the final days of the bus tour were spent in the nation's capital and new york city. visiting sacred sites for the people of the USA was interesting, but I felt I was there out of interest, or respect for the nation in which I was visiting, not because it was particularly meaningful for me.
so it was interesting to note the revered place in history and in the heart of this nation that John F Kennedy, Abraham Lincoln, George Washington, and Martin Luther King Jr have. As I write that, I note these are all men. King is supposed to be having a memorial to him unveiled in Washington DC today, but there is a hurricane along the east of the country, and I haven't heard if the unveiling is still going ahead. I am imagining it will be postponed.
I was intrigued by the statue of Lincoln, which is imposing if not intimidating in its size, but which has one hand clenched in a fist symbolising his resolve to abolish slavery and one open reflecting his love for his people. I think the two aptly go together.
New York City is too big too loud too crowded full of people for me. I didn't see much, but I glimpsed it from the water of the Hudson, taking a ferry to Staten Island past the Statue of Liberty, from above on the viewing deck of the Empire State Building, from below in the subway, and on the streets and its park, walking through Times Square and Central Park. The latter I do like, an oasis in a city that, I discovered, really doesn't sleep.
Then the trip home. From NYC to Adelaide was to have been 31 hours of flights and waiting in airports. All was going well until we were taxiing onto the runway at Brisbane airport (where, I have to say, I was wondering why my travel agent hadn't switched me off the international flight and put me straight onto a flight to Adelaide rather than continuing onto Sydney). The pilot decided he wasn't happy with something and we turned around so that the engineers could sort out the problem, which we never learned what it was. a delay of an hour and a half, the time I was to have had to get through customs and onto my final plane home. Needless to say, I missed that flight. But I was flying Qantas, so as I arrived in Sydney airport, ground staff told me what flight I had been booked onto and what time it was leaving. Customs was a breeze, apart from not really being able to see clearly what line I was supposed to be in, and then it was another wait before finally getting onto the plane and flying home.
I am glad to be home, but it feels like I am not quite all here yet. Perhaps it is that I am not ready to be here yet. Or that I want to be careful not to return to home and the patterns of before, because I know I have changed in the month away and I don't want to lose those changes.
I feel more settled as a writer, more confident perhaps that this is my gift and my responsibility is to nurture that gift. I feel inspired, with ideas for stories, poems and essays. Overwhelmingly, though, I feel less worried about the other half time of my working life, perhaps because of the first two things I mentioned. Perhaps the emerging shape of ministry for me is less about forming a specific new community and more about encouraging the church to learn our story again for a new time / context and equipping the church to tell that story in a post-Christendom world.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
travel log. juxtaposition.
my last post was just after having visited Niagara Falls, which provided one of the most memorable moments of the trip. many of the other memorable moments have been meaningful spiritually or emotionally or intellectually. this one was raw physicality. we took a boat out to the falls, and it gets right up close to the bottom of the Canadian horseshoe falls, so that firstly you feel and look as though you're in the rain, and secondly you feel the power of that water tumbling over the edge. it is awesome. I kept taking pictures in a feeble attempt to capture the moment, but you can't, this is one of those times in life where, really, you just had to be there. having experienced this, I couldn't believe that the waiter serving us in the Hard Rock Cafe has lived there for 20 years and never been out on the boat, never had that experience. we urged him to do it.
this awe and joy was followed by an experience of shame and discomfort. on the way to Washington, D.C., we travelled through Amish country. hearing the stories of these communities was fascinating, and we had watched a movie about an Amish community that I had enjoyed. but when we drove past the houses in which Amish families live, and our guide was pointing them out, it felt as though we were on safari in Africa, chasing a glimpse of a lion in the wild. it was demeaning and disrespectful. a young boy was in a shed and ran to hide as our bus approached - people laughed. children ran from the bus, not knowing whether to wave or hide - people clambered over one another to take a photo. I hung my head in shame and felt I would either cry or vomit, this whole experience made me feel so ill. we don't drive through other countries and say - look there's a native Parisian, let's take a photo. these are fellow human beings living a life of peace. we would be better to learn from their way of life of peace and harmony, than to rush to the other side of the bus to photograph them at lunch or play.
this awe and joy was followed by an experience of shame and discomfort. on the way to Washington, D.C., we travelled through Amish country. hearing the stories of these communities was fascinating, and we had watched a movie about an Amish community that I had enjoyed. but when we drove past the houses in which Amish families live, and our guide was pointing them out, it felt as though we were on safari in Africa, chasing a glimpse of a lion in the wild. it was demeaning and disrespectful. a young boy was in a shed and ran to hide as our bus approached - people laughed. children ran from the bus, not knowing whether to wave or hide - people clambered over one another to take a photo. I hung my head in shame and felt I would either cry or vomit, this whole experience made me feel so ill. we don't drive through other countries and say - look there's a native Parisian, let's take a photo. these are fellow human beings living a life of peace. we would be better to learn from their way of life of peace and harmony, than to rush to the other side of the bus to photograph them at lunch or play.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
travel log. too busy to write.
we have had very full days with this bus tour, and I can't remember where I left off my travel log. I am writing from the bus as we begin a long day travelling from Niagara Falls to Washington D.C.
There are some stories and poems and essays brewing from this month of study leave. Stories of travel, discovery, and points of difference and similarity between humans from different places. Poems of seeking and seeing, imagining, doors and windows into new worlds and new perspectives. Essays exploring the place of story in our healed wholeness, the arts, the Divine.
I saw, in Ottawa, an exhibition of Carravaggio paintings and works of artists he inspired and influenced. What I saw, my responses, my questions, formed themselves into lines for poems as i wrote in my notebook, security guards looking on.
As our guide tells stories of the native people of these places, not only do they resonate with the stories of Australia's First Peoples (at times, Simona could have been talking about Ingidenous Australians the stories of stolen children for example, so similar to those of our own Stolen Generations), but they spark ideas for a series of stories for which I have been striving, stories that tell of our humanity, but that don't assume a Christian audience. For me, this is where we begin, with our common humanity. The stories that help us each to make meaning of that human experience will be different, spirituality will take different shapes, but we are all human. So before I tell you the story that makes meaning of life for me, or you tell me yours, let's first tell the stories of our shared humanity - and then perhaps we can appreciate and celebrate the differences and not lose sight of what we have in common. Perhaps then we might find peace.
And these last thoughts will shape themselves into fuller, more exploratory essays. For this is my passion, and this is a deep need - the faithful telling and hearing of our stories for our healing and wholeness. This is where I find God.
There are some stories and poems and essays brewing from this month of study leave. Stories of travel, discovery, and points of difference and similarity between humans from different places. Poems of seeking and seeing, imagining, doors and windows into new worlds and new perspectives. Essays exploring the place of story in our healed wholeness, the arts, the Divine.
I saw, in Ottawa, an exhibition of Carravaggio paintings and works of artists he inspired and influenced. What I saw, my responses, my questions, formed themselves into lines for poems as i wrote in my notebook, security guards looking on.
As our guide tells stories of the native people of these places, not only do they resonate with the stories of Australia's First Peoples (at times, Simona could have been talking about Ingidenous Australians the stories of stolen children for example, so similar to those of our own Stolen Generations), but they spark ideas for a series of stories for which I have been striving, stories that tell of our humanity, but that don't assume a Christian audience. For me, this is where we begin, with our common humanity. The stories that help us each to make meaning of that human experience will be different, spirituality will take different shapes, but we are all human. So before I tell you the story that makes meaning of life for me, or you tell me yours, let's first tell the stories of our shared humanity - and then perhaps we can appreciate and celebrate the differences and not lose sight of what we have in common. Perhaps then we might find peace.
