Peaches. Tapestry. Feet. Irises. Shoes.

I have been writing MONDAYS ARE FREE for about six months. It has been a source of joy. It has been the best challenge in the way that precision and economy and beauty require reflection, voices are excavated and discovered and cherished, and time is remembered and polished and held.

Mondays are Free is writing calisthenics. It’s a gym for writing muscles. I share my writing exercises, hoping my commitment to going public with my emerging journal joyfully and lovingly reinforces my desire to write and find poetry in paying attention. In the Mondays are Free introduction, Ross Gay mentions creating community as a project goal. I want a writing practice that makes me a better writer. I want a writing practice that creates community — with intention, attention, creativity, and care. I want a writing practice that helps us find what we love in common.

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MONDAYS ARE FREE 001 — 020

MONDAYS ARE FREE 001 – 003

EXERCISE 002 — WHISPER IN THE ARCHIVES

In the future, your dullest moments could become archival news. Someone is studying the 21st century, sitting in a reading room with tall ceilings maybe, waiting to hear your voice. They already have access to all of our digital headlines and social media posts. Your report however will round out theories on our everyday lives.

Describe a single mundane task in detail that you believe encapsulates the times.

I watch peaches grow in a small orchard of 20 or so trees in Atlanta’s Piedmont Park during the spring and summer near my house. The orchard sits next to the popular dog parks. The orchard is a sacred space for me. (As I write this, I have been unable to walk through the park for a long time. The orchard will be one of my first destinations when I am back on my feet.) Until I started walking in the park, past the orchard, I had no relationship with peaches beyond a summer love affair as a child. I had no idea of the time it takes for peaches to become peaches, the growing cycle of peaches, or even if peaches grew on trees. Today, the orchard is sacred to me. It is a place where I slow down and pay attention. It is a place where I breathe and smile. It is a place where I leave the noise and fear behind.

It seems to me an archive of the 21st century must record that nature is still nature, perfect time is still perfect time, and sweetness is still sweetness. Today, when so much is upside down and sideways — and just plain painful — seasons are still seasons, trees are still trees, and peaches are still peaches.

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MONDAYS ARE FREE 004 – 006

EXERCISE 006 — STUDY ALBUM ART — TAPESTRY

Describe an album cover in detail.

Carole King, Tapestry. You were an 8-track in my parent’s collection. I permanently borrowed you and played you for hours on my yellow 8-track player. I fell in love. A tapestry of soft light through a window. I am not sure if it is sunrise, noon, or sunset. If I knew more about angles and reflection maybe I would know which one it is. Understanding light is important. I could probably tell you more about light if I knew about shadows. Shadows hold half the space. A chest of drawers. A table. A chair. Shadows frame a curly-haired soul. She has curly hair. Like my curly hair. Curly. Unkempt. Beautiful. She has always been me. Feeling the earth move. Asking about love. Seeking friendship. Tapestry was released the year I was born. We celebrated our 50 birthday a few years ago. A long-hair cat sits on the windowsill somewhere between stay and go, today and tomorrow, hard and soft, noise and quiet. Things feel different now.

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MONDAYS ARE FREE 007 – 010

EXERCISE 008 — LISTEN ELSEWHERE

Choose a body part and use that body part to listen to the universe, near and wide. What does the body part hear that the ears might not?

Listening — My left foot

Well, it’s been rough. I hear a scalpel cutting and stitches reconnecting a tendon. I hear the twisting and turning of ignored warnings and years. I hear small talk and then darkness. I hear memories of marathons and strength. I hear the Beltline rhythm and the heat of sunshine and magnolias. I hear dog smiles and art’s music. I hear the cry of high heels and the squeal of slippers. I hear “Slip Sliding Away” and remember playing in the snow of 78. I hear start lines and finish lines. I hear the stretch of downward dog and the quiet of trees. I hear the thump of the treadmill — the real and imagined treadmill. I hear the throbbing secrets that wake me and remind me of the road I have walked and the painful and beautiful world I will walk into. I hear the fear that comes when I look toward the stairs and think of the world I will rejoin after 16 days of bedrest. I hear the monsters that await. Their breath. Their growl. Their stare. That is real fear. I chose to pay attention to spring. Where the monsters are more like butterflies breaking free of their cocoons and robins building nests for their robin families and tree buds whispering and bursting. I hear warmer temperatures thawing hearts. I hear deep healing. I hear millennia of truths. I hear gentle promises breaking long silences. Today, I hear hope.

