passionofmarymagdalen.com/
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Maeve on Shame and Shamelessness
"Just like the Eve I hadn’t heard of yet, I saw that I was naked. Shame I hadn’t yet grasped." -Maeve from Magdalen Rising
Elizabeth posted that quotation on Twitter this morning. (Yes, speaking of shamelessness, we are on twitter. Follow us: http://twitter.com/EliznMaeve How shameless is that?)
I have been asked to write a blog about shamelessness. I suppose scenes like the one cited above have earned me a reputation as an expert on the subject. For those who haven't read Magdalen Rising, this incident happened when I was about fourteen years old, away from home for the first time, having my period and missing my eight mothers. My mothers always went to the beach and fingerpainted on the rocks when they were bleeding. At druid school, I was shocked to discover, there were no organized activities for that time of the moon. Feeling a bit blue, I went off by myself, stripped off my tunic (it was a hot day) and practiced writing ogham, the druid ceremonial letters I was studying. I inscribed the name of the boy I liked on a rock. Well, what would you have done if you were me? You wouldn't have thought of writing your crush's name in menstrual blood?
Neither would Viviane, a stuck-up girl in my class, who tried to shame me for it. I showed her. I dipped my fingers into the original ink well and hauled off and anointed her, so to speak, right across the face. She didn't appreciate the honor, and we got into a bloody brawl, literally. Guess who ended up coming along to break up the fight? My crush, Esus. You know him as Jesus. Can you imagine his horror at this unclean naked girl writing his name on a rock with her blood? Please! (How he could possibly end up with someone like me is also a requested blog topic. Next time perhaps.) Many editors and reviewers were also shocked, and Elizabeth was told to omit all scenes having to do with bodily functions. She refused. She is not as shameless I am, but she is stubborn.
By the way, my next two volumes have very little about any bodily function--apart from sex. Elizabeth fretted that she had been influenced by the critics. But really, it's just that I grew older. In Magdalen Rising, I am a young girl, and everything is new to me. The truth is, until Viviane no one even attempted to shame me about my body or its functions, and she did not succeed. I kept that ease and comfort with my body all my life.
But many people do feel ashamed not only of their bodily functions but of their bodies, which tells you something about shame. We often feel shamed, or are shamed by others, for things that are out of our control. Shamed not so much for what we do (actions are at least somewhat in our control) but for what we are. We are too short, tall, have ears that stick out, have a big behind. We are not smart enough, quick enough, pretty enough, rich enough. There is something inherently wrong, and we feel shame.
Then there is also shame that we carry for someone else. That shame is even more insideous, because it's harder to identify. I once met a man who trained his dog to writhe and wimper in shame every time that man passed gas. It was supposed to be a joke, but it's not so funny when you consider that many of us are that dog. That's how abuse works, any kind of abuse from sexual abuse to economic abuse. The victim carries the abuser's shame. So shamelessness is not necessarily a good thing, not if someone else is carrying the shame that should yours. If you make a foul smell, people, own it!
I had no shame about my menstrual blood and no shame about sex, having been reared on my mothers' tales of Queen Maeve of Connacht, who delighted in freely offering the friendship of her upper thighs, who boasted that she was "never without one man in the shadow of another." She also had a devoted husband and lover, and no one called her promiscuous. This upbringing stood me in good stead during the years I was a whore. I felt no shame in being a whore and took some pride in being a skilled one. What did shame me deeply was being a slave, for my people considered loss of freedom shameful. They blamed the victim. Being a slave was not something I chose; it was not something I did. There was no way I could make amends for it. Though I tried to escape, I failed and my shame deepened into despair which fed the shame. There are many people who are suffering in just this way today whether or not they are called slaves.
So I do know something about shame. Freedom came to me by fluke. I was on my way to being crucified when the very woman who got me into the fix and who had enslaved and abused me for years, finally faced her own shame, her own culpabilty and pleaded with a woman who justifiably despised her in order to save my life. Read The Passion of Mary Magdalen if you want to know more.