And these last thoughts will shape themselves into fuller, more exploratory essays. For this is my passion, and this is a deep need - the faithful telling and hearing of our stories for our healing and wholeness. This is where I find God.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
travel log. bus tour day one - nyc to boston, or making new friends
my last night in Asheville, friends and I had icecream from the nibble nook at ridgecrest conference centre and were heading off in search of a racoon Leigh had dubbed 'Rocky' when we encountered this little creature. my first american squirrel. We didn't see Rocky, so I left asheville a little disappointed (my favourite toy for a while as a kid was a racoon, and I was eagerly anticipating a chance to see one in real life).
we drove from boston to new york today on the first leg of the 9 day guided bus tour of new england, quebec, ontario and washington d.c. I should perhaps begin the story with the delayed flight out of dallas that was already going to have me arrive quite late in new york city, but which ended up having me finally crawl into bed at 2am, knowing my alarm was going to wake me up again at 6.30 am. I didn't sleep much, for anticipation, fear of sleeping too long and missing the bus, and that level of exhaustion that means you actually can't switch off and go to sleep. I was in NYC for less than 12 hours.
driving through the city, each turn was a new delight, seeing for myself scenes reminiscent (and probably actually in) of beloved films and tv shows set in this fascinating place. I am looking forward to my albeit short return next week, and a walk through central park at least.
the rain did not abate as we had hoped, but continued through new york state and our introductory information about the tour and excursions we could choose to take, connecticut and stories of native american nations and tribes from this region, as well as generally in the USA, rhode island and the origins of its name with the greek isle of rhoda (? it's late), into massacheusettes and stories of puritan founders of this region and the country we now know as the united states of america. those puritans are part of the protestant church that is my heritage, so it has furthered the depth of my understanding of my story to hear part of theirs.
and then we arrived in boston, a gorgeous city with history and architecture that is vast and diverse and intriguing. music is rich here. irish heritage is rich here (at the time of the potato famine, many irish settled in the area, bringing irish catholicism with them). education is rich here, with MIT and Harvard. We walked around the latter university, and along part of beacon hill. the second photograph is of the latter walk, these new friends from europe mostly, and me the lone australian (actually the only passenger whose first language is engligh - the guide gives all information in english, german and italian). I am very grateful for three new friends who have tucked me seamlessly into their family for the week, sharing umbrellas and rain coats, meals and stories. they are the other english speakers on tour, though it is not their first language. I am looking forward to stretching my wings in french tomorrow as we head into Quebec - surrounded by italian, german and flemish, the french words are bubbling in anticipation at a chance to fly. and so we may.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
travel log. biblical storytellers' gathering. snapshots.
As I sit on a rocking chair on the balcony outside the coffee shop, looking out at the forest home of black bears and rattle snakes, I begin to reflect on the past four days that have been the 2011 biblical storyteller's international festival gathering.
And while it is predominantly a gathering for the USA network, it is an international event, with tellers from Canada, the UK, Australia and Italy, and quite a focus on the international storytelling mission of the network and members of the network with other organisations, into places like the Gambia, Papua New Guinea and South East Asia. Later this year, the first festival gathering for Canada will be held, which is a cause for some excitement, as is a gathering for 140 pastors and their partners in Cambodia, made possible by considerable fundraising efforts of the network in the USA. For the network in Australia, we are excited by emerging partnerships with Indigenous Australian storytellers and storytellers in Indonesia, and it was good to be able to share this news with our friends here, sharing the gifts we have to encourage the gift of storytelling we share with our neighbours all over the world.
One of the highlights for me this week was the telling of the story of the young David by Matteo, from Italy. Not only is he obviously a gifted storyteller who can weave music into the telling to great effect, but his telling was all the more remarkable for being carried out in a second language, struggling to find the right word very very rarely. As a young man, Matteo conveyed well the internal struggles of boys yearning to be men already and brought humour and insight into the story I had not encountered before. I have a deeper understanding of the story; can see it from David's point of view more clearly now, because of Matteo's telling.
Another story that has new images for me is the story of the man brought by friends on a mat to Jesus for healing. First, Zac told the story in worship, using a big stick - it's like a hiker's pole I guess, light wood, and engraved. Zac says it was a gift from a friend that sat in the garage until he discovered storytelling, and found it a help to sway in and out of characters, as he can't do this with his voice. In this story, Zac used the stick to 'dig' a hole in the roof - a subtle but I found very effective gesture that brought the story to life in a new way for me. Second, we used this story in a workshop on bibliodrama, that introduced to me a way of exporing biblical stories friends had mentioned to me but that I had yet to encounter. When I tell stories, I will often invite listeners to 'wonder' about the story, voicing the questions we have of the text, characters, time and place. Bibliodrama invites listeners to pause at various points in the story and imagine themselves into the story - you are the people carrying the mat, tell us who you are, why you are here, what you are feeling when the crowd won't let you through to the house. Some of the insights were unexpected - even one I voiced was something new. As we were exploring the man's response when he was healed, and moving out through the crowd, I had him thinking 'now you move' of the crowd ...
The other lingering thought for me at this point is the last workshop I did this morning, with Rabbi Rachmiel Tobesman. We were exploring the pursuer of peace, how hard it is to work for peace, costly, and certainly not a passive inaction. And as we did, I was struck by how the Rabbi's presence with us here at this Christian gathering was itself an act of peace making, as many Jews are still guided by fear and mistrust in their relations with Christians, who have been the instigators of so much suffering for the Jewish poeple throughout history. It must take much courage to be here, and to continue in relationships with Christians in this way in the face of misunderstanding and criticism from his community. I am grateful for his model, as much as for his stories and his words.
travel log. weather report.
the weather here is muggy, not humid and sticky like a queensland summer, but enough to feel a warm damp weight in the air.
travel log. asheville to ridgecrest. 10 august.
it pains me to say it but I did get up and cross the road to the golden arches for breakfast this morning. they'd been advertising a pineapple and mango smoothy on the tv when i was in dallas my first night here, and I wanted to try it. Also, didn't want an expensive breakfast in the restaurant again, nice as it was my first morning here. The walk across the road also gave me a chance to take photos of my hotel. The top one is the main hotel, the bottom, the manor house, in which I stayed. I had the same taxi driver who took me to Biltmore yesterday, who shared with me some poetry he had mentioned on the first drive, exploring his ideas about God. He seemed grateful for the opportunity to talk with someone open to such questions and exploring, and I was glad to have been able to offer him the gift of attentive listening. His reaction surprised me, but it shouldn't have - this is what I talk about so often, the transformative and healing and hope restoring effect of being genuinely heard when we tell our story. he didn't want to receive a tip, though i insisted, and do you know, I almost think he didn't want to accept payment at all, so grateful was he for the hope he felt had been restored to him through our conversation. these are moments to live for. precious moments of shared humanity, affirming each other's worth, and enriching life.
the people here seem to have heard the feedback from earlier participants who have felt a little excluded by the old hands when they are here for the first time, as a real effort is made to welcome and orient newcomers to the festival gathering. As I am also not jetlagged, have all my luggage, and am confident that I belong in the network of biblical storytellers, I have felt as though I belong right from the start. this should be a wonderful event.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
tavel log. Asheville.
art and beauty sure form the theme of my american adventure. today was a day to wander, some free space between the glen workshop and the storytellers' festival gathering.
breakfast was in the red stag - the hotel's restaurant - I sat alone at a table enjoying the classical music and some poetry (Besty Sholl), and my pineapple juice, poached eggs on english muffin and coffee.
guest services called me a cab, though with a bit of a mix up out front, they had to call again ... so I sat enjoying the jazz music and art in the lobby.
the taxi was taking me to biltmore estate, the largest house in america apparently. built in the last years of the 19th century, this home is inspired by art and beauty everywhere you look. the ground level rooms all lead off a sunken winter garden, bringing nature's beauty inside and showcasing it year round. the detailing in the rooms on walls, frames, pictures, furniture and furnishings is almost too much to take in all at once. there's a pipe organ in the dining room and the chairs in that room must have all been hand carved, and you can seat almost 40 in there.
the family ate lunch in the breakfast room and breakfasted upstairs in a lounge between the master bedrooms. there are two floors of guest rooms. at the moment the family have an exhibition telling the story of the restoration of some of the bedrooms, painstaking in the research as much as in the actual restorative work. each room is like an art installation. I kept feeling it's such a shame the house is no longer lived in, in a way, because the chairs all look so inviting, in music room and salon and tapestry room and - not least of all - the library. I want this library. It's a little like the one in the movie My Fair Lady, with a mezzanine floor of shelves, a piano, chairs you could spend all afternoon in reading in front of the fire - and the original owner of the house had over 2300 books, though only half are in the library.
