marya hornbacher

Misty-foggy-almost-spring

webmaster — Mon, 08 Mar 2010 14:49:00 GMT

Hello all!

The world is damp with mist and melting snow. Every time I come up my front steps, I peer into my garden to see if there's anything coming up through the snow piles, but no luck yet--though I hear tell, from people who keep porch gardens, that the chamomile and leeks are making an appearance. In the windows of the Grand Cafe yesterday morning, great huge bunches of crocuses and daffodils caught the sunlight and lit the whole place in pastels. And today's that kind of foggy day that makes me want to curl up with the dachshunds and read a book--The Lacuna (Barbara Kingsolver) and The House of Tomorrow (by local Peter Bognanni) both come highly recommended, and if I was in the business of recommending how I spend my own day, I would recommend a long, long read.

But it just isn't that sort of day. I've got a column to write, and a chapter to begin in the new Hazelden book, and a lecture to prepare--this may not all happen today, I suppose, but a girl can dream.

Life this past month was most sluggish and slow. I had a case of the Februaries. You're familiar with these, I suspect? And I spent the better part of the month feeling like I was beating my head on my desk as if that might knock some useful thoughts out my ears. No luck, though. I think I got a thing or two done--well, I know I did, because there are things on my desk that weren't there before--but it was not one of those months where I go sailing peacefully through words. Words defied me entirely. Also, I spent the better portion of the month in a pair of ratty sweatpants. Hence, last night, when I had to go to an Oscars Party (??), getting into some fancy getup felt like putting on someone else's shoes. But I did it. And my friends, the party was a terrific bore. It occurred to me too late that I do not really like the Oscars, and a friend had reminded me the day before that I had no idea what was up for a single award. True fact. I had no business being there, so I went traipsing home to bed & a book.

On a completely different note, I had the amazing opportunity to give a talk at a women's prison a few weeks ago. It was incredible. The women had boatloads of questions and comments on everything from racial imbalance in access to treatment, to whether meds were really necessary for mental illness, to which character I most identified with in Center of Winter--they were smart, funny, and beyond inspiring. I may get the wonderful chance to be helping out with a book club there soon, and if I do get to, I will count myself beyond lucky.

Those of you who have interest--are you registered for the Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance (DBSA) national convention this year? If not, get to it! I want to meet you! And you'll get the chance to hear Kay Redfield Jameson as well--do not miss!

Other upcomings: For Indiana residents, I'll be speaking at the NAMI Indiana state conference this fall (October 9). And for Canada folks--or folks who want to GO to Canada--I'll be speaking in Calgary on October 6, at the Organization for Bipolar and Affective Disorders. Also speaking at that event will be Andy Behrman, author of Electroboy. All of these should be great events.

Mist is clinging to my window screen, and I hold out hope that soon the rains will come and wash this snow away in one great whoosh. March is finally here, the Februaries have lifted, and though it's gray and dreary out, I'm almost certain my garden is under those snow piles, stirring and unfolding and getting ready to burst through. Happy almost-spring to all of you!

Be well,
Marya

Discussion board & blog

webmaster — Sat, 27 Feb 2010 14:43:00 GMT

Hey everyone,

I'm noticing the discussion board is pretty dead these days, and people are saying they wish it would perk up. A couple of things:

This board is your board. You can use it as you see fit. I know that it goes through periods where people are posting frequently and offering each other a lot of support, and I think that's fantastic. So--if you want to make that happen again, it's up to you to start those conversations again.

People sometimes complain that I'm not on there very often, and that's true. I also only blog once a month or so. I have to gently remind folks that this is really just an author site, and I'm just an author. I'm not a mental health professional of any kind. Many of the conversations that get going on the board are looking for advice that I'm not in a position to give.

And guys, I'm really busy with my current work. I can't stay focused on the subjects raised in Wasted and Madness forever; I have to keep going with my writing.

What I can offer is simply to do my best to keep up with the mail I get from my wonderful readers. If you do want to get in touch with me, please email, and I'll get back to you as fast as I can.

As for the board--if you do want to keep using it for support and conversation, and I think that's great, then by all means start some new discussions.

Be well,
Marya

Memoir survey opportunity

webmaster — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 18:54:00 GMT

For those of you who have read Wasted, here's an opportunity to participate in an interesting survey being done on why people read eating disorder memoirs:

http://camsocialscience.qualtrics.com//SE?SID=SV_77pUhoMzXem3n5W&SVID=Prod

Snowy coffee shop day

webmaster — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 18:19:00 GMT

Hello!