Finally, that boy, my crush? He became my beloved. You know who he is. He was sentenced to a death that was designed to shame as well as torture. What is more shaming than to be hung naked and completely helpless while slowly dying in front of anyone who wants to watch? Yet I am here to tell you, he was not ashamed. All that shame that was cast on him, he burned away, as if he were the sun. I am witness.
Burning with shame. That's what we say. That's what it feels like. And that's just what to do with shame. Burn it up. The problems come when we are so afraid of that burning that we bury shame (and carry it as depression) or try to escape it through some addictive behavior that casts us back into shame or we dump it on someone else. So I say, if you are burning, burn. If you can stand it, the shame will burn away and leave you shining, radiant, and righteously shameless.
Elizabeth posted that quotation on Twitter this morning. (Yes, speaking of shamelessness, we are on twitter. Follow us: http://twitter.com/EliznMaeve How shameless is that?)
I have been asked to write a blog about shamelessness. I suppose scenes like the one cited above have earned me a reputation as an expert on the subject. For those who haven't read Magdalen Rising, this incident happened when I was about fourteen years old, away from home for the first time, having my period and missing my eight mothers. My mothers always went to the beach and fingerpainted on the rocks when they were bleeding. At druid school, I was shocked to discover, there were no organized activities for that time of the moon. Feeling a bit blue, I went off by myself, stripped off my tunic (it was a hot day) and practiced writing ogham, the druid ceremonial letters I was studying. I inscribed the name of the boy I liked on a rock. Well, what would you have done if you were me? You wouldn't have thought of writing your crush's name in menstrual blood?
Neither would Viviane, a stuck-up girl in my class, who tried to shame me for it. I showed her. I dipped my fingers into the original ink well and hauled off and anointed her, so to speak, right across the face. She didn't appreciate the honor, and we got into a bloody brawl, literally. Guess who ended up coming along to break up the fight? My crush, Esus. You know him as Jesus. Can you imagine his horror at this unclean naked girl writing his name on a rock with her blood? Please! (How he could possibly end up with someone like me is also a requested blog topic. Next time perhaps.) Many editors and reviewers were also shocked, and Elizabeth was told to omit all scenes having to do with bodily functions. She refused. She is not as shameless I am, but she is stubborn.
By the way, my next two volumes have very little about any bodily function--apart from sex. Elizabeth fretted that she had been influenced by the critics. But really, it's just that I grew older. In Magdalen Rising, I am a young girl, and everything is new to me. The truth is, until Viviane no one even attempted to shame me about my body or its functions, and she did not succeed. I kept that ease and comfort with my body all my life.
But many people do feel ashamed not only of their bodily functions but of their bodies, which tells you something about shame. We often feel shamed, or are shamed by others, for things that are out of our control. Shamed not so much for what we do (actions are at least somewhat in our control) but for what we are. We are too short, tall, have ears that stick out, have a big behind. We are not smart enough, quick enough, pretty enough, rich enough. There is something inherently wrong, and we feel shame.
Then there is also shame that we carry for someone else. That shame is even more insideous, because it's harder to identify. I once met a man who trained his dog to writhe and wimper in shame every time that man passed gas. It was supposed to be a joke, but it's not so funny when you consider that many of us are that dog. That's how abuse works, any kind of abuse from sexual abuse to economic abuse. The victim carries the abuser's shame. So shamelessness is not necessarily a good thing, not if someone else is carrying the shame that should yours. If you make a foul smell, people, own it!
I had no shame about my menstrual blood and no shame about sex, having been reared on my mothers' tales of Queen Maeve of Connacht, who delighted in freely offering the friendship of her upper thighs, who boasted that she was "never without one man in the shadow of another." She also had a devoted husband and lover, and no one called her promiscuous. This upbringing stood me in good stead during the years I was a whore. I felt no shame in being a whore and took some pride in being a skilled one. What did shame me deeply was being a slave, for my people considered loss of freedom shameful. They blamed the victim. Being a slave was not something I chose; it was not something I did. There was no way I could make amends for it. Though I tried to escape, I failed and my shame deepened into despair which fed the shame. There are many people who are suffering in just this way today whether or not they are called slaves.