the lovely people in guest services at the house called me a cab, though again we had to call back, this time they had gone to the wrong part of the estate.
on returning to the hotel, I spent some time in the hotel's gallery, where there are some fabulous pieces, including work of collage with torn paper - i liked a couple of pieces using sheet music to make musical instruments - and some using coffee to create sepia toned painting, which is really effective.
then I wandered around biltmore village, which was also established by the owner of biltmore estate, including the episcopalian cathedral of all souls. i saw another art gallery, which would have cost me lots of money if I lived closer. lucky I don't live closer.
dinner is beer and pizza, then i'll take another bath in my luxurious bathroom and perhaps watch a movie.
breakfast was in the red stag - the hotel's restaurant - I sat alone at a table enjoying the classical music and some poetry (Besty Sholl), and my pineapple juice, poached eggs on english muffin and coffee.
guest services called me a cab, though with a bit of a mix up out front, they had to call again ... so I sat enjoying the jazz music and art in the lobby.
 |
| the library is on the ground floor taken from the Italian garden |
the lovely people in guest services at the house called me a cab, though again we had to call back, this time they had gone to the wrong part of the estate.
on returning to the hotel, I spent some time in the hotel's gallery, where there are some fabulous pieces, including work of collage with torn paper - i liked a couple of pieces using sheet music to make musical instruments - and some using coffee to create sepia toned painting, which is really effective.
then I wandered around biltmore village, which was also established by the owner of biltmore estate, including the episcopalian cathedral of all souls. i saw another art gallery, which would have cost me lots of money if I lived closer. lucky I don't live closer.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
travel log. Santa Fe to Asheville.
I got up this morning at 4.30 am, dressed, packed my room up, slid the evaluation forms under the door of one of the staff members because I'd forgotten to give it to them yesterday, dropped my key in and went to wait for the bus as black began to turn to dark blue. I had a moment or two of concern that the bus I had confirmed yesterday wasn't going to show, but it did, 10 minutes late, and I was on my way, with only the moths to see me off. Actually I was grateful of that, because one alternative was for a brown bear to witness my departure, and that would have been frightening for us both.
Two hours later I was at Albuquerque airport, checked in, bag checked through to Asheville in an act of supreme trust when I wasn't sure I had any, and then the waiting. I found some breakfast - tried one of these 'biscuits' they have here; like our scones, but more crumbly (biscuits are cookies here, at least the sweet ones - ah language).
Landing in Dallas, you could feel the heat almost as soon as we touched the tarmac - they're having temperatures over 100 F. I overheard someone say it would be like that in Asheville too, and this news was not welcome. I did a quick 15 minute walk around from terminal A to terminal B in the number 8 shaped Dallas Fort Worth airport, was assigned a seat, and entered another waiting time.
We departed a little late, and the heat was really coming strongly off the tarmac into the little American Eagle plane. Most passengers kept their window shades down for the whole trip, so harsh was the sun most of the way.
Asheville is beautiful. Mountains again, but not desert. This is green lush country, and as the taxi drove me to the hotel, I could imagine the colours that will adorn the trees after I am gone. Oh, and I have my bag.
I have chosen to stay at the Grand Bohemian, because it is in Tudor style (aka like Shakespearean
England) and is part of a chain of art hotels. There is gallery, and stunning attention to the artwork on each floor, and as I entered my room, a cd of music produced by the hotel chain, and another also - jazz! I had a moment reminiscent of Iris in The Holiday, when she arrives at Amanda's house for their house swap, and is delighted at the luxury. And here I'll let the pictures speak for themselves.
Two hours later I was at Albuquerque airport, checked in, bag checked through to Asheville in an act of supreme trust when I wasn't sure I had any, and then the waiting. I found some breakfast - tried one of these 'biscuits' they have here; like our scones, but more crumbly (biscuits are cookies here, at least the sweet ones - ah language).
Landing in Dallas, you could feel the heat almost as soon as we touched the tarmac - they're having temperatures over 100 F. I overheard someone say it would be like that in Asheville too, and this news was not welcome. I did a quick 15 minute walk around from terminal A to terminal B in the number 8 shaped Dallas Fort Worth airport, was assigned a seat, and entered another waiting time.
We departed a little late, and the heat was really coming strongly off the tarmac into the little American Eagle plane. Most passengers kept their window shades down for the whole trip, so harsh was the sun most of the way.
Asheville is beautiful. Mountains again, but not desert. This is green lush country, and as the taxi drove me to the hotel, I could imagine the colours that will adorn the trees after I am gone. Oh, and I have my bag.
I have chosen to stay at the Grand Bohemian, because it is in Tudor style (aka like Shakespearean
England) and is part of a chain of art hotels. There is gallery, and stunning attention to the artwork on each floor, and as I entered my room, a cd of music produced by the hotel chain, and another also - jazz! I had a moment reminiscent of Iris in The Holiday, when she arrives at Amanda's house for their house swap, and is delighted at the luxury. And here I'll let the pictures speak for themselves.
travel log. Santa Fe. 7 August.
It's the last day of a full rich week. I want to go and do some 'laundry' (australian = washing), but I can't move from the cafeteria. There has been a lingering, or a desire to linger, to not finish, to postpone saying goodbye since the workshop yesterday.
I have made friends here that I hope will remain friends for a long time. I'm already planning to fly into LA or San Francisco on my next trip to the US, so I can drop in on two of them who live in California!
As I try to reflect on this week, I feel as though there is much that I won't really discover or understand until I get home, after some distance has been made between me and the experience. But to have had this week, this space, to attend to the poet, the poems, the poetry - has been profound, moving, transformative. Perhaps I will aim to come back - I'm not sure of anything like this in Australia, the southern hemisphere. I will look, or perhaps create ... I told the president of Image that now they have a Glen East and a Glen West, we might start a Glen South - Down Under! Apparently the Canadians have had a similar suggestion for a Glen North in their backyard! To have such a high calibre of artists taking workshops and participating, and within the tradition of christian spirituality is such a gift, and is so much the yearning of my heart, to create spaces for artists to attend to art and spirituality.
It's been quite an overwhelming experience, this week, one way or another. To have tender anxious nerves suffer further blows from delayed flights, delayed luggage and jet lag - it was disconcerting, unsettling. I didn't know who I was for a few days.
When you don't know, or can't quite remember, who you are, it is that much harder to share who you are with others, or to embrace who they are. Which intensifies the feeling of being an outsider in those first days here. As a few people began to befriend me, I gradually came back to myself. I think preparing and leading communion also helped to remind me of who I am. I'm not here primarily as a minister, this week I am poet, but connecting with that other part of me, seems on reflection to have been helpful to me in pulling myself back together in this faraway place.
And when I called and heard that my bag was through customs, had a Fed Ex number, was on its way, I already felt somewhat reconnected to my things, my stuff, my belongings.
*aha moment*
those things that belong to me - and I belong to them. In a place where I didn't yet feel I belonged, I was without even those small things that held my belonging. No wonder I was so transformed when my bag arrived.
Belonging.
I belong at the Table. My things belong to me and tell me and tell the world who I am.
What a discovery.
Belonging. I belong as a performer / leader of worship: I read a poem in worship on the Monday night, and that showed people who I am. Reminded me of who I am. As I made friends, and people seemed glad to see me, and I was glad to see them - I felt known, and surrounded by people I now knew. I found I belonged here; we belonged here, together.
Today has been another liminal space, in-between place. There will be a few more of these in coming weeks. I wonder what there will be to learn there?
I have made friends here that I hope will remain friends for a long time. I'm already planning to fly into LA or San Francisco on my next trip to the US, so I can drop in on two of them who live in California!
As I try to reflect on this week, I feel as though there is much that I won't really discover or understand until I get home, after some distance has been made between me and the experience. But to have had this week, this space, to attend to the poet, the poems, the poetry - has been profound, moving, transformative. Perhaps I will aim to come back - I'm not sure of anything like this in Australia, the southern hemisphere. I will look, or perhaps create ... I told the president of Image that now they have a Glen East and a Glen West, we might start a Glen South - Down Under! Apparently the Canadians have had a similar suggestion for a Glen North in their backyard! To have such a high calibre of artists taking workshops and participating, and within the tradition of christian spirituality is such a gift, and is so much the yearning of my heart, to create spaces for artists to attend to art and spirituality.
