circles, all around
my purple room friend is a gentle prodder. she had not heard much from writemuch these past few weeks and was wondering what i was thinking. writemuch in fact was, too, wondering what i was thinking, as this, my double-nickel birthday week began.
it began in fact with circles. walking in circles, that is, which when i think about it, is pretty much how my mind works. i start out thinking i'm going to clean out the pantry but that leads somehow to the bedroom closet which leads to the tomato patch which leads to the kitchen window sill which makes me hungry which leads me back to the pantry. and on and on. or how my day goes. circle my block three times with the dog and his friend. spin the tires to work and back. move from desk to copier to kitchen to church and back again. circles.
back to walking. i don't know much about labyrinths or their mystical properties, but there is one where i work. sometimes i walk up through the grass to take pictures of it, but as of last week, i had not actually walked it in a good long while.
but my week began there, with my purple roommate and the others who occupy the work hall with me. our instructions were to walk in silence, and if we bumped into each other along the path not to worry about it too much. that's life, isn't it? distancing ourselves from each other, then circling back, bumping into, distancing again. oh, and we might recognize it as how we meet God on occasion. distancing, bumping into, circling back. letting God circle us sometimes.
i set out on the path and walked those circles and thought, thanked, questioned, petitioned — tried to listen to something more than the soft scuffle of my shoes on brick.
i found myself thanking God for all my years however poorly i have sometimes lived them. just to get up in the morning to begin the circle is a blessing. as i turned a corner down the path (which is really a yellowish sort of brick road) my thinking turned to my hope for my children, which is easy and hard to think about at the same time. both are at corners, each facing change that is unknown and surprising. and as my week began, it was hard for this mother to sit tight and watch, to wait and see.
another corner. another thought. the husband. the job. the community i work for. my own ability to do good in that world and the larger one. what people think of me. and who i really am. heavy and light. light and heavy, thoughts kept coming as gentle as the slow breeze circling me.
back in the office, one of my work friends said they noticed as they turned the corner each time, their thoughts turned a corner, too, their conversation shifted. just like mine.
when i started out my career so many years ago, i worked for a tiny daily newspaper, taking pictures of friday night lights and check presentations. i spent hours in a dark room wearing a shiny yellow apron, dipping my fingers in developer and fix, watching an image emerge from blank paper. the next job — my second one — lasted only one year, yet i wrote and wrote and wrote, made awful mistakes that somehow were forgiven and learned much from them. i learned how to lay out a newspaper, to tell a good story. that job led to this and that through the years, to the job i have now, taking pictures, writing, teaching, designing, questioning. a bit of every little thing i've learned in these 30 years. and last week i produced a little magazine for the people i work for, using all of those skills. circles.
that second job, too, changed me the most, set me on all sorts of paths. it's where i met my husband. got my first dog.
on thursday of last week, my son landed his second career job. oh, the hope i have for him. circles.
on thursday of last week, my son landed his second career job. oh, the hope i have for him. circles.
on friday, i headed home. if you are born in the South of course you may live anywhere but you are always from one place. on the eve of my birthday, i broke hushpuppies over barbecue and stew at my childhood kitchen table, listening to my parents talk. when i asked them if i was early or late, my mother said a little early. and i learned something new: i had been delivered not by the doctor who was my father's partner, but by the nurse who worked for him much of my childhood. Both doctors were busy with a patient when my mother couldn't hold me in anymore, so the nurse pulled my screaming head into the world.
my mother had a couple of gifts for me. one, a small pillowcase hand-embroidered by an elderly neighbor more than 50 years ago. miss applewhite was blind, and though we can't figure out how, she designed a perfect bouquet of flowers with circular centers, never dropping a stitch. i had used this pillowcase as a child. circles.
yesterday, i spent my birthday lunch over burgers with my boys, then we drove around the block to where my son's new office will be. my supper shared with "friendless" friends whose son shares his birthday with me. more circles.
back in the spring, i took part in an online writing community. each day for 37 days we were to answer a prompt. i was working on my novel at the same time, so on some days, i skipped the prompt, including this one on day 11: notice all the circles you see today.
i guess the circles were tired of me not paying attention.
as is usual when i start to write, i have no real notion of what something is about. just a little niggle in my head. blind-like, i fiddle with stitches that seem not to connect, until somehow something whole emerges, just like images from the developer in that dark room years ago.