So I do know something about shame. Freedom came to me by fluke. I was on my way to being crucified when the very woman who got me into the fix and who had enslaved and abused me for years, finally faced her own shame, her own culpabilty and pleaded with a woman who justifiably despised her in order to save my life. Read The Passion of Mary Magdalen if you want to know more.
Finally, that boy, my crush? He became my beloved. You know who he is. He was sentenced to a death that was designed to shame as well as torture. What is more shaming than to be hung naked and completely helpless while slowly dying in front of anyone who wants to watch? Yet I am here to tell you, he was not ashamed. All that shame that was cast on him, he burned away, as if he were the sun. I am witness.
Burning with shame. That's what we say. That's what it feels like. And that's just what to do with shame. Burn it up. The problems come when we are so afraid of that burning that we bury shame (and carry it as depression) or try to escape it through some addictive behavior that casts us back into shame or we dump it on someone else. So I say, if you are burning, burn. If you can stand it, the shame will burn away and leave you shining, radiant, and righteously shameless.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Nashville here we come: words, music, mystery
Maeve thanks everyone for their enthsiastic response to her blog. She will be back, and she will address all suggested topics including shamelessness and another topic that is a too complex to put into one word. The gist is how Jesus could choose her (a brazen out-spoken pagan Celt) despite what the church subsequently teaches about salvation. She might not know the answer, but no doubt she will have something to say. Thanks for the topics! Keep them coming.
Today it is my turn, and I have a story to tell. My dear friend and combrogo Tim Dillinger www.timdillinger.com has already told his side of the story more than once on his blog--and on stage! I wonder if he knows what an impact he has had and is having on my life and work. I will do my best to make it clear.
Who knows where the story really begins, why I had to write, why Tim had to sing. Maybe there is no why, and no why to Tim's heart being broken. Let's begin with his going to the library on one of the most terrible days of his life. Maeve must have been on the alert. She managed to get her big fat book to jump off the shelf into his hands where it stayed, Tim claims, for the next eight months. When we get an accurate count of how many times he has read The Passion of Mary Magdalen, we will be contacting the Guiness Book of World Records.
In early 2009, Tim wrote to my publisher, requesting to do a podcast interview for "Out the Box" http://outtheboxwithtimdillinger.blogspot.com/. We set a date in March. Meanwhile I scoped him out and got his CDs "Love is on My Mind" and "The Muse," which I urge you to do, too. From the first note he sang, I knew Tim was soul kin, and I am now going for the Guiness Book of World records myself for the number of times I have played his CDs. How to describe his music? His gospel and classic soul roots are strong and deep, but his expression is unique to him and his puts his whole heart out there. Listen, you will see what I mean.
When we met in Harlem on a cold windy day in March, we already knew each other's work intimately. The first words Tim said to me were: "I remember," the beginning words of a song he wrote long before he read Maeve's words about re-membering. He was wearing a winged Isis T-shirt with the same words on it. Yes, I also remembered. We had our interview at the Shrine, a venue in Harlem where he was appearing later that night with David Sosa and Kare Alford--the three of them are now Soulkiss. More on that in a bit.
During the interview, I sang the opening paragraphs of The Passion of Mary Magdalen. "Oh!" he said. "You can sing!" And it turns out that Tim can write! Not just songs but he had already written a memoir called Snapshots (check his website) and he has now embarked on his first novel. It is for him to talk about that. I will just hint that, between us, we may just re-write the Bible, or at least some juicy chunks of it.
