the season

Memories flow when floaty music plays and you watch kids getting married…

What kids you were, traipsing back up that isle, posing beside cake and fountainy arrangements
with lovely silk flowers,
with your hair the way you kept it, because the fancy do your mom’s friend proposed just
wasn’t right.
Not for now and as long as you both were going to live.
And living was a much bigger job than you could imagine, then,
bigger, fuller, tougher, duller, sharper. Deeper.
More stretched and gritty and scene-filled.

And on you traipsed, giggly, floating,
scared to life.

Posted in marriage is cute sometimes | 2 Comments

resume play


Here’s your answer from last time. Sorry, I meant to post in a more efficient manner. But.

The blog needed to pause.

Do you wish some days for all of life to just. stand. still. A moment? There are things here worth pursuing, worth diving deeper for, and it takes a gulp of refreshment — air, water, wind, or sun — to make it happen. Or, sometimes, those three little words, “The computer’s broken.”

Well, in my case, only the CD/DVD drive quit working. But a fix required a trip for my little machine to the Mac store. It was gone over the 4th weekend, and that was all right. Mostly.

Projects. I started a few. Even finished cleaning out a bathroom cupboard that still held baby teeth, in plastic bags, tucked away for, hm, I’m not sure what reason. It was time to throw things like that away. So I did. Mostly.

The next week, I noticed (using Mom’s computer) that my latest accepted essay, “His Spell,” was up online at The Shine Journal. About Dad and me fishing, it’s breezier than some things I do. It started, actually, with a blog post, here.

Then my computer arrived safely back home. Meanwhile, I was showing people the article I sold to BackHome, now out in their July/August issue (at newsstands mostly everywhere, I think).

It’s been nearly five months since I started my very part time job. As I’d always kind of feared behind my brain, the writing habits I had cultivated for four years dried up nearly completely. Weird, I know, but I need lots and lots of time for regular writing.

Or do I?

Finally getting back to some real focus the past couple days, I am remembering the sensation, sitting down to work (not scrolling the Facebook news page). Work. Writing is that. But it’s what I feel best suited for, when I set the nose pageward or screenward and say, right, here I remain for the allotted time today. I’ve rarely spent long hours doing my creating. In fact, one hour a day’s fine for seat time. As long as it’s regular. As long as I remember to carve out spaces during the rest of the day for deeper consideration of this living fabric, the stuff of my ramblings.

I need to observe. And to consider.

So I’m taking a cue from the katty kit here. And pausing. When necessary.

Posted in life, writing | 4 Comments

reusing, not regenerating

My son has given a grape plant a home in our back yard. Can you guess what it’s latching onto?

My left knee has been feeling its age, I suppose, and complaining to me about it. Our chiropractor examined it thoroughly (“Here, let me push the kneecap over and check beneath.” “Uh, fine; you won’t forget to replace it..?”). No swelling. Only the report that some degeneration of the fluidy stuff in there must be taking place.

Degeneration. Yeah. Suppose that’s the thing to expect more and more. I might escape this season of wearing out, if I only were Dr. Who, with his numerous regenerations. (How many does he have left, now?)

But there’s okayness here, still growing up on the inside, still squeezing muscles as Dr. Blair orders (as opposed to The Doctor, because he’s off in his tardis, and fairly fictional, as it were).

So, anyway, I’ll send you grapes (maybe wine in a few years), if you guess what’s out back becoming our arbor, or, especially, if you know good knee-pain remedies.

Posted in life | 6 Comments

interview: through the Ohlen Harris veil

Although my editor friend Lisa is a few years younger than I, she’s wiser regarding all things literary and nonfiction. She can tell you, after reading an essay, what sort of writing this is and what one might do to make it better. I love people like her.

Sometimes editors edit because writing just hasn’t worked well for them. Not so with Lisa. Her first book, Through the Veil, will soon be released by Canon Press. Its offerings include an essay which was listed under “Notable Essays of 2008″ in Best American Essays 2009, along with two others that have made the Notable lists in volumes of Best American Spiritual Writing. Another of the book’s essays was shortlisted for a Pushcart Prize and received special mention in Pushcart XXXIII.

Below are Lisa’s answers to my questions about her adventures as a literary character and writerly person.

DH: First, tell us the scope of your journeying. Where all have you been? Who are your fellow life voyagers?

LOH: I met my husband-to-be on a study tour in Damascus, Syria, which is also where Through the Veil begins. We married a year and a half later in Oregon and immediately after our honeymoon we moved to Philadelphia, where Todd went to grad school at Westminster Theological Seminary. We returned to the Middle East in 1996 with our one-year-old daughter. Two more daughters were born during our years in Jordan. Since returning to the States, we’ve lived in Delaware/Maryland, Pennsylvania (where our fourth daughter was born), Texas, and finally back to Oregon, where we intend to stay. I’m grateful for the breadth of experience and culture I’ve had over the past twenty years—which gives me plenty to write about—but I’m so glad to be back home in Oregon.