It's been quite an overwhelming experience, this week, one way or another. To have tender anxious nerves suffer further blows from delayed flights, delayed luggage and jet lag - it was disconcerting, unsettling. I didn't know who I was for a few days.
When you don't know, or can't quite remember, who you are, it is that much harder to share who you are with others, or to embrace who they are. Which intensifies the feeling of being an outsider in those first days here. As a few people began to befriend me, I gradually came back to myself. I think preparing and leading communion also helped to remind me of who I am. I'm not here primarily as a minister, this week I am poet, but connecting with that other part of me, seems on reflection to have been helpful to me in pulling myself back together in this faraway place.
And when I called and heard that my bag was through customs, had a Fed Ex number, was on its way, I already felt somewhat reconnected to my things, my stuff, my belongings.
*aha moment*
those things that belong to me - and I belong to them. In a place where I didn't yet feel I belonged, I was without even those small things that held my belonging. No wonder I was so transformed when my bag arrived.
Belonging.
I belong at the Table. My things belong to me and tell me and tell the world who I am.
What a discovery.
Belonging. I belong as a performer / leader of worship: I read a poem in worship on the Monday night, and that showed people who I am. Reminded me of who I am. As I made friends, and people seemed glad to see me, and I was glad to see them - I felt known, and surrounded by people I now knew. I found I belonged here; we belonged here, together.
Today has been another liminal space, in-between place. There will be a few more of these in coming weeks. I wonder what there will be to learn there?
travel log. Santa Fe. 6 August. part two - a whim and a party.
after we finally left the classroom, having given Betsy some chocolates from our Santa Fe adventure on Thursday, and got her to sign books, we eventually made it to lunch in the cafeteria, where most of the group sat together, still lingering.
With a free afternoon before us, we let the conversations flow, and revelled in the opportunity that few of us get to simply sit and chat - about life, faith, things frivolous and things profound. Gradually people drifted away from the table, and Ghost Ranch came up - two of our number were planning to stay there for a night before leaving New Mexico. Tim and I hadn't been there before, and Sheryl said, I have a car, I could take you there - let's go, I would love it! We thought we would love it too, so we went. What a delightful whim that was. The colours of the earth along the way - the mountains rising like layered icecream cakes, just as Sheryl had described them. This is Georgia O'Keefe country - celebrated American artist. Ghost Ranch is now a conference / retreat centre, and we poked our heads into the welcome centre, bought some things, took some photos, drove around a bit more and saw the rocks from different angles. It's pretty isolated, and when Georgia O'Keefe lived here with small community of other artists, writers and others, the would have only had generators for power and no running water. We remembered how recently some parts of the USA have been connected to running water, and I remembered the stories and the people from our Lent Event reflections at Belair this year, close neighbours to Australia, who don't have running, or clean, water still. Let us always remember the poor.
The drive back was almost like driving through different country - it all looks different coming the other way. You have the Rio Grande beside you, which you can't see from the other side of the road, and its lush corridor of green in the midst of the high desert scrub. And the mountains are different shapes on the other side.
After dinner, a concert from Over the Rhine, who have been leading the songwriting workshops for 8 years. I didn't know their music, and yet when I heard it there was a familiar quality to it. At first, it was recognition of the jazzy, bluesy style I love so much, a pleasing surprise when I'd been expecting a style I wouldn't like. And then I recognised the characters of Jamie Callum and Norah Jones, hints of similarity that made listening to this music like coming home. With another three weeks of carrying a suitcase around, I decided not to buy their cds on the spot. I will get hold of their music, though, and if you like jazzy blues and lyrics that are thoughtful and open to the Sacred, perhaps you will too.
We had a dance party to finish. Well reception and dance party. And I got to meet some people I had served in communion during the week, and who consequently felt they knew me better than I felt I knew them! And talk with some of my friends who had helped me early in the week, buoys in the ocean of my uncertainty. And then we danced. There is something about dancing that I find very liberating - a surrender to the music with body and soul, letting the mind loosen its grip ... though I probably didn't need to stay up talking until almost 3am.
With a free afternoon before us, we let the conversations flow, and revelled in the opportunity that few of us get to simply sit and chat - about life, faith, things frivolous and things profound. Gradually people drifted away from the table, and Ghost Ranch came up - two of our number were planning to stay there for a night before leaving New Mexico. Tim and I hadn't been there before, and Sheryl said, I have a car, I could take you there - let's go, I would love it! We thought we would love it too, so we went. What a delightful whim that was. The colours of the earth along the way - the mountains rising like layered icecream cakes, just as Sheryl had described them. This is Georgia O'Keefe country - celebrated American artist. Ghost Ranch is now a conference / retreat centre, and we poked our heads into the welcome centre, bought some things, took some photos, drove around a bit more and saw the rocks from different angles. It's pretty isolated, and when Georgia O'Keefe lived here with small community of other artists, writers and others, the would have only had generators for power and no running water. We remembered how recently some parts of the USA have been connected to running water, and I remembered the stories and the people from our Lent Event reflections at Belair this year, close neighbours to Australia, who don't have running, or clean, water still. Let us always remember the poor.
The drive back was almost like driving through different country - it all looks different coming the other way. You have the Rio Grande beside you, which you can't see from the other side of the road, and its lush corridor of green in the midst of the high desert scrub. And the mountains are different shapes on the other side.
After dinner, a concert from Over the Rhine, who have been leading the songwriting workshops for 8 years. I didn't know their music, and yet when I heard it there was a familiar quality to it. At first, it was recognition of the jazzy, bluesy style I love so much, a pleasing surprise when I'd been expecting a style I wouldn't like. And then I recognised the characters of Jamie Callum and Norah Jones, hints of similarity that made listening to this music like coming home. With another three weeks of carrying a suitcase around, I decided not to buy their cds on the spot. I will get hold of their music, though, and if you like jazzy blues and lyrics that are thoughtful and open to the Sacred, perhaps you will too.
We had a dance party to finish. Well reception and dance party. And I got to meet some people I had served in communion during the week, and who consequently felt they knew me better than I felt I knew them! And talk with some of my friends who had helped me early in the week, buoys in the ocean of my uncertainty. And then we danced. There is something about dancing that I find very liberating - a surrender to the music with body and soul, letting the mind loosen its grip ... though I probably didn't need to stay up talking until almost 3am.
Travel log. Santa Fe. 6 August. part one - the poetry
Final day of workshops, and none of us wanted to leave. One of the group posed the question - what has been the greatest gift from this week (or something along those lines), and for many of us it has been simply the space to be, to be poets, to be together.
For me, the workshops in particular, have given me the challenge to give more attention to my poems. To not be so complacent, letting them emerge in one burst of creativity and then not polishing them, not making them the best they can be. It's a bit of a cop out, to leave the poems in their form of the moment, and I must stop it.
We shared some more of the poems from our exercises during the week, too, and people really found the words that Betsy had given us take us to some deep and profound places. Here's a couple more of mine. I think I will work with them and polish them, but with these exercises, it's kinda cool to see where they begin.
One was to have two words, a 'God-made' thing and a human made thing. Don't think I've put this one up. People had difficulty with my accent understanding that I had 'clock' and 'tree' (they got tree, but what they thought I was saying when I thought I was saying clock ...) mmm.
The clock tree
her wide trunk
keeps time within
time - history - her
story
in time
and season
rippling out from the heart
she tells of the time when rain
did not fall
she held her breath
waiting
she tells of the time when flame
wrapped his tendrils
around her
her scars - her healing
she tells of rain falling
steadily, she readily growing
stretching branches towards the sky
roots into the earth
stumped; at the end,
her body now a grandfather
holding a cuckoo,
our tree keeps time
still
and we swapped them around, so I had rabbit and radio to take away with me.
wildfire
rumour reproduced
on radio, internet
faster than rabbits
oh, and when we were asked to think of a bunch of red things, and write about three, a rant in prose gushed forth from my pencil. I went away and let it all sit, and eventually the poem emerged, still pretty rough, but a little less morose.
to experience
red wing lights wink
as if they know what awaits
have they seen, or not seen,
my bag
miss flight?
my new red t-shirt boasts
of a visit to Santa Fe
joyful colour, a place worth
remembering - but not these
first days, which I will put down ...
the stop signs here are also red -
and octagonal - would they not be?
but as I venture out, and notice,
my grip loosens, and the baggage
drops.