Since that day we have stayed in touch and visited. (Tim and David both came to my place for Beltane and with great good nature sang endless rounds of "Oats Peas Beans and Barley Grow" in exquisite harmony as everyone danced the Maypole). And I had the immense joy of seeing Soulkiss live at The Triad this June when they began their busy summer tour season. Going to a Soulkiss concert is an ecstatic, soul-shaking experience. Don't miss the chance. They'll be at Don't Tell Mama with Charlene Moore in NYC October 23 & 30. Reserve now: http://www.donttellmamanyc.com/reservations.php
I did not get to see all the Soulkiss shows that summer, but I tuned in to the live podcast of their Kulak's show in LA, and was introduced to Patsy Moore, Myrrh, Susaye Greene, and Michael Micshaw (sorry if I spelled Michael's name wrong). When I was on tour in San Francisco I had the pleasure of meeting Andrea (the Godsistah!). I look forward to meeting Reba Rambo McGuire and Charlene Moore. Wherever Tim goes, he connects people, he creates community, and not just any kind of community but joyous, soulful community. He lives in Temple Magdalen, Maeve's place, where everyone is welcome. And if you have a conflict, open your mouth and sing it--till you burst out laughing.
I may not have had the worst day of my life this summer, but it has been a difficult time, as some of my past blogs will attest. Tim's friendship and the camaraderie of the combrogos has made a huge difference. I cannot remember how we decided that I would be making a recording of the songs I've composed for The Maeve Chronicles. I believe it was Tim's idea, and it was definitely Tim's idea to go to Nashville where he has done all the work of finding an affordable studio and an excellent and trusted musician to help set the songs. He's heading out this Friday, and I will meet him in Nashville this Sunday, October 4th. We'll be in the studio on Monday morning to begin work on the MaevenSong CD. We hope to have it ready to go before Christmas.
Words and music. One leads to the other, one is the other, or can be. A note on mystery. Whenever I am discouraged about the progress of my work in the world and the state of the publishing industry, I remember this chance or not chance meeting, a book falling into the right hands at the right moment, a meeting that has helped two people feel encouraged in their lives, in their work, in their joy. A meeting that is engendering more stories, more songs. And so it is.
Today it is my turn, and I have a story to tell. My dear friend and combrogo Tim Dillinger www.timdillinger.com has already told his side of the story more than once on his blog--and on stage! I wonder if he knows what an impact he has had and is having on my life and work. I will do my best to make it clear.
Who knows where the story really begins, why I had to write, why Tim had to sing. Maybe there is no why, and no why to Tim's heart being broken. Let's begin with his going to the library on one of the most terrible days of his life. Maeve must have been on the alert. She managed to get her big fat book to jump off the shelf into his hands where it stayed, Tim claims, for the next eight months. When we get an accurate count of how many times he has read The Passion of Mary Magdalen, we will be contacting the Guiness Book of World Records.
In early 2009, Tim wrote to my publisher, requesting to do a podcast interview for "Out the Box" http://outtheboxwithtimdillinger.blogspot.com/. We set a date in March. Meanwhile I scoped him out and got his CDs "Love is on My Mind" and "The Muse," which I urge you to do, too. From the first note he sang, I knew Tim was soul kin, and I am now going for the Guiness Book of World records myself for the number of times I have played his CDs. How to describe his music? His gospel and classic soul roots are strong and deep, but his expression is unique to him and his puts his whole heart out there. Listen, you will see what I mean.
When we met in Harlem on a cold windy day in March, we already knew each other's work intimately. The first words Tim said to me were: "I remember," the beginning words of a song he wrote long before he read Maeve's words about re-membering. He was wearing a winged Isis T-shirt with the same words on it. Yes, I also remembered. We had our interview at the Shrine, a venue in Harlem where he was appearing later that night with David Sosa and Kare Alford--the three of them are now Soulkiss. More on that in a bit.
During the interview, I sang the opening paragraphs of The Passion of Mary Magdalen. "Oh!" he said. "You can sing!" And it turns out that Tim can write! Not just songs but he had already written a memoir called Snapshots (check his website) and he has now embarked on his first novel. It is for him to talk about that. I will just hint that, between us, we may just re-write the Bible, or at least some juicy chunks of it.
