September 11, 2013

Remember. 

This word resonates in my mind over and over so many times it loses its meaning. 

Remember. Remember. Remember

To put back together, to collect, to coalesce…

Remember.

I remember my mother and the way she laughed when I was being mischievous, a small chuckle, the lift of an eyebrow. 

I remember a girl who shared her limeade with me at lunch and told funny stories. She rode bikes with me to the Quik-Stop on Saturdays where we bought candy which we ate throughout the rest of the day, riding our bikes across the footbridge stopping in the middle just as a train went thundering by underneath us. We would lean against the railing as the wind whipped through our hair. I was nine.

 

I remember my Grandfather’s tattoo he got while in the navy, an original biker bad-a&&, had a faded red heart with a sword through it. I remember him playing crazy-eights with me. I was ten.

I remember a boy, who called me “Wonder Years.” I remember my mother holding me while I cried after I learned that he'd died. The first boy who ever noticed me and thought I was special. I remember my sapphire ring, sparkling and shiny. I remember how the boy took it and tried to put it on a finger and it sat like a small crown at the very top. I remember losing that ring and with it, a tangible connection to the boy. I was fourteen. 

 

I remember a day where so few words were spoken because there were none to say. I remember the simple silence that connected us all on a still, beautiful, blue and cloudless, sunny, September day; a day that had no right to be so perfect, unless it knew somehow that it was to be the last perfect day; the perfect day, separating before and after. A nation shattered into so many pieces. I was twenty-four.

Remember. Remember. Remember.

We put our pieces back together, one small memory-shard at a time. It will never be the entire image, the entirety of a person’s life, more like a mosaic, many pieces making up the whole; a broken and beautiful mosaic of what was and what is; the beauty of strength and courage, the beauty of resilience, the beauty of community, and the healing power of love. 

Writing and the Art of the "Writing Space"

Not many of us get the opportunity to have a writing space that is all our own. Sometimes your writing space is whatever seat is available at the fourth coffee shop you've visited. Sometimes your writing space is a train, commuting to work, or a bus commute etc. What works for you? Where are you the most comfortable when you write? Why do you think that is? If your favorite spot outside your home is a particular coffee shop, what color are the walls there? What is it about that spot that inspires your creativity? Is it the music? The coffee smells? The sounds of people chatting or typing? See what you can do in your own writing space to make it inspiring. If you don't have the luxury of a writing space, find a coffee shop that suits your creativity.

First: If you are lucky enough and you do have your own space here are a few ideas:

1. Paint your space an inspiring or calming color. 

I thought about where it was that I found myself most comfortable to write, and realized that sitting on the couch in my living room was among the most comfortable of spaces for me. The wall color in the living room is a deep, rich burgundy and I was already there, because my writing space is painted the same color. I love the rich red. It's inspiring, warm and calming. Our living room has an oriental rug, I have a different style but still beautifully patterned oriental rug in my writing space that complements the wall color.
Everyone reacts differently to colors, so find the one that suits you. Do some experimentation. Think about where you feel the most relaxed and calm and creative. What color are the walls in that space? or what color is most dominant in that space that you gravitate to. If you can, paint your writing space that color. Decorate the walls with whatever makes you feel good. I hung several pictures that I love. I have a friend who put up beautiful decals of birds on a lovely green wall color. I'm thinking of trying to ink an inspiring quote around the top edge of my walls. I'll post a picture if I do.

2. Use furniture that helps you feel comfortable physically and mentally. 

Use what you have and don't forget that you can always spend a few dollars on stain or paint to make an old piece feel new and fresh. Shop at garage sales for pieces of furniture that can be re-purposed or fixed. Pinterest has a wealth of ideas on this topic.
I was fortunate in that as a part of my graduation present from loved ones, I was able to purchase a cozy loveseat and ottoman with storage (in lieu of a desk). I also bought colorful pillows and crocheted a warm blanket.  I re-stained a wooden two drawer file-cabinet and gave it new hardware. I used existing bookshelves and a wingback chair that was my mother's. I've never felt more comfortable in a space before. That's when the title changed from "Office" to my "Writing Space."

3. Surround yourself with items that you love and items that help you get into your characters heads.

I hung up pictures I love. I have a whiteboard opposite my love seat because I like to work out ideas on it. I have a small zen rock garden, curtains that can be opened to let in light or kept closed and block out light. I have a magnetic board with magnetic poetry. The board was lovingly crafted by my supremely talented husband. I have candles and a small Virginia Woolf doll. I also have items that remind me of my characters, jewelry or small items that they might have or love. Books they would read etc. This is my "Writing Space" and I love it. When I come in here, sit down and open my laptop, I'm ready to write. I feel inspired.