as is usual when i start to write, i have no real notion of what something is about. just a little niggle in my head. blind-like, i fiddle with stitches that seem not to connect, until somehow something whole emerges, just like images from the developer in that dark room years ago.
circles.
like double nickels taped to a birthday card from my lifelong friend. a new camera and lens from my family. candles for my patio. a casserole dish decorated with a labyrinth of circles. the last of the season's tomatoes on the window sill. zinnias. the communion cup.
writemuch.blogspot is the original work of author susan byrum rountree. all written work and photography is copyright protected and can only be used with written permission of the author.
in praise of beautiful women
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| mel & me |
i met my friend melanie almost seven years ago, when her husband was called to be rector of our church. i was on the search committee, and when melanie came to visit, she brought with her a tiny baby girl she kept in a bucket. well, not really a bucket, but that's what she called it. the day they moved into their house, i arrived, offering to sit with sweet baby coco as her parents told the movers where to put what.
mel was young, uncertain of her role as rector's wife. how would she do it? it would take time for her to figure out. coco is now in first grade, and two sisters have joined her, one of whom is my godchild. and their mother has grown, too.
mel played lacrosse at brown, was now refs for the acc and runs 10 miles on an ordinary day. i played with barbies, and on a particularly athletic day in college, i might have run to krispy kreme toward the hot doughnuts now sign. but we are both writers, and so connected over words.
mel wears spiked heel shoes to church on sundays. i almost always wear flats because of my bunions. (bunions?) I dress like my mother. she dresses like nobody's mom. and yet, we have found common ground.
mel wears spiked heel shoes to church on sundays. i almost always wear flats because of my bunions. (bunions?) I dress like my mother. she dresses like nobody's mom. and yet, we have found common ground.
the wife of a priest is traditionally expected to champion some sort of ministry within the parish. kind of like the wife of a president. choose a platform and make that your baby. well, mel had three babies in five years, so it took a little while to carve out space enough to find her church passion. in between she joined our parish writing group, pouring her soul into beautiful words that everybody i know — and everybody i don't — should read. she needs a blog!
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| keynote patti digh |
and this weekend, we did. with the help of a whole bunch of amazing and beautiful women. and another 200 amazing and beautiful women who attended.
when she was welcoming all those women, Melanie said this:
Please take a moment to look around. In front of you, to the left, right, and behind. Tell your seatmates your name. We are here to share stories. To hear our own again. When we share, it becomes bigger than us. The Gathering was born out of a desire to do “inreach” to feed the souls of women who do so much for others, often placing our own needs last on the list. When we nurture ourselves, we nurture others. When we let our light shine, we give others the freedom — the courage — to do the same. We got to this day by a series of “God-instances.” With each idea, we were shown a path. With each hurdle, we were given a gift.
one of the gifts i have been given in lo these 7 years is just knowing her, watching her beauty, her joy, as she found her ministry, has done what she was expected to do, but with surprise. sure, she does the bake sales, prepares church suppers, but her calling is much deeper.
i have written in the past that in preparation for the gathering, we taught a class, one centered on four words we can keep in mind as we move through our days. one of many represented in the books of patti digh, was this: open doors for people.
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| the gathering committee rocks! |
i can think of 200 women over the past friday and saturday — some of whom probably thought the door was firmly shut — who found it open for them, just because of mel's vision and her ministry. those of us involved in the planning have been opened to new friendships, new doors we thought had been locked long ago.
find a door. open it. Wide as it can go. let people in. do. welcome. it will be good for you.
view from the pew
i'm not a front pew sitter. left side, five pews from the back, right on the aisle is where you will find me on Sunday. But this weekend, at least for a little while, my view was from the front pew.
my friend melanie had the vision, and i joined her with a dozen other women to make it happen. We planned for almost a year, to gather women in our church and their friends to celebrate story, the story found in each of us, as a way to connect to our God-created creative center.
and it finally happened. and for two days we talked. shared. wrote. drew. listened. celebrated. sang. ate. wept. laughed.
patti digh, our keynote speaker, gave us challenges. one was to turn around to the person behind you and ask: what do you love to do? the young woman behind me looked lost when i asked her, had no clue how to answer this question. i'll tell you what i love to do, i said. make yeast rolls. get my hands in the dough. turns out she loved to dig in the dirt, and though the rabbits were eating everything she put out, we shared a love for peonies.
