MONDAYS ARE FREE EXERCISES 211-215

[The Stage is on Fire] is a page-turner in which, much like life, there are no easy answers and yet each step of the journey yields insight and hope. This work of heart must not be missed!

Melanie Faith

Creative Writing Teacher, Essayist & Poet.

Katie Steedly’s first-person piece [The Unspeakable Gift] is a riveting retelling of her participation in a National Institutes of Health study that aided her quest to come to grips with her life of living with a rare genetic disorder. Her writing is superb.

The Society of Professional Journalists

In recognition of receiving the Dateline Award for the Washingtonian Magazine essay, The Unspeakable Gift.

I thank you … It is the authenticity of your “class notes”; and it is the delicacy and skill with which you present the nuances of classroom life and the actuality of your students’ and fellow teachers’ lives.

Maxine Greene

Philosopher and Education Scholar

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MONDAYS ARE FREE EXERCISES 211-215

The “S” Sound. Work. Letting Go. Moments. Cartography.

EXERCISE 211: EMBRACE TWO CONSTRAINTS

sound occurs

Write a 150-syllable poem in which the “s” sound occurs at least thirty times.

Baby peaches sprout in Spring. Singing from/ blossoms. Already smelling like sweet newness,/ like sacred beginning, like sincere faith,/ like subtle breath into a future that/ knows grace and faith and courage. Every year/ blossoms swirling and seeking and soothing/ and sparkling. The sturdy tree knows the truth./ After winter snow comes Spring. From roots there/ are buds. We survive deep frosts and harsh storms./ Stubborn fruit becoming sticky, soft, and/ spectacular. Delicious. I wait in/ prayer. Safely. Sincerely. Serenely. The/ earth spins surely on its axis. My head/ spins swiftly searching for center. I blink/ and breathe and bend. I patiently and dil/igently and vigilantly watch./ Welcome Spring. Welcome blossom. Welcome peach.

EXERCISE 212: WORKS AND DAYS

in their lives

Think of a person in your life whose work goes unnoticed. Describe five different images of them in their lives in their work, on the way to their work, or leaving work. At the top of the page write, “The Five Labors.”

The Five Labors — The Works and Days of B.O.

Opening a prayer service at a women’s retreat./ I remember watching her convene the moment. She gently asked us to come together. We gathered around and sat down. Along with her co-leader, she offered a welcoming invocation — maybe a Mary Oliver poem, or a scripture passage, or something beautiful she wrote herself. Her quiet confidence radiated like she had lead these moments 1,000 times. Her posture and grace invited our attention. She looked each of us in the eye, somehow simultaneously. It was personal.

Hugging during the Sign of Peace./ Every Sunday, we offer the Sign of Peace to people in our sanctuary. Peace can be anything — a simple nod, a handshake, a hug. You can offer Peace to someone sitting next to you or someone on the other side of the sanctuary — a friend or a stranger. Her Peace shakes the earth. I think it is her smile, or maybe her presence, or maybe her intention. Her kindness is full-throated. Her connection with others is unmistakable. Her light shines.

Serving at local food kitchen./ Every week she serves her community. A food kitchen. Political organizing. Church activities. Rolling up her sleeves. Inviting us to plant seeds. Creating space for neighbors. Getting communities involved. Magic happens when she serves. It looks like change. It looks like courage. It looks like faith. It looks like grace.

Reading scripture at the front of church./ I have read scripture in front of church. Often my nerves make my breath quicken, my eyes widen (forgetting to blink), my hands tremble. She looks nothing like all that when she reads scripture. Her understanding of scripture, built on religious training and pastoral experience, runs deep. It looks like seeds being planted when she reads. It looks like bricks making a beautiful path when she reads. It looks like pearls of wisdom when she reads.

Sharing vacation pictures on social media./ She goes to National Parks and cities. She spends time with friends and family. She embodies joy and delight. She finds meaning and solace. She builds relationships. I get all that from her vacation pictures.

EXERCISE 213: LETTING GO

to someone

Write a poem to someone you love who you’ve let go of.

Before I can let go, I have to learn what that even means. Does letting go mean acceptance and ? Does letting go mean to not drink the poison of resentment or anger or regret? Does letting go mean to detach with love? (I have always struggled with words like detachment.) Who gets to decide when/how to let go? What does love look like after you have let go? What is the point? Maybe all these questions flood my mind in and effort to escape letting go? Maybe the letting go process is the poem? Maybe the to someone you love is me — as I struggle with the fundamental concept of letting go, and the simultaneously complex and simple grace required to do it.

A letting go poem to myself would probably include the Zen koan about the tiger and the strawberry. It is ultimately a letting go story. In the story, a woman is running while being chased by tigers. She reaches the edge of a cliff a finds a branch on which to hang and escape the tigers behind her. Hanging from the vine, off the edge of a cliff, she notices more tigers beneath her waiting for her to fall. She notices strawberries in a patch grass on the cliff in front of her and a mouse gnawing on the vine to which she clings. She decides to let go of the branch and eat a strawberry.

If I was a better storyteller, the connection between eating strawberries and letting go would be clearer. It is about paying attention and presence and letting go. It is about seeking and finding and letting go. It is about equanimity and breath and letting go. It is about fruit and joy and sweetness in letting go.

EXERCISE 214: WRITING THE FIVE MOVEMENTS

beautiful and mysterious

Compose a piece of writing in five parts, in any genre. The opening phrase of each section should be: In the night… In my dream… No one has ever said to me…. In the night… One day, I will… The last section should contain a wish. These lines come from Jamaica Kincaid’s beautiful and mysterious book At the Bottom of the River.

In the night… I remember the barge song. We lived close enough to the Ohio River to hear the deep cry. Every night the hum. Every night the turn. Every night the weight./ In my dream… I am debt free and write my heart’s words. I pay attention and create. I tell stories of love and justice. I practice grace and forgiveness. I notice beauty and find delight./ None has ever said to me… You can not love who you want to love. You must pray to a particular God or no God at all. You can not speak out against cruelty and injustice. You must stop believing in the goodness of others./ In the night… I see the lights of downtown Atlanta. I find the moon and make a wish. I memorize the constellations that live within the city’s glow. I listen to the night’s hum. I lay on my back and let a cat crawl onto my chest and rest./ One day, I will… Practice yoga regularly. Journal daily. Build something founded on love. Live a healthier life. Cherish relationships even more deeply.

EXERCISE 215: LITERARY CARTOGRAPHY

as good as

Write a poem or essay that gives very explicit directions to a place. The poem or essay should be as good as a map—it should work!

You can get there from here, though/ there’s no going home. — Natasha Trethewey

In her poem, “Theories of Time and Space,” Natasha Trethewey describes her experience going home to Gulfport, Mississippi. Trethewey’s words ask me to consider what it means to go home. Having been born in Louisville, Kentucky, on the Ohio River, and lived there for my first eighteen years, going home holds special significance. Home is not a place from which I ran. It is a place to which I return.

Trethewey provides directions home. Where to turn. The landmarks that will appear along the way. How far things are. How long it will take. I appreciate that clarity. I have never had a map that laid out a particular direction for life. My roots ran deep, yet I knew I needed to go. Home would always be there. I moved to the Pacific Northwest, with the smell of pine needles beckoning. I moved to Austin, Texas, with an acceptance letter to graduate school. I moved to Washington, DC, with a good job. I moved to Cincinnati — close but not home — returning to the familiarity of the Ohio River. I moved to Miami with my husband less than month after getting married. I now live in Atlanta where we bought a home.

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