4. Create a music playlist that sets the tone for your piece.

Self-explanatory. Some can write with music on, some cannot. If you can't, then create a playlist of a songs that you can listen to before diving in, then turn the music off and begin. If you can write with the music on, then enjoy the life it can bring to your writing.

5. Because it's fun, have a zen rock garden to play in when you need time to think.

I made my own out of inexpensive hobby sand, pretty rocks that I've found and some shells both from our honeymoon and from other beach excursions. I found a simple tray at a hobby store and put it all together. It cost the seven dollars for the tray and a few dollars for the sand. If you don't want a zen rock garden find something else that you can do while your mind is noodling on an idea or scene etc. actual physical puzzles, not the ones you do on computer. Play with silly putty or play-dough or clay. Learn to knit or crochet. Doing something with your hands can be a fantastic activity that allows the brain to work on your writing when you aren't writing. 
Guys, yes you too can learn to crochet! If you'd rather not, then pull out your old set of Lincoln Logs and build something, or buy a new set. 

Don't be afraid to feel childish. There is nothing like creating something with your hands that allows for more creative writing to occur. Girls, if you're not up for crocheting either, find your old blocks or Lincoln Logs, or take up woodworking, woodburning, woodcarving, mosaic tiling..... I really urge you as a writer to find something else besides writing that is your creative outlet. You'll thank me. I hope... ;-)

Second: If you don't have your own space:
i.e. You spend your writing time in coffee shops or libraries or some other public type of space...

1. Take your space with you, Have a writing bag that is your writing space wherever you go. Make sure that it is only your writing bag and used for nothing else. Pack your writing bag with everything you need to ensure a positive writing experience. Book of poetry (you'll see), Earbuds for your pre-writing ritual. I often use a whiteboard to help work through ideas. Here are a few that are portable and can fit in a pocket or a writing bag:

Check out this pocket one or the following from thinkgeek:
Think Geek

or this one I found on Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/Noteboard-Whiteboard-Folds-Full-Size-Pocket-Size/dp/B00ALL3S70/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1378746882&sr=8-1&keywords=small+portable+whiteboard

or try this!

http://www.amazon.com/Mini-Ideaboard-Portable-Whiteboard-Laptop/dp/B00A5W0V4S/ref=sr_1_10?ie=UTF8&qid=1378747028&sr=8-10&keywords=small+portable+whiteboard+easel
If you don't want to invest in a whiteboard or can't just now, then try this: get some 3x5 or 4x6 cards. Tape them together and have them laminated. A dry erase marker will work great on this and you can make it whatever size best fits in your writing bag.
Take a small comfortable pillow or small blanket with you. You may look like you're taking up residence at the coffee shop, but writer's are known for their quirkiness right? Own it:-) 
If you don't want to take a blanket or pillow wear your favorite hoodie or sweater, whatever you feel most comfortable in, or most inspired wearing. Of course there is always the option of a sign you can hang on your table: (feel free to print off and use this version I've created!)

2. Have a pre-writing ritual that will allow you to dive into writing no matter where you are.

As mentioned above, I like to create a playlist of music that evokes the mood and tone of the piece I'm working on. I know there are a great many writers who employ this method.  I also like to pick up a book of poetry and read a few poems before I dive in. Both of these things can be achieved while writing in a public space. 
Don't forget to pack your writing bag with your favorite book of poetry and earbuds! If poetry isn't your thing, find whatever reading inspires you and take that with you.
I like to make a cup of my favorite tea, let my dog out to play while I sit on the porch thinking about the next scene I'm about to work on. 
When Rosina is ready to go inside, I take my tea, a bone or toy for Rosina and we go into my office. She occupies one side of my loveseat and I the other. She gets down to business, chewing on her favorite bone, and I get down to business working on the next scene. Eventually Rosina tires and snuggles close and snores her way through several hours of my writing time. This works for us.
When you're in a public space, find a routine that works for you. Find the best table or workspace, get your coffee or tea, open your laptap. Listen to your play list etc. Find a set routine that tells your brain that you are getting ready to write, make it all your own. What works for me may not work for you. Experiment and find out.

3. Take with you, in your writing bag, items that you connect with your character that you can either wear, like pieces of jewelry, or items you can take out and look at when considering your character. I often wear a necklace or bracelet that is something my character wears or relates to.

4. As I said, some can listen to music and write, some can't. Either way, have earbuds so that you can listen to music or find something else soothing that can help you tune out distractions. Itunes has a variety of sounds like rainforest or thunderstorms etc. that can really help.