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MONDAYS ARE FREE 011 — 015

EXERCISE 011: IMITATION IS THE HIGHEST FORM OF …

Write a poem that takes at least three cues (it could be the tone, the number of lines, an image, a sonic element) from Robert Hayden’s “This Winter Sundays,” including this one is mandatory! – the line, “what did I know, what did I know.”

Irises In The Snow

Irises survive early snow, every year/ Resisting hard ground and head and history/ Knowing the stories of generations/ Fearing no ice/ Stretching toward the sun

Waking up like morning/ Choosing today to be today/ Elastic and rigorous/ Delicate and and undeniable

I would wait impatiently as a child/ What did I know, what did I know/ of generations and seasons/ of perfect time and strength/ of stretching toward the sun

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MONDAYS ARE FREE 016 — 020

EXERCISE 017: BEGIN THE BOOK OF LUCK

Pick any chapter heading from the Table of Contents you composed for The Book of Luck. Write the chapter. It should be written in exactly eight numbered sections, each section exactly eight sentences long.

Prayer Like Shoes

I wear prayers like shoes. Pull’em on quiet each morning take me through the uncertain day. — Ruth Forman

1. DOWNTOWN

I have lived in cities for many years. Several cities. Several climates. Same situation. I have walked down my street before things start to move and shake with daily traffic. It is not uncommon for people to have slept on street benches or in alleys or behind dumpsters or under bridges in these places. Their humanity frames my path. They are holy. Their story is mine if I open my arms wide enough to hold it. We are one on these same streets.

2. PRAYER

In her poem “Prayers Like Shoes,” Ruth Forman explains, “I wear prayers like shoes. Pull ’em on quiet each morning and take me through the uncertain day.” Shoes are strength. Shoes are comfort. She shares that the most helpful advice her mother ever gave her was, “Girl, you go to God, and get you some good shoes, cause life ain’t steady ground.” If prayers are like shoes, prayer sustains. Prayer is essential and relevant. Prayer is steady ground. Prayer is holy.

3. BOOTS

In a city I lived, a man slept on a bench on my block. He used his boots as a pillow. Worn boots cradled his chin while he slept. The boots protected him. They they offered him strength. They made his world a bit less uncertain. The boots were a prayer. The boots were holy.

4. A CHALLENGE

There is a challenge to the whole prayer-like-shoes idea. If prayers are like shoes, we must make prayer a part of our lives in real and tangible ways. People understand prayer differently. If prayer is constant and unceasing, we must pray even — and especially — when we feel alone and angry. If prayer is a conscious conversation with God, we see the holy throughout our world and tell about it. If prayer is about self-awareness, we live a mindful connection to our breath. If prayer is about finding oneness with others, we are loving and compassionate — no exceptions. Meister Eckhart reflects, “If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you, it will be enough.” — in that sense, prayer is gratitude.

5. PRAYER’S FUNCTION

Prayer takes practice. Prayer guides. Prayer holds. Prayer builds. Prayer protects. Prayer grounds. Prater invites. Prayer sustains.

6. TYPES OF PRAYER

I was taught over the years about specific types of prayer — prayers of adoration, confession, thanksgiving, petition, and intercession. Prayer is built on fundamental health and safety. Prayer is the belief that we are seen and loved. Prayer is like breath — a life sustaining thing we just simply do. Prayer is intimate and personal. Prayer reflects a personal relationship with a force beyond our understanding. Prayer is paying attention to it all. Prayer is perpetual morning.

7. MARY OLIVER ON PRAYER

It doesn’t have to be/ the blue iris, it could be/ weeds in a vacant lot, or a few/ small stones; just/ pay attention, then patch// a few words together and don’t try/ to make them elaborate, this isn’t/ a contest but the doorway// into thanks, and a silence in which/ another voice may speak. -Mary Oliver

Iris bulbs have been passed along by the generations of women in my family. They are the backbone of my family’s gardens. It makes sense to me that Oliver begins her thoughts of prayer mentioning irises. They are beyond words. They are hope and history. They are the whisper of what has been, is, and will be. They are memory and thanks.

8. SOME THOUGHTS ABOUT BOOTS

I think back to boots. Finding comforting pillows. Embracing our strange and weird and other selves. Knowing strength and comfort. Holding conversations. Connecting with all that is. Seeking sturdy ground. Thank you for it all.

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