For me, the workshops in particular, have given me the challenge to give more attention to my poems. To not be so complacent, letting them emerge in one burst of creativity and then not polishing them, not making them the best they can be. It's a bit of a cop out, to leave the poems in their form of the moment, and I must stop it.
We shared some more of the poems from our exercises during the week, too, and people really found the words that Betsy had given us take us to some deep and profound places. Here's a couple more of mine. I think I will work with them and polish them, but with these exercises, it's kinda cool to see where they begin.
One was to have two words, a 'God-made' thing and a human made thing. Don't think I've put this one up. People had difficulty with my accent understanding that I had 'clock' and 'tree' (they got tree, but what they thought I was saying when I thought I was saying clock ...) mmm.
The clock tree
her wide trunk
keeps time within
time - history - her
story
in time
and season
rippling out from the heart
she tells of the time when rain
did not fall
she held her breath
waiting
she tells of the time when flame
wrapped his tendrils
around her
her scars - her healing
she tells of rain falling
steadily, she readily growing
stretching branches towards the sky
roots into the earth
stumped; at the end,
her body now a grandfather
holding a cuckoo,
our tree keeps time
still
and we swapped them around, so I had rabbit and radio to take away with me.
wildfire
rumour reproduced
on radio, internet
faster than rabbits
oh, and when we were asked to think of a bunch of red things, and write about three, a rant in prose gushed forth from my pencil. I went away and let it all sit, and eventually the poem emerged, still pretty rough, but a little less morose.
to experience
red wing lights wink
as if they know what awaits
have they seen, or not seen,
my bag
miss flight?
my new red t-shirt boasts
of a visit to Santa Fe
joyful colour, a place worth
remembering - but not these
first days, which I will put down ...
the stop signs here are also red -
and octagonal - would they not be?
but as I venture out, and notice,
my grip loosens, and the baggage
drops.
Travel log. Santa Fe. 5 August.
Friday. The exhaustion from yesterday's excursion into Santa Fe made my eyes heavy all morning, but as we talked about the poems I was struck by the tenuous balance a poet must aim for with the details that are needed in order to communicate the meaning of the poem, and the way that too many details can distract, weigh the poem down. Being a poet is hard!
Our workshop group went to Maria's for lunch. they make the strongest margharitas in the world. I was tipsy on ONE all afternoon!
I chose the least hot thing on the menu, and still was able to enjoy one of the restaurant's oldest recipes, tried and true, and delicious. Was great to spend this time away from the classroom together, and get to know each other in a different context. This really has been a wonderful group of people with whom to share poetry, the craft, and the beauty.
In the evening we had a reading from the two poets leading workshops, Robert Cording and Besty Sholl. If you get a chance to read their work, do. They're both fabulous.
In the question and response time, somone asked about poetry and prayer: are poems prayers for these poets? In their responses, both kind of leant towards 'not'; poems are artful, which is often too much for a prayer. I have been thinking about it, and I might have added that for a liturgist, prayers are poetic. People have commented that hearing prayers I have composed, one can feel the touch of a poet. Perhaps it is in the intent - a prayer is a prayer, poetic or otherwise, a poem is a poem, prayerful or not - and perhaps differntly for the reader and poet.
The open mic included some poems from our group - five of us got up together in one of the five minute spots and shared a poem each. I recited 'Shakespeare's Summer Daze', which is one of the most successful poems I've written, and which I love. I feel like perhaps I might have the courage to attempt more of these poems that play with lines from Shakespeare (this one takes the most famous opening line of his sonnets - shall I compare thee ... and does something else with it. and it's not for publishing here. sorry). But it was such a buzz to get up there together and share our work!
Our workshop group went to Maria's for lunch. they make the strongest margharitas in the world. I was tipsy on ONE all afternoon!
I chose the least hot thing on the menu, and still was able to enjoy one of the restaurant's oldest recipes, tried and true, and delicious. Was great to spend this time away from the classroom together, and get to know each other in a different context. This really has been a wonderful group of people with whom to share poetry, the craft, and the beauty.
In the evening we had a reading from the two poets leading workshops, Robert Cording and Besty Sholl. If you get a chance to read their work, do. They're both fabulous.
In the question and response time, somone asked about poetry and prayer: are poems prayers for these poets? In their responses, both kind of leant towards 'not'; poems are artful, which is often too much for a prayer. I have been thinking about it, and I might have added that for a liturgist, prayers are poetic. People have commented that hearing prayers I have composed, one can feel the touch of a poet. Perhaps it is in the intent - a prayer is a prayer, poetic or otherwise, a poem is a poem, prayerful or not - and perhaps differntly for the reader and poet.
The open mic included some poems from our group - five of us got up together in one of the five minute spots and shared a poem each. I recited 'Shakespeare's Summer Daze', which is one of the most successful poems I've written, and which I love. I feel like perhaps I might have the courage to attempt more of these poems that play with lines from Shakespeare (this one takes the most famous opening line of his sonnets - shall I compare thee ... and does something else with it. and it's not for publishing here. sorry). But it was such a buzz to get up there together and share our work!
Saturday, August 6, 2011
travel log. Santa Fe. 4 August.
when we reached the town, our first stop was one of the chocolate makers listed on a chocolate trail we had planned to follow. Kakawa, if you're ever in Santa Fe, is well worth the visit, for its warm chocolate drinks, iced chocolate drinks, and chocolate itself. we tasted various drinks, then sat for a bit and chatted and read poetry and felt very much like poets.
from here, we headed further towards the centre of town and stopped at the Cathedral Basilica of St Francis of Assisi. I wandered around as an outsider, which for a person of the Christian faith tradition felt odd, even though this is a Catholic church and I am Protestant. I felt very much like an observer, not a potential worshipper in this space: this was the sacred space of another people in the same way the Synagogue I visited in Adelaide is the sacred space of another people. I think I am saddened to feel this much an outsider in a church of my own faith.
next we visit a second hand bookstore, where I picked up a cheap copy of a complete works of Emily Dickinson, edited by someone who, according to the owner of the shop, knows his stuff. I have been searching for a complete Dickinson for a while, and it seemed appropriate to pick it up here, in the usa, during a week of poetry during which our teacher has quoted Dickinson a couple of times.
along a verandah on the edge of the plaza in the heart of town local American Indian artists sell their work. I indulged a bit and bought a ring in the shape of a feather, a symbol of the American Indian people, but also a symbol for me when in the shape of a quill; it seemed to be an appropriate memento of this week of attending to my craft in Santa Fe.
On the way back to the college we found a second of the chocolate shops, and tried a surprising white chocolate with lemon, lavendar and almond. I don't usually like white chocolate. but i liked this. there was an almond toffee that I also liked, and Australian apricots covered in dark chocolate - we bought a couple of them for the group, because I am from Australia (though I didn't tell them I don't really eat apricots, or any fruit, for its texture ...).
we took a different route home, with more sun and less shade than we would have liked, and were exhausted when we finally arrived back at the college. after dinner, we watched wings of desire, a film that seems to have inspired city of angels, but that has more space - a quality of european films i adore - and depth than the later american remake.
and then we flopped into bed. exhausted. quenched. sated. satisfied.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
travel log. Santa Fe. 3 August.
shall I tell you a bit about the workshops, since that is what I am here for?