Since that day we have stayed in touch and visited. (Tim and David both came to my place for Beltane and with great good nature sang endless rounds of "Oats Peas Beans and Barley Grow" in exquisite harmony as everyone danced the Maypole). And I had the immense joy of seeing Soulkiss live at The Triad this June when they began their busy summer tour season. Going to a Soulkiss concert is an ecstatic, soul-shaking experience. Don't miss the chance. They'll be at Don't Tell Mama with Charlene Moore in NYC October 23 & 30. Reserve now: http://www.donttellmamanyc.com/reservations.php
I did not get to see all the Soulkiss shows that summer, but I tuned in to the live podcast of their Kulak's show in LA, and was introduced to Patsy Moore, Myrrh, Susaye Greene, and Michael Micshaw (sorry if I spelled Michael's name wrong). When I was on tour in San Francisco I had the pleasure of meeting Andrea (the Godsistah!). I look forward to meeting Reba Rambo McGuire and Charlene Moore. Wherever Tim goes, he connects people, he creates community, and not just any kind of community but joyous, soulful community. He lives in Temple Magdalen, Maeve's place, where everyone is welcome. And if you have a conflict, open your mouth and sing it--till you burst out laughing.
I may not have had the worst day of my life this summer, but it has been a difficult time, as some of my past blogs will attest. Tim's friendship and the camaraderie of the combrogos has made a huge difference. I cannot remember how we decided that I would be making a recording of the songs I've composed for The Maeve Chronicles. I believe it was Tim's idea, and it was definitely Tim's idea to go to Nashville where he has done all the work of finding an affordable studio and an excellent and trusted musician to help set the songs. He's heading out this Friday, and I will meet him in Nashville this Sunday, October 4th. We'll be in the studio on Monday morning to begin work on the MaevenSong CD. We hope to have it ready to go before Christmas.
Words and music. One leads to the other, one is the other, or can be. A note on mystery. Whenever I am discouraged about the progress of my work in the world and the state of the publishing industry, I remember this chance or not chance meeting, a book falling into the right hands at the right moment, a meeting that has helped two people feel encouraged in their lives, in their work, in their joy. A meeting that is engendering more stories, more songs. And so it is.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Reclaiming the Power of Oracular Speech
We have all heard the saying: Money talks. In a pending case, Citizens United vs the Federal Election Commission, the United States Supreme Court will rule on whether or not money is speech. If money is so defined, then there will be no longer be limits on donations to political campaigns lest those who choose money as their language have their freedom of speech curtailed. "Who" includes corporations. There is a precedent dating to the 1880s that defines corporations as legal persons. If money is ruled to be speech, John Dough, as I call this corporate entity, may be the only one whose voice is heard.
If I were to argue the upcoming case (which as I have never before even written a political blog it's as well I am not) I would ask the justices to consider these questions: if money is speech, what is poverty? If money is speech, are those who don't have any consigned to silence, and is that not a form of censorship? If money is speech, what about it is free and how can its freedom be defended?
I spent Labor Day weekend at the annual fellows meeting of The Black Earth Institute: connecting earth, spirit, and society through the arts. (I am a fellow of the institute, but here speak only as myself. I encourage you to visit the website to learn more http://www.blackearthinstitute.org/ ) A diverse group of artists, scientists, sociologists, and historians gathered on a farm in the driftless area of Wisconsin where our hosts are helping to restore native prairie grasses and oak. The institute was founded in 2005 partly as a corrective to the commodification and trivalization of the arts. Poets, prophets, oracles, griots in a wide variety of cultures once had a responsibility to call the powers that be to account. Their speech was potent. There are stories of druids who could blister the skin of a king with their verses. Our contemporary culture tends to celebrate only celebrity, to reward a few with extraordinary wealth while the vast majority of writers and other artists remain obscure and underpaid.