another exercise: look into the face of the person on the pew behind us. for two minutes. the woman behind me was elderly, my mother's age. as i stared into her green eyes, watched her eyebrows lift into sly smile, dip into frown, i pondered the story in her wrinkled skin.
then, patti said, said, close your eyes, think of your favorite childhood game, your first love, a place where you feel safe. open your eyes. see the woman before you. she has the same remarkable story as you. introduce yourself.
i asked carmen, my new friend, about herself. she is the wife of a retired priest, was there with her daughter, and when i heard of her husband's occupation, looked at her name again, something struck. could she have spent time my hometown, been friends with my mother? yes, in fact, she did. was.
and there were other stories. a young woman with colored dreadlocks came from south carolina to meet patti digh. when she left, she left behind beautiful drawings to remind us of her presence. mothers who came with grown daughters. cancer survivors hoping for a fresh start. mothers caring for young children. others caring for aging parents. all eager to renew purpose in their lives. to learn how to live their lives as art.
jill staton bullard, was one of our breakout speakers. she started a movement when she watched a fast -food company throw out good food because the day shifted from breakfast to lunch. Jill asked this question of her group: tell each other about someone who has changed your life. the room soon filled with babble. next question will be harder, jill said: now tell each other about people whose lives you have changed. we don't own that one, she says. other speakers talked of the angels in their lives, how God works in the garden (i hoped my gardening friend was in that one), feeling God's presence in art, in the pew, in the world around you.
the weekend ended with a eucharist, a celebration of all things woman, with kites and candles, hymns and wine, bread and prayer.
as i sang, i looked around, at my friends mel and barbara and martha on the pew beside me, lee and linda and sandy and charlotte in pews or standing all around, nell and patti, a generation apart, singing in unison from their own pew. somewhere behind me i knew were grace and diana and katherine, dawn and lynn and sally, frances and diane, marty and laurie and countless other women who are important to my life, and i could not keep from weeping.
it was the kites i noticed then. two young women, sisters — twins — flailing dove and spiral above as all our heads lifted, watching them soar.
+++\
please check back tomorrow, as I will post more pictures.
my friend melanie had the vision, and i joined her with a dozen other women to make it happen. We planned for almost a year, to gather women in our church and their friends to celebrate story, the story found in each of us, as a way to connect to our God-created creative center.
and it finally happened. and for two days we talked. shared. wrote. drew. listened. celebrated. sang. ate. wept. laughed.
patti digh, our keynote speaker, gave us challenges. one was to turn around to the person behind you and ask: what do you love to do? the young woman behind me looked lost when i asked her, had no clue how to answer this question. i'll tell you what i love to do, i said. make yeast rolls. get my hands in the dough. turns out she loved to dig in the dirt, and though the rabbits were eating everything she put out, we shared a love for peonies.
another exercise: look into the face of the person on the pew behind us. for two minutes. the woman behind me was elderly, my mother's age. as i stared into her green eyes, watched her eyebrows lift into sly smile, dip into frown, i pondered the story in her wrinkled skin.
then, patti said, said, close your eyes, think of your favorite childhood game, your first love, a place where you feel safe. open your eyes. see the woman before you. she has the same remarkable story as you. introduce yourself.
i asked carmen, my new friend, about herself. she is the wife of a retired priest, was there with her daughter, and when i heard of her husband's occupation, looked at her name again, something struck. could she have spent time my hometown, been friends with my mother? yes, in fact, she did. was.
and there were other stories. a young woman with colored dreadlocks came from south carolina to meet patti digh. when she left, she left behind beautiful drawings to remind us of her presence. mothers who came with grown daughters. cancer survivors hoping for a fresh start. mothers caring for young children. others caring for aging parents. all eager to renew purpose in their lives. to learn how to live their lives as art.
jill staton bullard, was one of our breakout speakers. she started a movement when she watched a fast -food company throw out good food because the day shifted from breakfast to lunch. Jill asked this question of her group: tell each other about someone who has changed your life. the room soon filled with babble. next question will be harder, jill said: now tell each other about people whose lives you have changed. we don't own that one, she says. other speakers talked of the angels in their lives, how God works in the garden (i hoped my gardening friend was in that one), feeling God's presence in art, in the pew, in the world around you.