We've been workshopping the work of two poets for an hour each each day. The feedback has been generous and respectful, affirming and encouraging. For instance, with mine on Monday, I appreciated with my poem 'Surrender' the varying responses to my use of solidises (forward slashes / ). People wondered if, on the page, the slashes impeded the reading of the poem; were reminded of the use of slashes in prose when quoting poetry, marking line breaks; thought it made it look like / sound like a song, flowing, resembling the river in the poem which was seen to be like a song (I loved this response, because the river was a metaphor for God and I also like to think of God as a song); and observed that the solidises seemed like steps to them, like the steps spoken of in the poem, adding to the fluidity, meaning, mirroring the river's tumbling. How amazing, because for most of this, I hadn't even thought of it. I use solidises for my more overtly performance -like poems. I had tried writing this poem without them, more like usual free verse, but hadn't found the flow I found putting it into my performance poem form. Perhaps that's because some of this other stuff was happening, without being observed by me except for the finding of the rhythm.
I have also, through workshopping my own and others' poems, been reminded of the need to find detail, specific detail, to help a poem along: Betsy (Scholl) said that the detail then becomes a pool from which you can draw imagery later in the poem.
then we've been doing exercises - taking names of paints, or lists of random things, or things of certain colours, and putting them into poems. this may become more than an exercise, but here's my paint names exercise:
Benjamin Moore arrives home
out of the horizon
bursts an Alaskan Husky
chased by sleigh bells
the half moon sends
silver beams to catch
the sabre grey of her coat
she slows
and the bells cease
as she nears the stonewall
covered in ash wood moss
behind which her pups
are sheltering from the snow
(Benjamin Moore was the name of the brand of paints; I couldn't resist adding it in too, as the title!)
today my friends from the poetry workshop and I have been planning an outing into Santa Fe for our free day tomorrow. We've discovered a chocolate trail, heard about a local brewer of beer, and want to visit some of the many art galleries and museums dotted all over town. What we don't see tomorrow, I'll go back into town and see on Sunday once the rest of the Glen participants have departed.
We heard an excellent presentation from Jeffrey Overstreet, on play. Oh, so much resonated with me.
- visions of beauty can create a sense of recognition, can cause us to feel reparied even when we weren't aware of being broken
- limitations create opportunities for play: for example, singing in a choir when you have to focus your gaze on the conductor and sing in time and tune with and move in coordination with the members of the choir - focusing your attention on these things brings about a freedom in which beauty is created. this reminded me of jazz, and how the structures of the music provide the framework around which the musicians improvise. Overstreet was talking about students needing a balance of structure and free time so as to have the opportunties for play, for creating beauty.
- and he spoke about the ways he has experienced community, deep connection with others, through playing together; I wondered about the implications of this for my community at Belair - how are we encouraging play, how might we encourage it more? I think we are a playful community, and so I see that my job is to encourage and enable this playfulness to grow, to continue and not be stifled.
- creativity is emerging as a key quality recognised in effective leaders, and there is new thoght that the right / left brain dichotomy might not actually be as helpful as once thought - creativity doesn't happen only in the right brain, it needs the left brain (or whatever way around it goes).
- play is encouraged in the Biblical story, in places like Proverbs, the Psalms, Isaiah and Zecharia, not to mention in Jesus' parables and playful interactions with people.
this evening we heard from Lauren Winner's upcoming memoir on the middle stage of faith - after conversion and before later calm wisdom. might be middle stages, actually, because we move through many. my goodness she is an entertaining writer and speaker, and hers have been added to the list of books I will seek out when i return. (not risking putting them in my bag to take home)
so it's been a full rich day, not least because today my bag finally arrived, and I have been reunited with my 'stuff', and reconnected to the internet, and thus my people at home. people here and at home have been right beside me in my lost-ness and uncertainty and discomfort during this waiting time. I know it's a small thing to have lost in the scheme of things, and I've actually been pleased to witness the Aussie laid back nature come to the fore as I have endured with patience and a certain resignation to the situation.
We've been workshopping the work of two poets for an hour each each day. The feedback has been generous and respectful, affirming and encouraging. For instance, with mine on Monday, I appreciated with my poem 'Surrender' the varying responses to my use of solidises (forward slashes / ). People wondered if, on the page, the slashes impeded the reading of the poem; were reminded of the use of slashes in prose when quoting poetry, marking line breaks; thought it made it look like / sound like a song, flowing, resembling the river in the poem which was seen to be like a song (I loved this response, because the river was a metaphor for God and I also like to think of God as a song); and observed that the solidises seemed like steps to them, like the steps spoken of in the poem, adding to the fluidity, meaning, mirroring the river's tumbling. How amazing, because for most of this, I hadn't even thought of it. I use solidises for my more overtly performance -like poems. I had tried writing this poem without them, more like usual free verse, but hadn't found the flow I found putting it into my performance poem form. Perhaps that's because some of this other stuff was happening, without being observed by me except for the finding of the rhythm.
I have also, through workshopping my own and others' poems, been reminded of the need to find detail, specific detail, to help a poem along: Betsy (Scholl) said that the detail then becomes a pool from which you can draw imagery later in the poem.
then we've been doing exercises - taking names of paints, or lists of random things, or things of certain colours, and putting them into poems. this may become more than an exercise, but here's my paint names exercise:
Benjamin Moore arrives home
out of the horizon
bursts an Alaskan Husky
chased by sleigh bells
the half moon sends
silver beams to catch
the sabre grey of her coat
she slows
and the bells cease
as she nears the stonewall
covered in ash wood moss
behind which her pups
are sheltering from the snow
(Benjamin Moore was the name of the brand of paints; I couldn't resist adding it in too, as the title!)
today my friends from the poetry workshop and I have been planning an outing into Santa Fe for our free day tomorrow. We've discovered a chocolate trail, heard about a local brewer of beer, and want to visit some of the many art galleries and museums dotted all over town. What we don't see tomorrow, I'll go back into town and see on Sunday once the rest of the Glen participants have departed.
We heard an excellent presentation from Jeffrey Overstreet, on play. Oh, so much resonated with me.
- visions of beauty can create a sense of recognition, can cause us to feel reparied even when we weren't aware of being broken
- limitations create opportunities for play: for example, singing in a choir when you have to focus your gaze on the conductor and sing in time and tune with and move in coordination with the members of the choir - focusing your attention on these things brings about a freedom in which beauty is created. this reminded me of jazz, and how the structures of the music provide the framework around which the musicians improvise. Overstreet was talking about students needing a balance of structure and free time so as to have the opportunties for play, for creating beauty.
- and he spoke about the ways he has experienced community, deep connection with others, through playing together; I wondered about the implications of this for my community at Belair - how are we encouraging play, how might we encourage it more? I think we are a playful community, and so I see that my job is to encourage and enable this playfulness to grow, to continue and not be stifled.
- creativity is emerging as a key quality recognised in effective leaders, and there is new thoght that the right / left brain dichotomy might not actually be as helpful as once thought - creativity doesn't happen only in the right brain, it needs the left brain (or whatever way around it goes).
- play is encouraged in the Biblical story, in places like Proverbs, the Psalms, Isaiah and Zecharia, not to mention in Jesus' parables and playful interactions with people.
this evening we heard from Lauren Winner's upcoming memoir on the middle stage of faith - after conversion and before later calm wisdom. might be middle stages, actually, because we move through many. my goodness she is an entertaining writer and speaker, and hers have been added to the list of books I will seek out when i return. (not risking putting them in my bag to take home)
so it's been a full rich day, not least because today my bag finally arrived, and I have been reunited with my 'stuff', and reconnected to the internet, and thus my people at home. people here and at home have been right beside me in my lost-ness and uncertainty and discomfort during this waiting time. I know it's a small thing to have lost in the scheme of things, and I've actually been pleased to witness the Aussie laid back nature come to the fore as I have endured with patience and a certain resignation to the situation.
travel log. Santa Fe. 2 August continued.
I went for a short wander around the campus a bit this afternoon. was good to stretch my legs a little, and it made me feel the calmness and presence that I now have here in this strange new world. I asked a man passing by to take a photo of me with the college in the background. He said yes, then his phone rang and he had to take it, missed it, then got the message and had to listen to it, then finally took the picture! bit more of a saga than it needed to be, which was a trend to the early part of my american adventure I was hoping had passed ...
we listened to Melissa Pritchard read an essay that was so profound, so beautiful, I almost cried again. still emotionally fragile it would seem. Pritchard is a journalist, essayist and fiction writer. This essay was an exploration of her grief at her mother's passing, also describing her time on writers' retreat in Scotland just after her mother had died. She also told us a bit of the story of the Afghan Women's Writing Project, with which she has become involved after getting to know some female soldiers and airforce officers when embedded in Afghanastan. one young woman in particular was also a writer, whom Pritchard was going to mentor, but this young woman died in Afghanastan, and Pritchard now promotes the work of this writing project in her name.