DH:When did you decide you would be a writer?

I wrote my first creative essay in 2004, when we lived in Texas, and I immediately became enchanted with the idea of creating literature from life. At that point I had no idea whether I would write magazine articles or a newspaper column or what. I joined a couple of online critique groups and started to see that my writing tended toward the kind of stuff published in literary journals. It wasn’t until my work started being accepted for publication that I knew writing would be more than a hobby for me.

DH: What led you to the MFA program you’re completing? How did your education enhance your essay writing?

LOH: Having an MFA enables me to teach writing at the college and graduate levels. I entered the program with a firm belief that no one needs an MFA to write well. While I still basically believe that, I’ve found that my writing has grown leaps and bounds in the past two years. For years now I’ve received helpful critique from fellow writers who are about at my same stage in the journey, but the MFA has given me the opportunity to also receive critique and direction from established writers and editors. Having these friendships is a benefit I hadn’t anticipated when I started the program .

The hurdle for me was how to make graduate school fit into my existing life. I’m in my forties and married, with four school-age children. At the time I applied for MFA programs I was also the primary caregiver for my elderly mother-in-law, who lived with us. The low-residency programs—and the Rainier Writing Workshop in particular—are designed for those who cannot relocate to a graduate school community for two or three years.

The Rainier Writing Workshop (RWW) was my first choice for several reasons. First of all, I recognized nearly every name on the nonfiction faculty listing, writers like Brenda Miller, Robin Hemley , Lia Purpura, and others. RWW’s program takes three years rather than two (with the three-year program costing about the same as a two-year program elsewhere), so MFA candidates are writing an estimated 15 hours per week rather than the 20-25 estimated for a two-year program. RWW also holds only one on-campus residency per year—in August—whereas nearly every other program has two residencies per year.

DH: You’ve stated that writing fiction is not for you. What is most appealing for you about creative nonfiction?

LOH: I am completely enchanted with the process of seeing life through a literary lens and uncovering the metaphors and portents and deep connective threads running through the stories that make up my life. This is a matter of aptitude as well as preference. I can see story structure in life, in thought, in rambling reflection, in imagery, and I can’t imagine ever tiring of this adventure—both the living and the writing. It’s magic to me, making life into literature, complete with the limitations granted by believability, truthfulness, and honoring those I write about.

DH: Which came first, your essays or the idea for your book?

LOH: I had written only a handful of essays when I began to mine my memories of living in Damascus. The memory of a slightly alarming interaction with some Bedouin women in Damascus combined with some research about the Crusades and became my first Middle East essay, completed in December, 2005. I realized right away that this concept could become my first book. I pulled out my journals and research notes from Damascus, and for more than two years I just kept writing essays about living in Syria and Jordan, submitting finished work to literary journals all along the way. In the “Acknowledgements” page for Through the Veil I say that I learned to write by writing this book.

DH: Lately you’ve been teaching and editing. How do those occupations fit with your writing career?

LOH: It’s hard for me to say which I love more—writing my own essays or coaching other writers. I’m glad I don’t have to choose between the two. Both fit together in this writing life.

DH: How would someone interested in receiving one of your coaching sessions go about contacting you?

LOH: I give a brief description of my critique and editing service on my website. To talk more about writing and editing or about a specific project, interested readers should email me. Although I have worked with local clients, most of my coaching takes place via email and telephone calls.

DH: What plans are in the works for Through the Veil’s unveiling?

LOH: I only have two definite events scheduled—a book release in the Dallas, Texas, area in early July and a private book launch with friends here in my hometown in mid-July. I have felt bizarrely shy about promoting my book, and I’ve decided that’s okay. If Through the Veil is worthwhile, readers will recommend the book to their friends and the news will spread.

My book has been picked up by several book clubs for next fall, and at least one of these groups has invited me to come speak to them. I’m hoping for more invitations to meet with writers and readers to talk culture and craft.

DH: Thank you, Lisa, for taking time to visit my blog. I’m excited to read your finished book and to imagine the richness of your prose giving more readers windows into worlds unknown. I’ve learned much from you about the art and craft of writing, and I’m looking forward to seeing others benefit from all you have to offer.

**You can now find this same interview over at Relief Journal.**

Posted in art, friends, interview, writing | Leave a comment

@ prick of the spindle

For the first time in a while, I’ve had pieces published that are longer than 1000 words. One is at Prick of the Spindle. They picked up my essay, “After the Fall,” and it’s now available here.