the weekend ended with a eucharist, a celebration of all things woman, with kites and candles, hymns and wine, bread and prayer.
as i sang, i looked around, at my friends mel and barbara and martha on the pew beside me, lee and linda and sandy and charlotte in pews or standing all around, nell and patti, a generation apart, singing in unison from their own pew. somewhere behind me i knew were grace and diana and katherine, dawn and lynn and sally, frances and diane, marty and laurie and countless other women who are important to my life, and i could not keep from weeping.
it was the kites i noticed then. two young women, sisters — twins — flailing dove and spiral above as all our heads lifted, watching them soar.
+++\
please check back tomorrow, as I will post more pictures.
Iron your own boxers
She really came to take care of my house. The babying, and the mothering of my then three-year-old Princess Pea, she would leave mostly to me.
I remember these things about that day: we had a flat tire before we could leave the hospital parking lot. My childhood friend, Lydia, in town from New York City for the apparel mart, came to see her newborn godson during his first hours home. A church friend brought over a spaghetti supper for us. And Graham curled his tiny fingers around his new blanket that 24 years later is practically in shreds.
I remember these things about that week: Graham slept a lot. My mother kept my house meticulously clean. One day she stood in my kitchen (the wood trim of which the previous owners had painted Pepto-Bismol Pink), ironing my husband's boxers and said, "if you'd touch them up with the iron after you wash them, he'd feel so much fresher." Or something like that. And then she got the flu.
In my post-partum recovery, I was in no mood to hear about my husband's need to feel fresher. I was still nursing my episiotomy, for heaven's sake.
At the time, I remember saying: Who cares? But I probably just looked at her, tears in my eyes, wondering how in the world I would manage to add this gigantic detail to days already too full with life of my own making, for me to manage alone.
For the record, I have never ironed my husband's boxers. He can iron them himself, thank you very much, should he feel the need to be fresher beneath his outer layers. He might need to, iron them, I mean, should he find himself in situations where someone would chastise him for not keeping his shorts pressed. But it is his own job to be at the ready for such times. Not mine.
I had forgotten this story until today, when I sat with a group of women discussing the book Four Word Self Help. It's a simple book, in which author Patti Digh sets out how to make our complex lives less complicated by generating four-word phrases that help us slow down, so we don't drown in the details. And not one of the phrases contains the word "don't", but each begins with action verbs (oh how I love those.) Create your own tribe. Pay attention to little people. Let other people in. Tell them your story. Do work that matters. Take just enough baggage. Walk hand in hand. Blow bubbles more often. (Or something like that.)
Simple stuff. Good stuff. So we went around the room, talking about the state of being women with jobs and homes and kids and husbands and stories, about how we hate to say no to people, and how sometimes our mothers won't throw the rotten fruit away from the bowls on our kitchen counters when they visit, because they are our bowls and our mothers don't want to interfere.
And then, I remembered what will be forever known in my life as The Boxer Rebellion. My friend, Melanie, who was directing our conversation, sat with index cards in her lap and a marker in her hand, and as we talked, she wrote: Throw away rotten fruit. No, I'm blowing bubbles. And she handed them out, saying: These are your new bumper stickers.
After I told my story, Mel handed me a note card that read: Iron your own boxers. And as I thought about this, I couldn't help but think how, yes, this really does mean something to me.
I thought about the kitchen I had left in a mess at home, all those things I had promised myself would be done by day 23 of the New Year, or at least started, all those actions promised but yet to be strung together as DONE. And because I haven't done all those things yet, haven't carved out small moments in my day to take care of what needs taking care of, sometimes my inaction bleeds into the day of others. Which sometimes (often), leaves my life and theirs not so neatly pressed.
Yes, Mama was right, sort of.
On the way to meet friends for lunch, I told my husband of my discovery of what my new blog post would be.
Him: Oh, I'm thrilled to know that my underwear has made your blog.
Me, in four words: Stories come from everywhere.
And there is a lot more to this story than a pair of boxer shorts that have yet to see the face of my monogrammed ironing board. (Yes, I did say that.)