Falling into this latter category myself, I found it heartening and inspiring to meet with a community of people who are concerned with more than making their own voices heard. Many among us are true oracles speaking not only human truth but the truth of the wolves, the truth of the soil, the truth of the water, and the complex truth of interconnection between all life forms and the elements that sustain us. I feel challenged and encouraged to learn from my fellow fellows, to break out of the isolation of despair, to join with other voices to make a fierce and joyful noise, to reclaim the power of oracular speech.
As a luddite (someone recently offered to help me smash my computer) I have long resisted the blogosphere and twitterland. But my recent forays have made me reconsider. It could be argued that we are all just talking to ourselves, parallel speech, so to speak. But I see evidence that people are talking to each other--and listening!--exchanging not only ideas and information, but humor, comfort, and camaraderie. And however new this form of speech is, it is free to anyone with access to a computer. (Bless the public libraries.) Money does not speak here. Human beings do.
With instructions from a friend, I finally figured out how to install a subscription widget. If you subscribe, this blog with be delivered to your email address. I only blog once a week, so not to worry that you will be inundated. And I promise it will be Maeve's turn soon. Maybe next week.
http://www.passionofmarymagdalen.com/
If I were to argue the upcoming case (which as I have never before even written a political blog it's as well I am not) I would ask the justices to consider these questions: if money is speech, what is poverty? If money is speech, are those who don't have any consigned to silence, and is that not a form of censorship? If money is speech, what about it is free and how can its freedom be defended?
I spent Labor Day weekend at the annual fellows meeting of The Black Earth Institute: connecting earth, spirit, and society through the arts. (I am a fellow of the institute, but here speak only as myself. I encourage you to visit the website to learn more http://www.blackearthinstitute.org/ ) A diverse group of artists, scientists, sociologists, and historians gathered on a farm in the driftless area of Wisconsin where our hosts are helping to restore native prairie grasses and oak. The institute was founded in 2005 partly as a corrective to the commodification and trivalization of the arts. Poets, prophets, oracles, griots in a wide variety of cultures once had a responsibility to call the powers that be to account. Their speech was potent. There are stories of druids who could blister the skin of a king with their verses. Our contemporary culture tends to celebrate only celebrity, to reward a few with extraordinary wealth while the vast majority of writers and other artists remain obscure and underpaid.
Falling into this latter category myself, I found it heartening and inspiring to meet with a community of people who are concerned with more than making their own voices heard. Many among us are true oracles speaking not only human truth but the truth of the wolves, the truth of the soil, the truth of the water, and the complex truth of interconnection between all life forms and the elements that sustain us. I feel challenged and encouraged to learn from my fellow fellows, to break out of the isolation of despair, to join with other voices to make a fierce and joyful noise, to reclaim the power of oracular speech.
As a luddite (someone recently offered to help me smash my computer) I have long resisted the blogosphere and twitterland. But my recent forays have made me reconsider. It could be argued that we are all just talking to ourselves, parallel speech, so to speak. But I see evidence that people are talking to each other--and listening!--exchanging not only ideas and information, but humor, comfort, and camaraderie. And however new this form of speech is, it is free to anyone with access to a computer. (Bless the public libraries.) Money does not speak here. Human beings do.
With instructions from a friend, I finally figured out how to install a subscription widget. If you subscribe, this blog with be delivered to your email address. I only blog once a week, so not to worry that you will be inundated. And I promise it will be Maeve's turn soon. Maybe next week.
http://www.passionofmarymagdalen.com/
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Not According to My Plan
I had planned (yesterday, actually, blog Tuesday) to ask Maeve to write a funny upbeat blog on being a fictional character. That may yet happen.
Instead I spent yesterday afternoon climbing a mountain with a new much younger but very wise friend. Many wonderful things happened. We made tobacco offerings to boulders the size of whales. We met a tiny blue-eyed snake who consented to let us hold her or him in our hands. An owl flew over us. Ravens made oracular pronoucements. When we got to the top, vultures and hawks circled above us, their shadows wheeling over a rockface riddled with crevices over thirty feet deep that sent up breaths of cool, damp air.