If you’ve known me a while, you’ll be familiar, perhaps, with my sometimes grittier style. If you think of me as a bit sheltered, or innocent, you may be surprised to learn more of my story. This piece of the tale came out fairly true to the way things felt back then. Back when an invitation to go skydiving appealed in a got-nothing-to-lose way.

Maybe it was essential to see how stupid I could be, back when I was young. Old and stupid I’ve been, too, but more accepting of truth, perhaps. More thankful than before, certainly, for the story and the dancing.

Posted in memoir, writing | 4 Comments

weavings and shinings

Here is where I land:

happy when my mind is free, when I hear the old, old stories gritty. Pedestrian, if you will. When I see harsh sun reflect off the Sea, taste dust, and move weary feet. Finally, resting on a cushion in the home of old friends, straining to hear his words to her. I want to embrace her expectant interest, her loving gaze.

“Are you saying,” she asks, “it’s not about taking over? I always thought…”

And he smiles. “We have a small role to play,” he says. “Like the tiniest seed in your garden. Insignificant. At least, that’s how it will appear. But think of those who came before you. Was David always on the throne?”

She shakes her head, eyes bright. “He was the youngest. No one considered him worthy of anointing…Then he was hunted.”

He nods.

“Oh,” she says. Her fingers twist her robe’s hem. “I see.”

“Waiting,” he says. “You will wait a long time. On the run. Misunderstood. But you’ll always have what’s here and now. No one can take it from you.”

***

Here is where others land:

whole selves embrace the morning, wriggling one might guess, if one hadn’t any reference. But the stylized movements are cryptically ethnic, patterns of bowing, prostration, hand to head, to belly, one shoulder, the other. The painted, haloed visage on the stand is kissed by some with weary faces, with lines from suffered years, in which the eyes are tender.

Their minds release care through words like well-worn beads. The chanting tone, the repetition. Glorification believed. Holy God. Holy mighty. Yet woven with echoes of long centuries hunted; waiting: “Lord have mercy.”

They recall his teaching, the stories are tradition. Mystical the elements they grasp. They rise above the gritty world, the prisons and beatings and tearing of the lions’ jaws.

***

I tell Victoria it was good for me to visit St. John’s again, to visualize meanings in the liturgy. And love. My, but there are ancient seeds of love beneath this ground.

Posted in belief, family, life | Tagged , | 2 Comments

when things changed

I was the kid who needed glasses the first month of second grade. I wore blue frames with three tiny flowers at each temple. After my brother and I were hit by a 1965 Mustang, I got replacement blue-framed spectacles with no flowers.

I was the one who after the accident became an early riser, the girl with the spotless room who made her bed every day, wanting it nice for the relief of making it home.

In the full-color photograph of my second grade class, I’m the girl in front grinning broadly with bright eyes and flowered frames. I’m the one who noticed, when they delivered the photos to each of us in December to carry home, that my smile was more boisterous than anyone’s. By then I had new glasses, but the picture was taken before.

I was the big sister, in October of second grade, grasping my brother’s hand on the way home from the candy store. An old lady from church stopped us to chat. “Be careful now,” she said to me before we parted. “Take care crossing the street with your brother.”

I tried looking both ways over large parked cars. Raindrops splattered my lenses. I was the one who said, “Go!” and led the way in front of the yellow Mustang. Its grinning headlight eyes didn’t see and its brakes couldn’t stop in time on the wet pavement.

Danny’s hand clutched mine the rest of the way. Adults helped. They had seen us dart in front of the woman in the Mustang. They got Daddy when we entered the house. He called to Mommy, who was on the phone.

I was the kid who, after lunch in April of second grade, walked my brother to afternoon kindergarten. I made us awfully late. The bell had already rung and I missed reading time. But the patrol boys weren’t out that day, and the cars kept coming.

Posted in life | 4 Comments

some day

This day in the, oh, the near-magic of being (or having been imagined, or remembered), I am watered and young and full.

Air curls sweet tails and tales around my strides and the rain has stopped and, though the fat lawn is still damp and the snakes are hiding, a lilted story is sung by tiny birds and the garden shed has warmed and the raspberries new-transplanted have leaped against the fence and put out fresh leaves.

The neighbors’ high apple branches have dressed green and the green, green of the maple roof nearly encloses the space where a cyclone fence meets the aging boarded one and an unseen doggy grave births perennials with shiny swords that might bloom yellow, later.

There have been lifetimes in the music within the four walls, and there were candles last night on the mantle and the lingering rich scent of dinner’s sauce stained wine-purple, with pluckings from the wet herbs next to the wall beneath the kitchen window, and there was ache and joy in words from a book closed on the table as dishwater steamed in the soapy, stainless sink.