To me, it's this: What if, instead of leaving our wrinkles to be pressed down in that never-approaching moment called "when I have the time," what if every single day, we took the tiny sliver of time it would take to press ourselves out, freshen our souls up underneath that outer crust, before we greet our daily world? Might we wear ourselves a little surer, be a little softer when we bump against someone else's day, if we were just a little less wrinkled at the start of our own?
Iron your own boxers. And you don't have to tell anyone my mother told you so.
After I told my story, Mel handed me a note card that read: Iron your own boxers. And as I thought about this, I couldn't help but think how, yes, this really does mean something to me.
I thought about the kitchen I had left in a mess at home, all those things I had promised myself would be done by day 23 of the New Year, or at least started, all those actions promised but yet to be strung together as DONE. And because I haven't done all those things yet, haven't carved out small moments in my day to take care of what needs taking care of, sometimes my inaction bleeds into the day of others. Which sometimes (often), leaves my life and theirs not so neatly pressed.
Yes, Mama was right, sort of.
On the way to meet friends for lunch, I told my husband of my discovery of what my new blog post would be.
Him: Oh, I'm thrilled to know that my underwear has made your blog.
Me, in four words: Stories come from everywhere.
And there is a lot more to this story than a pair of boxer shorts that have yet to see the face of my monogrammed ironing board. (Yes, I did say that.)
To me, it's this: What if, instead of leaving our wrinkles to be pressed down in that never-approaching moment called "when I have the time," what if every single day, we took the tiny sliver of time it would take to press ourselves out, freshen our souls up underneath that outer crust, before we greet our daily world? Might we wear ourselves a little surer, be a little softer when we bump against someone else's day, if we were just a little less wrinkled at the start of our own?
Iron your own boxers. And you don't have to tell anyone my mother told you so.
What Must I Do?
Lately I have been doing a lot of prep work for The Gathering, which I have written about in this space before. On Monday, I met with a group of women to pitch the event, hoping more than a few of them would sign up to attend. I talked about how we found Patti Digh, our keynote speaker, and the other women we have invited to lead breakout groups designed to spark creativity within us — in work, in community, in faith and daily life. Being part of the planning for an event we hope will help reshape the lives of many has been daunting, and so rewarding to me.
One of the many questions Patti asks in her book, Creative Is A Verb, is this: What is the one thing you MUST do?
We all have our daily "musts". Today, for instance, I must work, set up a new computer, create and distribute a weekly e-newsletter. I must have my Diet Coke, must finish this post, must check to see if I have enough money in the bank, must make the bed, clean out the coffee pot, walk the dog, write my Christmas thank you notes, plan supper. A long list.
But if I didn't do one of those things — or all of those things — the world wouldn't shake on its axis, and few, if any, would care at all. (Well, the dog would care, my mother would care about the notes, and my husband might not care about supper, too much.)
But this kind of must is different from the daily must do, something so imbedded in our souls that if we don't do it, we somehow feel a lost.
So I asked the women, most of whom I know fairly well, to take three minutes and think about it. Write it down. What must they do, or they would not feel whole? Just one thing.
Here's what they said:
Knit. Talk. Exercise. Organize. Connect. Be part of a church community. As they shared, I got a better sense of their inner lives, of what makes them who they are. And how their "must" connects them to those around them. Each of them, unknowingly, is creating art in her daily life, just by living within that must. The knitter showed her scarf. The talker talked of losing her singing voice to surgery, but of gaining her willingness to speak up. The organizer shared this: that hidden in that need to organize was her real need to connect people with each other, to find places where their talents can be shared.
As I listened, I thought: now this is one thing I "must" do. Pull the story out, particularly from those who think they don't have one. It gives me such joy to hear someone say: I never thought about it just that way before, when I ask a question and a story tumbles out of them that surprises. It's usually something they do think about but regard as so small, it is not worth sharing.
But of course it is the tiniest of things that can mean the biggest of things, when considered a new way. And what I must do, is capture those moments that bring meaning to the musts.
sbr
Let Me Be Clear
I'm team-teaching a class on Sundays in January on the books of Asheville writer Patti Digh, in preparation for The Gathering, a women's retreat I'm involved in next month, with Patti as keynote speaker. To prepare for the class, and for the retreat, I am opening Creative Is A Verb randomly each day, reading the story and working through the creative challenges Patti provides. Today's impromptu opening revealed page 180, Embrace your Clearness Committee. (more on that later)
I haven't known Patti long, but on a frustrating day last spring, as we were struggling to find a keynote speaker for our event, I stumbled onto her blog. I liked what I saw — a fellow writer musing about intention. And creativity. And story. About living life as art, even if we have never felt like artists before.