After this, I led communion with a group of about 15 or 20. the little room we were in was full apart from two or three chairs. it was simple, went for about 15 mins, and one of the things people have seemed to appreciate most was the pre-service bit where I introduced myself and then checked that my assumption about shared liturgical responses among protestant traditions was correct - and we were so delighted to discover, not only that I from Australia used the same liturgy, but that all these people had this in common from across their different states and traditions in America. One person said to me this afternoon, he so appreciated (having come from a Catholic background particuarly) that here was a place he could participate in communion with a woman presiding, and a woman with cool coloured hair and from Australia no less! We enjoyed this time together so much that we're doing it again on Friday (one protestant communion service was originally in the program, but the program director is delighted to offer another time).
Dinner with some of the poets from the other poetry workshop, sharing differences in approaches of the teachers. These poets were a Lutheran pastor (John?) and Episcopal priest (Kit).
The program this evening was visual arts, with Ginger Geyer showing her porcelain recreations of everyday objects, onto which she reproduces classic paintings - they're stunning, check them out on her website. She also creates stories to go with some of the pieces, involving an alter ego she has invented. Kim Alexander's artwork is another kind of sublime - using the finest of brushes she paints these intricate and huge pieces, many of which draw on stories of refugees from war torn countries all over the world struggling to make a new life in America. These are moving pieces. Very moving pieces. And a stunning way to process the difficult stories she hears, and also to give voice to these voiceless people in her community. Kim had made a bet with a young man that she wouldn't cry too much as she talked about the pieces. If she did, she would sing in the cafeteria in front of us all. If she didn't, he would do 30 push ups in front of us all. She didn't, and he did the push ups then and there! (sorry, wasn't quick enough to get a photo).
then there was open slides, and there were such diverse and stunning works of art shown here - gorgeous pantings in a contemporary style I really like and can't describe of parables and other biblical stories; etchings (in a different form that I don't know the name of) and monsters painted from digital creations; assemblage; pieces created using ground coffee or cinamon; portraits; collaborations between mother and daughter; and another form i can't remember the name of (hopefully it will come back to me). was such a delight to sit there and absorb the beauty and creativity.
we listened to Melissa Pritchard read an essay that was so profound, so beautiful, I almost cried again. still emotionally fragile it would seem. Pritchard is a journalist, essayist and fiction writer. This essay was an exploration of her grief at her mother's passing, also describing her time on writers' retreat in Scotland just after her mother had died. She also told us a bit of the story of the Afghan Women's Writing Project, with which she has become involved after getting to know some female soldiers and airforce officers when embedded in Afghanastan. one young woman in particular was also a writer, whom Pritchard was going to mentor, but this young woman died in Afghanastan, and Pritchard now promotes the work of this writing project in her name.
After this, I led communion with a group of about 15 or 20. the little room we were in was full apart from two or three chairs. it was simple, went for about 15 mins, and one of the things people have seemed to appreciate most was the pre-service bit where I introduced myself and then checked that my assumption about shared liturgical responses among protestant traditions was correct - and we were so delighted to discover, not only that I from Australia used the same liturgy, but that all these people had this in common from across their different states and traditions in America. One person said to me this afternoon, he so appreciated (having come from a Catholic background particuarly) that here was a place he could participate in communion with a woman presiding, and a woman with cool coloured hair and from Australia no less! We enjoyed this time together so much that we're doing it again on Friday (one protestant communion service was originally in the program, but the program director is delighted to offer another time).
Dinner with some of the poets from the other poetry workshop, sharing differences in approaches of the teachers. These poets were a Lutheran pastor (John?) and Episcopal priest (Kit).
The program this evening was visual arts, with Ginger Geyer showing her porcelain recreations of everyday objects, onto which she reproduces classic paintings - they're stunning, check them out on her website. She also creates stories to go with some of the pieces, involving an alter ego she has invented. Kim Alexander's artwork is another kind of sublime - using the finest of brushes she paints these intricate and huge pieces, many of which draw on stories of refugees from war torn countries all over the world struggling to make a new life in America. These are moving pieces. Very moving pieces. And a stunning way to process the difficult stories she hears, and also to give voice to these voiceless people in her community. Kim had made a bet with a young man that she wouldn't cry too much as she talked about the pieces. If she did, she would sing in the cafeteria in front of us all. If she didn't, he would do 30 push ups in front of us all. She didn't, and he did the push ups then and there! (sorry, wasn't quick enough to get a photo).
then there was open slides, and there were such diverse and stunning works of art shown here - gorgeous pantings in a contemporary style I really like and can't describe of parables and other biblical stories; etchings (in a different form that I don't know the name of) and monsters painted from digital creations; assemblage; pieces created using ground coffee or cinamon; portraits; collaborations between mother and daughter; and another form i can't remember the name of (hopefully it will come back to me). was such a delight to sit there and absorb the beauty and creativity.
travel log. Santa Fe. 2 August.
I am feeling a lot better today. at last. my bag still isn't here, but i have borrowed a phone charger, called Qantas, and discovered that it has cleared customs and been assigned a Fed Ex number and should be here tomorrow. It is a surprising relief to simply know it is on its way, to have a more definite idea of when to expect it to get here. Again, an example of how difficult the not knowing places are.
I am getting to know people a bit more, with conversations moving beyond who are you to acually talking about church and faith and life.
it is a gorgeous day again today. I don't think I have mentioned it, but the weather is delightful. warm days, thunderstorms, cool evenings. apart from, or perhaps despite, the pressure on your lungs making it painful to even ascend a flight of stairs, I am really enjoying this place.
Our workshops are making me think that I am not being thoughtful enough, or in line with our theme, attentive enough, to my poems, putting them here on the blog earlier than I might. What would it be like if I took the time to let the poems expand and contract, develop beyond the first burst of inspiration, become a little more polished? perhaps I will try that.
I am wondering, too, about joining or starting a poetry workshop when I return home. hearing responses from a small group of readers before releasing a poem finally into the world might also be an act of love and attention my poems deserve.
I am getting to know people a bit more, with conversations moving beyond who are you to acually talking about church and faith and life.
it is a gorgeous day again today. I don't think I have mentioned it, but the weather is delightful. warm days, thunderstorms, cool evenings. apart from, or perhaps despite, the pressure on your lungs making it painful to even ascend a flight of stairs, I am really enjoying this place.
Our workshops are making me think that I am not being thoughtful enough, or in line with our theme, attentive enough, to my poems, putting them here on the blog earlier than I might. What would it be like if I took the time to let the poems expand and contract, develop beyond the first burst of inspiration, become a little more polished? perhaps I will try that.
I am wondering, too, about joining or starting a poetry workshop when I return home. hearing responses from a small group of readers before releasing a poem finally into the world might also be an act of love and attention my poems deserve.
travel log. Santa Fe. 1 August. Evening.
I forgot that I was the reader for worship tonight! Luckily erin noticed my name on the front of the bulletin (that's US for order of service), so I had time to check what I was doing and read through it a few times. Was a poem called 'Stone'. I was a bit nervous, which was unusual for me, usually I'm nervous until I get up and speak, but this time the nerves didn't settle. People seemed to appreciate the reading, from what they said after. We read the psalm and a prayer as 'choirs', and it felt quite odd to be surrounded by a room full of American accents; mine sounded odd amidst them.
When we sang, I started to cry - had to let the people sing for me. The beauty of community.
My bag still has not joined me in Santa Fe. I am quite lost without it. My phone and computer batteries are both out of juice - I have put a note on the board asking if anyone has chargers I can borrow. I feel quite cut off, disconnected from home, not being able to check in. Perhaps it is forcing me to be more present here. Or maybe I am just beginning to make friends and feel part of things. But I also want my bag for my shoes - really want to go for a walk, as my back is hurting. Drinking more water is helping the headaches, though. The high altitude mixed with jet lag is a dreadful combination.