And there were comfort hours in the flame-lit darkness, sheltered while the quilted stratus wrung fully into all the green-deep world.

Today in the, oh, near magic of being, or having dreamed I have been, I taste and consider and dance and prepare to savor some destination, some yet unseen desert gold.

Posted in life | 2 Comments

the accidental graduate

I don’t know if this will be the closest I get to a higher educational degree, but I thought I would mention…

I started writing posts on a Blogger blog four years ago.

This morning, my WordPress dashboard tells me this is my 200th post.

Since I began the work of educating myself to write more often and better, I have found some publishment in print and online. I’ve received much encouragement from friends, especially during bouts of steady rejection. I have become just techy enough to obsess over blog and website details.

Mostly, though, I’ve had fun.

Now I feel on the brink of new steps in this writing journey. (When haven’t I?)

Liking it here.

Posted in blogging, life, writing | 2 Comments

guest blogger: Elizabeth Westmark

I want to thank Deanna for the invitation to visit. I discovered Deanna’s writing about two years ago, and try to read her fine words wherever I find them. They resonate with my heart strings and my brain in a felicitous duet.

Deanna planted a seed for this post by suggesting I might write my “blogging story.” Here ’tis.

“Our challenge is to edit Life’s choices, but not too carefully, and to remain fully awake in each moment to precious possibility.”

Those words were the final sentence of my very first blog post. The year was 2003. It was September, and the cable television news stations were full of candidate profiles for the upcoming 2004 elections. I remember listening with one ear while I cooked supper.

“. . . and the candidate’s spouse is keeping an online web log of campaign events.”

I put down a mixing spoon and sprinted into the living room.

“Buck! What did that reporter say?” My husband tried to explain, but I kept interrupting him.

“No — I mean that word. What was that word?”

Naturally, he thought I had (once again) taken leave of my senses. He has seen that look in my eye before! I went back into the kitchen, muttering to myself. “Web log. Web log. What on earth is that? I’m going to look it up.”

Dial-up internet service was still a minor miracle, so it took me a little while to get the full scoop on web logs, which had not yet fully morphed into blogs. Once I did, I was riveted by the concept.

The impetus for me to start a blog was curiosity, plain and simple. I had no training in http (hypertext transfer protocol) and blog templates were not nearly so seamless to create in 2003. Then, as now, one of the great rewards of blogging is that it forces us to learn constantly, and to reach beyond our initial grasp.

The first time I pushed the “publish now” button, I didn’t really believe it would work. It was exciting to see my post, called “Lunch Hour,” on the screen. But when my first commenter posted, that’s what set me on fire. It was a one-word comment: “Amen.” By following the link, I was able to find his blog and learn how to create a blog roll. Then, I was off to the races, finding and linking up with other pioneers in this wonderful new world.

Since that first blog post, I have pursued writing like a dog worrying a bone. There are days, even months, where I forget where I buried it for awhile. But I always come back. It wasn’t until 2008 that I realized I had written a lot of words, and that maybe some of them had “the stuff” to be polished and published. That realization started another chapter in my life. For the first time, I began to think of myself as a writer, and it made me incredibly happy.

My first published story was based on a blog post. My blog doesn’t attract hordes of readers, but like good friends in the real world, you don’t need many like-minded, genuine folks to form a meaningful community. It’s a writer’s learning lab for our small circle, and a great source of warm fuzziness that brightens my days and nights.

The blog archives are maintained with the help of “cloud” computing back-ups, so that anytime I want to pull out the files and explore old pathways of my life, the material is there: words, photographs, and even several videos — a multi-dimensional scrapbook of memoir raw material. Whenever I feel a writing dry spell coming on, the years of blog posts are like some great steaming compost pile of ideas and themes.

You can find the second blog post I ever published at Switched At Birth by clicking here. It was posted on September 19, 2003. It still breaks my heart a little to think of how four good friends broke their relationship and were never, like Humpty-Dumpty, able to put it back together again.

Thanks for reading — and thanks again, Deanna, for the invitation to “guest blog.”

I’m happy as peaches to have this chronicle of a writer/blogger’s beginning. Here’s more about her:

Elizabeth Westmark’s essays have appeared in Brevity Magazine, Prick of the Spindle, Camroc Press Review, and Dead Mule, among others. She maintains two story-telling/memoir blogs, a food blog, and a microessay blog from her home in a Longleaf pine preserve near Pensacola, Florida, where she is writing the memoir of a small forest, essays, and short stories.

Thanks, Beth!

Posted in blogging, guest blogger, neat artist types | 4 Comments