MONDAYS ARE FREE EXERCISES 191-195

[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 191-195

Re-writes. A Phone Number. Darkness. Wynken, Blynken, and Nod.

EXERCISE 191: ENGAGE THE ORIGIN, PART I

re-write the first

Re-write the first poem you ever wrote.

[I am re-writing the first MONDAYS ARE FREE exercise — a poem about lucky writing stuff.]

A desk of my own. Enough table for a cat to nap between my chest and keyboard when I type. Enough notebooks to stop and start and stop again, and again, and again. Enough gel ink .5 pens to write every story I ever imagine. Enough natural light to stay focused when my mind wanders. Enough coffee to get shit done. Enough headphones to listen to news and music in my mind’s background. Enough clean contacts to see clearly. Enough prescription glasses to see when I rip or loose a lens. Enough snacks close by to energize. Enough chairs to sit for hours. Enough core strength to keep my lower back happy. Enough wrist strength to write for hours. Enough crystals and stones to balance my energy. Enough internet to remain connected. Enough pictures on the wall to ground. Enough books on the shelf to remind. Enough candles to inspire. Enough space to invite conversation. Enough bees to pollinate flowers. Enough butterflies to break free. Enough laughter to hold sadness. Enough tears to heal the hard parts. Enough scar tissue to prove we can heal. Enough music to dance and dance and dance. Enough stars to navigate darkness. Enough clouds to know rain and shine.

EXERCISE 192: TAP INTO YOUR MENTAL ROLODEX

besties in the era of

Write down every phone number that you have memorized. And for every memorized phone number, and every person (or business or whatever) it belongs or belonged to, write an eleven-word entry./ If you have no phone numbers memorized, your assignment is to memorize some phone numbers. Ideally, the phone numbers of whoever were your besties in the era of Atlantic Starr and New Edition and The Dead Milkmen. If those music groups are before your time, what I’m saying is memorize the phone numbers that belong to your middle school crew.

I only remember my first home phone number — 812-282-7218. That was my phone number for more than 40 years — definitely during middle school. (I am not sure why I do not know other significant phone numbers from that era.) That was my phone number when I decided to climb the cherry tree in our front yard, before I became afraid of heights. That was our phone number when Peppy, our black Miniature Schnauzer, decided he loved to chase cows. That was our phone number when our family had tickets to the Kentucky Derby. That was our phone number when my Dad was President of the School Board and my Mom finished her Master’s degree. That was our phone number when I knew all the lyrics to La Di Da Di and Wrapper’s Delight. That was our phone number when I collected Michael Jackson pins and had crush on Roger Taylor of Duran Duran. That was our phone number when I roller skated backwards to Rubber Band Man in our basement. That was our phone number when Luke and Laura fought the Cassadines on General Hospital. That was our phone number when I had braces and could do a back hand spring. That was our phone number when I drank my first beer and shared my first kiss. That was our phone number when I wrote my first poem in secret under the basement stairs.

EXERCISE 193: QUOTE YOUR ELDERS

distinct (and distinctive)

Write a poem that includes ten very distinct (and distinctive) phrases from older people in your life.

I don’t have enough older people in my life. I don’t when I became too busy for wisdom. I don’t when active listening became butting in. I don’t know when to stay soft in hard times. I don’t know when I learned age is a gift. I don’t know when my body started to know ache and pain. I don’t know when I started thinking about mortality and legacy and prayer. I don’t know when my song changed. I don’t know when I learned to see cardinals as messengers and cats as family. I don’t know when my edge softened or seeped or strung or shifted or soared.

EXERCISE 194: MOVE THROUGH THE DARK

navigate your home

Write two pages describing what it’s like to navigate your home with all the lights off. You can actually shut the lights off and try to do this, but don’t stub a toe, crush a lego house, knock over a pile of books, etc. That is, conduct this exercise with a reasonable amount of self care.

Our house has too many stairs. They lead to wonderful places and there are too many of them. Navigating them is difficult in darkness and light. An exploration of our space and stairs in the dark benefits from the fact that large windows frame our 100 year old industrial loft home. Bricks and dark wood shelves and exposed ductwork and steel railings create shadows when the moon shines through the windows. Even with moon shine, darkness radiates a factory spirit that once made things where we sleep. Say I want to go downstairs in the middle of the night of a glass of water. Soft carpet cushions my movement from bed. Cold concrete marks my steps to the top of the stairs. (I wish I had my phone flashlight.) I grab the rail with my left hand and proceed slowly. My toes grip the shiny wood stairs. Step. Step. Step. I reach the landing after feeling my way. Step. Step. Step. I reach the concrete floor. My memory guides me to my left. I touch the top of the coach to steady my turn toward the sink. The glow from the front windows is just enough to find a glass from the island. I grab the glass and dodge the bowls of cat food and water. The oven clock and refrigerator door allows me to see the water and ice buttons. I fill my glass and slowly head to the stairs and back to bed. I make my way up the stairs using the city lights that shine through the deck door as my guide.

EXERCISE 195: ENGAGE THE ORIGIN, PART II

the first poem

Re-write the first poem you ever read.

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod — On Learning to Dream

Stardust and oceans and dreams/ Sailboats and sweetness and nets/ Pillows and ruffled hair and soft voices/ Cast wide your imagination/ Dance between sleep and attention/ Remember it all/ “We have come to fish for the herring-fish/ That live in this beautiful sea;/ Nets of silver and gold have we,”/ Said Wynken,/ Blynken,/ And Nod.

Pillows and high thread count sheets and soft voices/ Open passage and constellations and darkness/ Sustenance and safety and shine/ Build attention muscles/ Live grace and edge/ Breathe morning and season and tide/ “We have come to fish for the herring-fish/ That live in this beautiful sea;/ Nets of silver and gold have we,”/ Said Wynken,/ Blynken,/ And Nod.

First memories and life pulse and swaddled heart strings/ Curiosity and joy and hope/ Beginner’s mind and light and vision/ Sacred searching/ Gentle seeking/ Deep knowing/ “We have come to fish for the herring-fish/ That live in this beautiful sea;/ Nets of silver and gold have we,”/ Said Wynken,/ Blynken,/ And Nod.

Thank you for reading MONDAYS ARE FREE. These exercises are explorations of poetry and language and joy. Subscribe to the Wide-Awakeness Project to share this journey.