5. If you're feeling really quirky, you can buy one of those zen rock gardens in a box and set it up wherever you are. :-)

So, here it is, my final closing idea:

No matter what space you have, no matter how small, how private or public-make it your own in any way you can. 
Feel free to share your ideas with me! I'd love to see pictures of your writing spaces, and or travel writing spaces. I'd love to hear from you about what pre-writing routine works best for you! I'll include a picture of my own writing space soon. 
Thanks for reading!
Jessica
ps I have changed the settings so anyone who wants to comment should be able to without too much trouble!

Check in next week when I write the third installment in my series:

Writing and the Art of Self-Care

Writing and the Art of Simplification

So it's September 2nd. I'm enjoying an extra day to my weekend and grateful for it. I thought I would start back up on blogging now that summer break is over-the fall cicadas are singing and leaves are starting to drift slowly to the ground.
I didn't exactly tell you that I was taking a blogging break for the summer. I didn't exactly plan to take a blogging break for the summer, but that's what happened; so now I am returning in hopes that you will all join me again as I find somewhat random things to write about and try to write about writing and a life of writing. Thanks for checking in!

Writing and the Art of Simplification.

Lately I've found myself drawn to the most amazing tiny houses. They are from a company called Tumbleweed Tiny House Company.
www.tumbleweedhouses.com.
You should check out the website, the houses are really quite cute and economical. No, I am not being paid to say so...I think they are fabulous and want one somewhere to use as a writing cottage. I do love to dream:-)
I've found myself drawn to the simplicity of the homes. With such a small amount of space everything has to be in its place and everything must have a place. There's a spot on the website where you can look at the floor plan for any given house and add your own touches to it, beds, couches, t.v.'s etc. I can't tell you how many times I've dressed up my favorite house.
The Whidbey:

I started to wonder why I was spending so much time imagining moving into a smaller house. Smaller?! We're bursting at the seems in our current house. I can't tell you the square footage, I never seem to remember no matter how many times my numbers-oriented husband tells me. Suffice it to say that it has three  bedrooms, a living room and an eat-in kitchen. It also has a two car garage and a rather nice deck with a moderate backyard-which could use some landscaping, but I digress.
So, I'm wondering, why is it that I am longing for this tiny house?
I can be a bit of a clutter-bug. I like things clean and neat and organized, but have a difficult time getting things that way and keeping them that way. My "stuff" has a way of multiplying-especially books-and taking over.
What does all of this have to do with writing? And my addiction to tiny houses?
Clutter.
Stay with me.
When my house becomes cluttered and discordant so does my brain. I don't even recognize how much until one day I realize that I'm longing to start over in a tiny house and take nothing with me but my laptop and favorite book of poetry. (Adrienne Rich The Fact of a Door frame-in case you were wondering) On Saturday I took a look at my house and I got into "project mode." I couldn't seem to do one more thing until I got my house back in order. At least some of my house anyway.
Clutter kills my creativity, somehow the clutter around me infects my artistic mind, keeping me from creating anything at all. My writing stalls, comes to a standstill and I start obsessing over the floor plans of tiny houses, imagining myself happily typing away in the small, neat and organized office in my tiny well appointed home. (I always make sure there's room for my husband!)  I imagine my words flowing smoothly and the pervasive peace of knowing that all is in order...
Yep, time to de-clutter.
I don't have the luxury of finding land somewhere, and having one of these tiny homes built just for my writing career, at least not at the moment, but I have high hopes and crossed fingers!
So, it is that I spent Saturday morning with my kitchen. I rearranged, tagged for garage-sale, and basically got rid of at least 1/3rd of my kitchen gadgets. Things I never use and rarely use; things I don't recognize or know what their function is and things that are broken, never to be used again.
It felt so good to clean and pitch that I found myself beginning to breathe a lot more easily. I finished the job with extreme satisfaction and managed to write for several hours afterward. It was like a release valve had been flipped.
I did a little poking around on the internet and found a great article that gets one started on getting the house clean. It's on a great site called Apartment Therapy. Click on the link and it will take you to the article. Thanks to Apartment Therapy for the ideas!
Apartment Therapy
I have decided that every room in my house needs help.
Am I procrastinating? That's a fair question. I often procrastinate when I don't know what to do next with my novel, however this time, the procrastination proved quite useful. While I scrubbed and de-cluttered my brain was doing the same thing. It was also working in the background on a scene I needed to write and wasn't sure how to begin. When I sat down later, the scene was there and I was ready to write it.
Is this the solution to everyone's "writer's block?" I'm going to say no because different things work for different people and different things stress different people out.
I will say, however, that having a space that is clean and comfortable where all you need to do is go in, sit down, and start writing is extremely helpful. Ridding your world of clutter rids your brain of clutter and allows you to think more clearly and creatively.