As much as I would like an entire weekend to be about ME and all my needs, I had to step back a bit and be (somewhat) unselfish. (Let's face it. All writers want ATTENTION.) Still, Patti's blog practically shouted at me to ask myself some questions. What was I doing in my life that was intentional, creative? Had I forgotten my own story? Might there be other people out there who could hear the shouting, too?
As I clicked further into her blog, I found the very language that we had been trying to define for our event:
I haven't known Patti long, but on a frustrating day last spring, as we were struggling to find a keynote speaker for our event, I stumbled onto her blog. I liked what I saw — a fellow writer musing about intention. And creativity. And story. About living life as art, even if we have never felt like artists before.
As much as I would like an entire weekend to be about ME and all my needs, I had to step back a bit and be (somewhat) unselfish. (Let's face it. All writers want ATTENTION.) Still, Patti's blog practically shouted at me to ask myself some questions. What was I doing in my life that was intentional, creative? Had I forgotten my own story? Might there be other people out there who could hear the shouting, too?
As I clicked further into her blog, I found the very language that we had been trying to define for our event:
- What learning and significances are right in front of us, in the stories of our days?
- How can we move beyond the limits of who we think we are into what we were meant to be?
- In what ways can we relinquish our “role” in order to discover who we might be beneath the mask?
- How can we live more mindful, intentional lives by saying yes, being generous, speaking up, trusting ourselves, loving more, and slowing down?
I told my friend Mel, The Gathering organizer, about her. She read the blog and liked Patti immediately. Send her an e-mail, Mel said. And write your heart out. And so I did, telling Patti of our a shared passion for "Julie, Julie Julie do you love me?" (ok, we were 13, so give us some slack...) And our small town N.C. roots. Not to mention that in one of her photos she is wearing a sailor collar dress like I used to have in first grade. I told her that I connected to the fact that she has sailed around the world because my husband has a sailboat, though we have as yet only sailed around Kerr Lake. I titled my e-mail: I have been looking for you all day. Which was true, since I had spent the whole day in a maze of Google searches that seemed to have no end, until I found her blog.
I said a little prayer. And then I hit SEND.
In 14 minutes, an e-mail from this woman who travels around the world and has written boocoos of books and speaks all over everywhere, showed up in my box:
My dear Susan -
Imagine my wonderment and delight to be sitting here at my computer and see your message come up. Anyone who shares my fondness for Bobby Sherman... and little did you know that my daughter will start NC State University in the fall, so Raleigh is very much on my radar and I am looking for excuses to come there.
I would be delighted to come. Let's find a way to make this work.
love, patti
What I learned later is that Patti gets hundreds of requests in a month's time, and she never responds quickly, much less in 14 minutes. A quick response she reserves for her daughters, husband and maybe dear Bobby, should he ever figure out who has been Googling him. And maybe a certain actor with a penchant for pirate movies. My e-mail clicked, and well, whodaever?
In the months since, Patti and I have had several conversations about The Gathering, and a few weeks ago, I attended one of her readings locally, wanting to meet this woman who is so honest about herself that she has started a new blog this week about wrestling with weight, trying to be a more bendable in body. She strikes me as being particularly bendable in spirit. She is soft-spoken and Southern and funky and funny and just like the self she projects onto the page. When she joins us in February, she'll talk about her path in hopes that we all might draw something from her life that will fit in our own.
It's Patti's fault, really, that I subjected y'all to this blog during December. She challenged her Facebook followers to join her in Reverb10, and I just said why not? The fact that I haven't posted anything in several days tells you that I need the challenge ever-present in my in-box, and though keeping the blog going is part of my 2011 self-improvement plan, apparently I don't hold much clout with myself, at least just yet. But this is a start.
So back to the Clearness Committee. It's a group of people gathered together to support us, whose job is not to have the right answers, as Patti says, but to craft respectful and supportive questions. Do we each have a such a group we can convene at the important moments in life, she asks? If not, we should find them, surround ourselves with such people, and at least a couple of them should have different perspectives on life from our own.