It is later, and I am not sleeping. Part of me is regretting my decision to travel alone, though I do realise that this discombobulation is all part of the travelling experience. You can't expect to travel to the other side of the world and your body and mind and spirit not to feel dislocated, unsteady, uncertain in a new place. you can't travel across town to an unfamiliar place without some of that discomfort. This is a really difficult place to be. Alone, on the outside, adrift. And it is exhausting.
When we sang, I started to cry - had to let the people sing for me. The beauty of community.
My bag still has not joined me in Santa Fe. I am quite lost without it. My phone and computer batteries are both out of juice - I have put a note on the board asking if anyone has chargers I can borrow. I feel quite cut off, disconnected from home, not being able to check in. Perhaps it is forcing me to be more present here. Or maybe I am just beginning to make friends and feel part of things. But I also want my bag for my shoes - really want to go for a walk, as my back is hurting. Drinking more water is helping the headaches, though. The high altitude mixed with jet lag is a dreadful combination.
It is later, and I am not sleeping. Part of me is regretting my decision to travel alone, though I do realise that this discombobulation is all part of the travelling experience. You can't expect to travel to the other side of the world and your body and mind and spirit not to feel dislocated, unsteady, uncertain in a new place. you can't travel across town to an unfamiliar place without some of that discomfort. This is a really difficult place to be. Alone, on the outside, adrift. And it is exhausting.
travel log. Santa Fe. 1 August. keynote address.
Robert Cording gave the keynote address this evening, exploring attentiveness, weaving around the idea that we (humanity) have seen Eden, but Eden is now mostly obscured from our view (from George Herbert), and that seeing is impossible without love (Ruskin: love as an exercise in overcoming oneself for the sake of the other). Drawing on an Old Testament / Jewish understanding of creation stories, we live in a good - not a perfect - world. (resonating for me with the book I'm currently reading: Brian McLaren's A New Kind of Christianity) This is a world that we know, a world that we don't know, a world about which we know more than we can say. When we don't love the world enough, we overlook the world - we don't see it.
I liked Cording's thought that it really is courtesy to know the names of the trees and flowers and birds outside our door. But there is so much more to a thing, as with a person, than a name: and when we think we understand something, we cease thinking, we stop seeing it.
I want to explore more an idea Cording touched on: of the Bible as a story about waking and sleeping. this intrigues me.
And I have circled and underlined this in my notebook: The poet produces the beautiful by focussing on something real.
in our workshopping of my poems, there were several occasions where introducing clearer details, describing something real, would enhance the clarity and effectiveness of my poems.
Another thought to remember: What matters is being attentive to what is being encountered.
the theme for The Glen Workshop is acts of attention.
I liked Cording's thought that it really is courtesy to know the names of the trees and flowers and birds outside our door. But there is so much more to a thing, as with a person, than a name: and when we think we understand something, we cease thinking, we stop seeing it.
I want to explore more an idea Cording touched on: of the Bible as a story about waking and sleeping. this intrigues me.
And I have circled and underlined this in my notebook: The poet produces the beautiful by focussing on something real.
in our workshopping of my poems, there were several occasions where introducing clearer details, describing something real, would enhance the clarity and effectiveness of my poems.
Another thought to remember: What matters is being attentive to what is being encountered.
the theme for The Glen Workshop is acts of attention.
travel log. Santa Fe. 1 August.
It is kind of hard being here on my own. I feel like such an outsider. And I am surprised at how unused I am to being in a place where no one knows me, especially a gathering like this, a Christian gathering. Australia, the Uniting church, must be a small place indeed; I can go to events all over the country and still look around the room and expect to see a familiar face. Here, not at all. I look around the room, expectant, but then remember - you don't know anyone. No one you know will walk through that door just because you look again five minutes later. so it's hard; people aren't seeking me out, to talk to me. they're friendly enough, and I've had some good conversations, but they're not easy, free-flowing conversations you have with friends, or even acquaintances and colleagues in the church.
I was awake from 2am to 5am: jet lag. I suppose I will crash at some point later today. I want to go for a walk during this long break between lunch and the afternoon session, but as my bag is yet to arrive, I haven't the shoes, nor enough changes of clothes. I would like to check emails, too, but I resent the idea of paying for things unnecessarily, like time in the computer lab, as I have a computer. The chord would be helpful for charging the battery and rendering the computer useable. Again, that's in my bag. In LA.
We had our first workshop this morning. We're going alphabetically workshopping each person's work, so of course I was up first. I appreciated the way Betsy, our facilitator, set the mood and the guidelines for how we respond to each other's poems. i will admit it was probably important for me to remember not to speak so as to show how much we know, but to ask helpful questions.
Was affirming to hear Betsy name my poems as strong, and that she was pleased to discover them.
I think it's going to be a good group - thoughtful and affirming responses, respectful of the poet and the poem.
I was awake from 2am to 5am: jet lag. I suppose I will crash at some point later today. I want to go for a walk during this long break between lunch and the afternoon session, but as my bag is yet to arrive, I haven't the shoes, nor enough changes of clothes. I would like to check emails, too, but I resent the idea of paying for things unnecessarily, like time in the computer lab, as I have a computer. The chord would be helpful for charging the battery and rendering the computer useable. Again, that's in my bag. In LA.
We had our first workshop this morning. We're going alphabetically workshopping each person's work, so of course I was up first. I appreciated the way Betsy, our facilitator, set the mood and the guidelines for how we respond to each other's poems. i will admit it was probably important for me to remember not to speak so as to show how much we know, but to ask helpful questions.
Was affirming to hear Betsy name my poems as strong, and that she was pleased to discover them.
I think it's going to be a good group - thoughtful and affirming responses, respectful of the poet and the poem.
travel log. Santa Fe. 31 July.
I have arrived in Santa Fe at last! Flying over Texas, it looks so flat; from the air it seems as though there aren't even any undulations, just flat flat fields with circular plantings for miles and miles. Oh, and I was enjoying this view from first class!! no wonder the ticket cost so much more! must have been all the travel agent could get, but I did enjoy it!
Driving through New Mexico from Albuquerque the landscape had changed to hills and near desert. All the buildings looked the same, all made of mud. I don't know why I was so surprised by this, that all the houses should look old and made of mud.
My bag has not preceded me. It may not join me until tomorrow.
Saint John's College is a small campus, set in the hills surrounded by pine trees. There seem to be a few people arriving for the week. Are all of them here for The Glen, or are there other programs, I wonder?
I am finding all the new, unknown, unfamiliar things overwhelming. With all the delays from Adelaide, in Sydney, and now my bag left behind, I feel a bit fragile and vulnerable. Also anti-social. I respond readily enough when others initiate conversation, but I don't seem to have the energy to start conversations myself. I hope I come out of my shell soon, I do want to make the most of the week.
3 days.
I've been travelling and waiting
for three days.
and with each step away from home
I have retreated a step toward safety.
but now that I have arrived
I am hoping I will emerge:
pull back the hood,
shrug off the traveller's cloak
release my spirit
and embrace
my American adventure.
Driving through New Mexico from Albuquerque the landscape had changed to hills and near desert. All the buildings looked the same, all made of mud. I don't know why I was so surprised by this, that all the houses should look old and made of mud.
My bag has not preceded me. It may not join me until tomorrow.
Saint John's College is a small campus, set in the hills surrounded by pine trees. There seem to be a few people arriving for the week. Are all of them here for The Glen, or are there other programs, I wonder?
I am finding all the new, unknown, unfamiliar things overwhelming. With all the delays from Adelaide, in Sydney, and now my bag left behind, I feel a bit fragile and vulnerable. Also anti-social. I respond readily enough when others initiate conversation, but I don't seem to have the energy to start conversations myself. I hope I come out of my shell soon, I do want to make the most of the week.
3 days.
I've been travelling and waiting
for three days.
and with each step away from home
I have retreated a step toward safety.
but now that I have arrived
I am hoping I will emerge:
pull back the hood,
shrug off the traveller's cloak
release my spirit
and embrace
my American adventure.
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