Tune in next week in which I will talk about Writing and the Art of Creating a Writing Space that Inspires You
Happy Writing!
Jess

Spanish Guitar-Man

Sitting on a bench between the two undergrad. library buildings, the sun is warm enough to be comfortable and the bees haven't arrived yet to pester. The birds are singing a cacophony of melodies and a man is playing Spanish guitar. Because the lawn mowers are humming the guitar is muted. I wish I could turn up the volume, and I wish I could ask this man to come everyday at this time and play, while I write. 

I shed my layers as the sun brings my winter-pale skin from hiding. A breeze kicks up and for a moment I am the heroine in a movie, the wind blowing the hair from my face as the camera closes in on pensive eyes. The guitar-man plays on. The sound of lawn mowers cut through the day, and the unique blended smell of cut-grass and gasoline brings memories of tire swings and climbing trees, cartwheels in the yard and bicycle trips to the swimming pool; the strong smell of chlorine, eating candy from the snack stand, the heat of the sun making it too hot to sit on the wooden picnic benches. 

The campus tower bell sounds on the half-hour, soon I will have to leave the wonder of the Spanish guitar, and singing birds, and warm sun for the drudgery of the basement, a cold cubicle and computer screen. 

I wonder how often guitar-man comes here. He doesn't seem to be busking, simply enjoying the beauty of this day, spilling his music out like he cannot keep it in or be silenced anymore. Like the birds that sing, or my skin soaking at last in sun-drenched happiness. 

Campus is quiet now-students gone home, some returning weeks from now, some going out in the triumph of blue robes and square caps, to move on into the world that I pray holds promise for them.

I love the summer quiet of campus. There is room, space to stretch out a little and breathe. There are nooks and crannies to hide in and write uninterrupted, and there are guitar-men playing Spanish tunes drifting on the breeze to a writer's ear, inspiring ink to spill onto the page in words, like notes spilling into the air as we each sing our song-make our own music. Not twenty yards is all that separates his song from mine. We both take to our instruments on this day expressing gratitude for its beauty. His stringed notes, my images in words. 
Can we two neither help nor control the art that begs escape? It seems not. As I cannot stop my pen no more than he can stop his plucking of the strings. Does he know what a pair we are making right now? Unknowingly bound together for just these moments? I must go and leave guitar-man to his melody. He plays me out across the paving stones and away, I leave with the hope that he will be here another day and I can write again, words set to the music of Spanish guitar.
(Photo taken by Kelly Kirchhoefer)

Mother's Day

Mother's day is difficult for so many, myself included. My mother passed away under tragic circumstances just over 4 years ago.  The african violet was hers. I found it almost dead in her office as we were cleaning out her things and somehow managed to bring it back to life. It has flourished and bloomed ever since and is a constant reminder to me of my mother and her beauty. Her name was Rebecca Jean, though she went by Jeannie and was Mom or Mama to me.

I have been "celebrating" mother's day with my husband's family the past few years and this year I turned to my wonderful husband and said, "I'm not doing mother's day this year." He looked at me, nodded his head and said "Okay". I wish I had said this sooner. I plan on spending part of mother's day honoring my mother, allowing myself to be angry at her and allowing myself to love her.   

I plan on watching all my favorite movies, especially ones my mom and I watched together. I plan on baking the chocolate chip cookies in her honor, as she was the one who taught me how as a little girl, standing on a step-stool at the kitchen counter shrouded in an enormous apron and yet still covered in flour. I would sneak tastes of the dough and catch mom sneaking tastes too. When the cookies came out of the oven we would eat a few right away, chocolatey and warm, sitting together at the table. I miss her, it is a simple truth and one that will never change.
It is bittersweet, mother's day. I smile at the memories and cry that she is no longer here. I know dear friends that this is a painful day for as well, and I am thinking of each of them, while we all endure/observe the day in our own ways.

Mother's day should become "National, love everyone who has loved and nurtured you-and love them every day not just on one day" day. Cherish every day with loved ones, you don't know if you get another day with them, or even another moment.

I also want to say that I know so many wonderful mothers. They are dear friends and family-members who do such a thankless and beautiful job of being mothers. You are beautiful women and beautiful mothers and deserve to be recognized for that. Enjoy your flowers and cards, breakfasts in bed and chocolates, and the love from your family, soak in each moment.
Though she is not my mother, my step-mother is a beautiful woman who has welcomed me with open arms and plenty of love. So I think of her too on this mother's day and am grateful for her in my life.