My answer would be yes, I do have a CC. And it's not just the people who say: you're terrific, though I do love those people. (Please keep it coming!) My CC is made up of those supporters, and those who aren't afraid to help me figure out when I have screwed up, have hurt someone, have fallen short of my potential. Those good folks who point out my typos, both literal and figurative. If I would only ask.
But am I open to the truth of me, and the truth as someone else sees me? My family (and a couple of people on my CC) would probably say no, I am not.
And, this: Am I on anyone else's CC? Have I shown my friends that I am the kind of person who can listen, who can ask respectful and supportive questions, who can give, as Patti says, "unconditional love with hopeful expectancy?" I hope so, but I wonder sometimes if I just take take take and don't give as good as I get. Yet another thing to work on.
So as I count down the weeks to The Gathering, I plan to gather my CC for the weekend, too. And together I hope we will craft respectful and supportive questions for each other, and in doing so, retell our stories, challenge our creativity, and maybe even admit we all loved Bobby Sherman, once upon a time.
My dear Susan -
Imagine my wonderment and delight to be sitting here at my computer and see your message come up. Anyone who shares my fondness for Bobby Sherman... and little did you know that my daughter will start NC State University in the fall, so Raleigh is very much on my radar and I am looking for excuses to come there.
I would be delighted to come. Let's find a way to make this work.
love, patti
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| Captain Who? |
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| Funny, funky Patti Digh |
It's Patti's fault, really, that I subjected y'all to this blog during December. She challenged her Facebook followers to join her in Reverb10, and I just said why not? The fact that I haven't posted anything in several days tells you that I need the challenge ever-present in my in-box, and though keeping the blog going is part of my 2011 self-improvement plan, apparently I don't hold much clout with myself, at least just yet. But this is a start.
So back to the Clearness Committee. It's a group of people gathered together to support us, whose job is not to have the right answers, as Patti says, but to craft respectful and supportive questions. Do we each have a such a group we can convene at the important moments in life, she asks? If not, we should find them, surround ourselves with such people, and at least a couple of them should have different perspectives on life from our own.
My answer would be yes, I do have a CC. And it's not just the people who say: you're terrific, though I do love those people. (Please keep it coming!) My CC is made up of those supporters, and those who aren't afraid to help me figure out when I have screwed up, have hurt someone, have fallen short of my potential. Those good folks who point out my typos, both literal and figurative. If I would only ask.
But am I open to the truth of me, and the truth as someone else sees me? My family (and a couple of people on my CC) would probably say no, I am not.
And, this: Am I on anyone else's CC? Have I shown my friends that I am the kind of person who can listen, who can ask respectful and supportive questions, who can give, as Patti says, "unconditional love with hopeful expectancy?" I hope so, but I wonder sometimes if I just take take take and don't give as good as I get. Yet another thing to work on.
So as I count down the weeks to The Gathering, I plan to gather my CC for the weekend, too. And together I hope we will craft respectful and supportive questions for each other, and in doing so, retell our stories, challenge our creativity, and maybe even admit we all loved Bobby Sherman, once upon a time.
I have been waiting all year
creativeisaverb@pattidigh
Prompt: 5 minutes. Imagine you will completely lose your memory of 2010 in five minutes. Set an alarm for five minutes and capture the things you most want to remember about 2010.
cloos' club lunches writing cloo's club the novel wicked full frame snow days with the dog june in nyc (with the princess and her pea) graham's new job suppertime in winter will berry's almost snowed-out wedding writing in response to scripture sailing holy grounds easter vigil phone calls from my sister and barbara organizing the gathering finding patti digh arranging altar flowers friday walks with reagan bobby sherman meredith's visits home staff retreat conversations in the purple room friends of the friendless taking pictures any day playing memory with cole hearing angels singing at bess's wedding Sunday naps anna's shower and wedding suppers with emily august in nyc wicked, again (with M) diana gabaldon finding sandra finding kay lunch with graham lunch with rick sunsets at the sound staff lunches talking it out haircuts with eric writing retreat hearing the world richmond marathon my birthday glee! raising hope
One note: You can hear Patti Digh (twice) at The Gathering, a women's event, at St. Michael's Episcopal Church, Fri/Sat, Feb. 25 & 26. Find out more and register. Learn how to live your life as a poem.