In the course of four hours or so, we enjoyed long talks and long silences. One of our many ponderings was on commitment. Someone had said to him that if you make a commitment, then a plan emerges. But without a commitment, there is no plan. I thought about my life, some thirty years longer than his, and I realized that I made a commitment to writing at very young age. I was ten when I knew I wanted to write, fifteen when I began a daily writing practice, twenty-two when I began writing novels, which I have been doing now for thirty-three years.
I have kept my commitment to writing. But my corresponding plan does not (from my point of view) seem to be working out. It was a simple plan, really, quite obvious and unoriginal: to become a widely recognized, successful writer, to be able to sustain myself financially with writing, and if possible (dear god/dess) to be on the NYT bestseller list. Would the #1 spot be too much to ask? (And don't think I haven't prayed for that.)
I don't want to go into my publishing history here or anywhere. Suffice it to say that despite the best efforts of my current publisher and my own frankly herculean or sisyphissian (sp?) efforts, my publishing future is uncertain, as is the future of publishing itself. We are all caught up in huge societal changes. I do get that it's not about me. But part of me is still stunned, wondering: what happened to the plan? And if that isn't the plan, what is? And whose plan is it?
Yesterday I felt that question, or the pain that has accompanied it, absorbed into the rocks, drawn up by the warm sun into one of those rare perfectly blue skies. There was a moment when, in the midst of this wild place, we heard sirens in the distance, as if two distinct worlds had overlapped. Maybe that moment stayed with me, because that is my reality. I am alarmed and grieved that my plan hasn't worked and so much has gone wrong in our suffering world, and I am also connected with something ancient and deep that is not alarmed, even though rocks may tumble, huge cracks open, lives and life forms come and go.
When I can let go of my own plan, however reasonable it may be, I sometimes get glimpses of another plan far more intricate and elegant than I could ever have conceived. Maybe it doesn't matter whose plan it is. Maybe plan is too small a word, a four letter word and far from my favorite. There is more to say, but the words aren't coming now. Thanks to my friend Yehoshua for our rich exchange on and with the mountain and to all my combrogos. Tim, I need to dedicate a whole blog to you and our story. I'll close with words from Dwynwyn, one of the crazy old wise women in Magdalen Rising.
"Choose blindly with your eyes open. Walk and whistle in the dark. You're not the whole story, only a part. Even the teller is changed in the telling."
Instead I spent yesterday afternoon climbing a mountain with a new much younger but very wise friend. Many wonderful things happened. We made tobacco offerings to boulders the size of whales. We met a tiny blue-eyed snake who consented to let us hold her or him in our hands. An owl flew over us. Ravens made oracular pronoucements. When we got to the top, vultures and hawks circled above us, their shadows wheeling over a rockface riddled with crevices over thirty feet deep that sent up breaths of cool, damp air.
In the course of four hours or so, we enjoyed long talks and long silences. One of our many ponderings was on commitment. Someone had said to him that if you make a commitment, then a plan emerges. But without a commitment, there is no plan. I thought about my life, some thirty years longer than his, and I realized that I made a commitment to writing at very young age. I was ten when I knew I wanted to write, fifteen when I began a daily writing practice, twenty-two when I began writing novels, which I have been doing now for thirty-three years.
I have kept my commitment to writing. But my corresponding plan does not (from my point of view) seem to be working out. It was a simple plan, really, quite obvious and unoriginal: to become a widely recognized, successful writer, to be able to sustain myself financially with writing, and if possible (dear god/dess) to be on the NYT bestseller list. Would the #1 spot be too much to ask? (And don't think I haven't prayed for that.)