My love to all,

Jessica Denhart

Home

I work on a University campus and it is the Friday before graduation. Commencement is tomorrow and all around me as I walk through campus are the little reminders of the transient life of a student. Dorms are inside out as mini-fridges and microwaves, towels and hangers, laundry baskets and clothing are being pushed on carts to awaiting SUV's and mini-vans. It makes me sad sometimes, to watch this yearly ritual of departure/return. Parents, receiving their kids back into the nest. Sights set on home and possibly on summer jobs or reunions with friends. Perhaps a summer adventure of travel is ahead for them. Without realizing it, I'm sure, they have the comfort of a mother and/or a  father waiting for the next cartload of possessions-preparing to arrange them just-so into the vehicle so everything fits perfectly, with just the right amount of space left for each passenger.Then it's off for home and the familiarity of a house known by its every creak and scratched bits of paint, childhood bedrooms and old haunts from adolescence.
Even as an adult I have to admit the need for the comfort of a parent and the familiarity of home. About a year and a half ago my father sold the house I spent a large majority of my growing up years, from age 10 until I moved out for college, back for a brief stay then on to my own apartment, job and life.
There was something unsettling me, as the house was sold, and the possessions were being packed and stored and moved. I felt like a kite that had been let go of, the string dragging on the ground snagging on trees and branches nothing catching long enough to moor me in place. It was like I was losing the last connection to something that felt solid. At the time it had been just over two years since my mother died and watching the house go was like losing her again. No more walking through the familiar rooms echoing with her laughter, or drenched with her scent. The reminders of her presence stretching thin and fading away.
I had this moment, driving to work and pulling into the parking lot where I suddenly couldn't breathe. A moment of deep, unrelenting anguish. All I could do was pull back out of the parking lot and head home for the last time. I drove the 30 odd minutes, just trying to catch my breath and understand what was happening to me. When I got to the house and pulled in, my father was there. He wasn't supposed to be, but there he was. The minute I saw him I felt myself start to crumble inside. I followed him in the house where he was making lunch. I couldn't talk. He asked me if I was feeling blue and I began to cry, and my father held me. You are never too old to need your father to hold you. When I was done crying I explained that somehow, losing the house was making me unbelievably sad and surprisingly so. I didn't expect it, I thought I had processed the loss of my mother and I thought I was doing well, when out of nowhere, I wasn't. I knew that the house needed to sell and my father needed to move on with his life, yet I was crushed by the loss of my home, the one I had lived in when my entire family was together.
My father made lunch for both of us and we sat in the kitchen eating our sandwiches and talking. He talked me back to calm and my breath was coming much easier when lunch was finished. I felt safe and comforted, like I had been put back together again from the million pieces I had broken into on the drive home.
Later, when the last bit of furniture and small forgotten items were finally emptied from the house, I walked through it alone, saying goodbye, hearing the echo of my steps. I don't know if I was saying goodbye to my mother, or the house or the time spent in it, or the ghosts that live there, but I was saying goodbye to something; my past, my history...I wonder if the new owners will find my mother's lost diamond? Will they find the feather that I slipped between the cracks in the floorboards of my old closet? Just a tiny piece of me left behind to say-I was there. We were all there.

First Post

I am stealing the title of my blog from one of my favorite poets, Pablo Neruda. He wrote a poem known as "I Do Not Love You" but formally called Poem XVII. It is a beautiful and honest love poem. I will include it at the end of this post in its entirety with all necessary credit to both Mr. Neruda and the translator.
The line my title comes from is this, "I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul."
Whatever Mr. Neruda intended, I read the line "between the shadow and the soul" as something intimate and private and quiet. "in secret" It is the soft, dark velvet space, where you keep the sweet secrets of love and longing, of hurt and heartbreak, of pain which leaves wounds and scars. As a writer, that is the space that we write from. If we are to write anything that moves our readers, we must dive into that space between the shadow and the soul daily, exposing our wounds and scars and heartbreaks. We do this, in part, I do this, in part for my own catharsis. I also do this in order that I might reach other souls with my words, in hopes of connecting and allowing someone else out there to feel not so all alone.
It is not easy, always living between the shadow and the soul, but it is immensely rewarding and ultimately healing.
I suppose this blog will include themes of the writing life, but will also be a place where I dive into the space between shadow and soul and share thoughts. I hope they will be interesting, perhaps a little funny or entertaining, and hopefully thought provoking.
with my love,
Jessica Denhart

XVII (I do not love you...)

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
Pablo Neruda

Translated by Stephen Tapscott