I don't want to go into my publishing history here or anywhere. Suffice it to say that despite the best efforts of my current publisher and my own frankly herculean or sisyphissian (sp?) efforts, my publishing future is uncertain, as is the future of publishing itself. We are all caught up in huge societal changes. I do get that it's not about me. But part of me is still stunned, wondering: what happened to the plan? And if that isn't the plan, what is? And whose plan is it?
Yesterday I felt that question, or the pain that has accompanied it, absorbed into the rocks, drawn up by the warm sun into one of those rare perfectly blue skies. There was a moment when, in the midst of this wild place, we heard sirens in the distance, as if two distinct worlds had overlapped. Maybe that moment stayed with me, because that is my reality. I am alarmed and grieved that my plan hasn't worked and so much has gone wrong in our suffering world, and I am also connected with something ancient and deep that is not alarmed, even though rocks may tumble, huge cracks open, lives and life forms come and go.
When I can let go of my own plan, however reasonable it may be, I sometimes get glimpses of another plan far more intricate and elegant than I could ever have conceived. Maybe it doesn't matter whose plan it is. Maybe plan is too small a word, a four letter word and far from my favorite. There is more to say, but the words aren't coming now. Thanks to my friend Yehoshua for our rich exchange on and with the mountain and to all my combrogos. Tim, I need to dedicate a whole blog to you and our story. I'll close with words from Dwynwyn, one of the crazy old wise women in Magdalen Rising.
"Choose blindly with your eyes open. Walk and whistle in the dark. You're not the whole story, only a part. Even the teller is changed in the telling."
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Facing the Abyss
A twitter friend answered my request for blog topics with these questions (wording approximate): What makes a good writer? What makes for good writing?
A good writer is doubtless sometimes a lousy writer. Writers have bad days, just like everyone else. A good writer persists. A persistent writer faces the blank page day after day, whether on a screen or in a good-old-fashioned notebook. I’ve done both. The awe and terror are the same. The blank page is the freakin’ abyss, the void, the great nothing that contains all. That’s why I named my computer Wu Ji, the beginning posture in Tai Chi Chuan.
So take a breath and make a mess, write the first word, the first page, pages. Pages can be ripped up, backspace and delete can be hit, but you have to actually create your material before you can work with it. And when you’ve honed it and polished it and finished it, your reward is: another blank page. Here are a few scattered thoughts. A good writer is:
always a beginner
a tracker, follows the trail of a story or idea, knows when it’s cold or when it’s challenging
is ruthless, will chuck hours, days, weeks, months of work and start again if necessary
knows when it’s right the first time
is patient and attentive to detail
loves language the way a mechanic loves the engine of a car
is in partnership with work itself, is a co-creator
knows how to listen
delights in being surprised
Blogs are supposed to be short, so I will save the second question for another time. Meanwhile all you writers: Right on, Write on!
www.passionofmarymagdalen.com
A good writer is doubtless sometimes a lousy writer. Writers have bad days, just like everyone else. A good writer persists. A persistent writer faces the blank page day after day, whether on a screen or in a good-old-fashioned notebook. I’ve done both. The awe and terror are the same. The blank page is the freakin’ abyss, the void, the great nothing that contains all. That’s why I named my computer Wu Ji, the beginning posture in Tai Chi Chuan.
So take a breath and make a mess, write the first word, the first page, pages. Pages can be ripped up, backspace and delete can be hit, but you have to actually create your material before you can work with it. And when you’ve honed it and polished it and finished it, your reward is: another blank page. Here are a few scattered thoughts. A good writer is:
always a beginner
a tracker, follows the trail of a story or idea, knows when it’s cold or when it’s challenging
is ruthless, will chuck hours, days, weeks, months of work and start again if necessary
knows when it’s right the first time
is patient and attentive to detail
loves language the way a mechanic loves the engine of a car
is in partnership with work itself, is a co-creator
knows how to listen
delights in being surprised
Blogs are supposed to be short, so I will save the second question for another time. Meanwhile all you writers: Right on, Write on!
www.passionofmarymagdalen.com
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