At any given time, the dozens? hundreds? of coffee shops in my part of the world are packed with people who sit huddled over laptops and notebooks and books and coffee, or having hushed and apparently very important conversations involving much gesturing, and I take my place among them and mostly eavesdrop and spy. No, I don't really. But the people-watching here is really particularly good, and on this snowy February day it almost seems like a person could make it through the long last months of winter simply by hiding in a coffee shop and letting the waves of chatter and laughter carry one directly over February and March and straight into April, when the tulips bloom.

Today, the coffee shop finds me alternately working on and despairing over the book on spirituality. My agent once informed me that I actually hate writing. She is not entirely wrong. As Mark Twain said, "I do not like to write. I like to have written." And so today, when I'm still at the confuddled point of the process where I'm figuring out such scintillating tidbits as structure and thesis and through line, I think it's entirely reasonable to alternate between working and despair. The only fun part of writing is when you stop thinking about the fact that you're writing, and just bloody write. But I am not the only writer I know who spends an insufferable amount of time trying to figure out what I'm doing rather than simply doing it. So to I am mostly refilling my coffee cup, chewing my pen, scribbling things which make sense until I re-read them, and putting my head on the table in hopes of a quick nap.

A friend of mine told me the other day she sometimes dreams whole poems. I was very jealous. Sometimes I dream I have figured out some particularly knotted-up part of a piece or a plot or whatever, and wake up much relieved, and then find I have not figured it out after all, and am very cross. I want to dream whole poems. In fact, right now I'm wishing I could dream whole books, and avoid this writing business altogether.

Apropos of nothing--anybody know the band Semisonic? Marvelous band, and their lead singer, Dan Wilson, lives around here and frequents this coffee shop and always looks very cheerful and disheveled.

February is a very, very, very long month in the north. That it is only February 2 is somewhat discouraging. But--as I have said in previous blogs--I am on a mission to live each day fully, rather than trying to rush past it into the next and the next and the next, and therefore this February 2 will do just fine, regardless of the wretched slush. This year is off to a pretty wonderful start. I have a new magazine column that's lots of fun, a long theater piece came out last month, the spirituality book goes well, and I'm noodling my way through the novel. Poetry continues apace, going well, I think, but one can never tell, and it might all be perfectly awful. In any case, a few new pieces coming out in journals soon. Reading A.S. Byatt's fantastic new tome The Children's Book, which will take me the next seven years or so, and Jim Harrison's The Farmer's Daughter. Harrison is one of the midwesterny sorts of fellows, and his writing is so precise and spare and gloriously imagistic it just comes alive as you read. Michael Chabon's Gentlemen of the Road was highly silly and a jolly read.

A few notes of interest: I'll be doing one of the keynotes at the Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance's annual conference, which will be held April 30-May 2 just outside of Chicago. Also speaking will be the fantastic Kay Redfield Jameson, author of many books, including An Unquiet Mind. For more information, go to www.dbsalliance.org. It would be great to see you there. (Also, there will be a podcast interview with me online sometime in late February--go to the website to check the date.)

Also--for Wasted readers, please see the next blog entry for an opportunity to participate in a really interesting survey about why and how people read memoirs on eating disorders.

And now it's back to work with me. Thanks so much to all for all the mail recently--I'm scrambling to get back to you as fast as I can!

Here's to a happy February for you all!

Peace,
Marya

Winter hello

webmaster — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 17:41:00 GMT

Greetings to all!

From where I sit, the world's all white--white snow ground, white sky, white plumes of smoke from the chimneys on the white rooftops. It's really quite Norman Rockwell, or maybe more Robert Frost--it's lovely in any case, and a good day to catch up on this badly-belated, and sadly brief, blog.

The winter rushed in here all of a sudden one day a few weeks ago, almost overnight, and now it's teeth-chatteringly cold and very beautiful. Everyone ran inside and curled up in a blanket, or at least wished they could. I've been doing as much of that as I can, and since I'm in the research process for two new books, I can do it a fair amount--it's possible to research wrapped in a blanket, as long as one doesn't take a small nap--which is lucky indeed.

Can't quite believe a new year is upon us. Something about the year itself--2010--has me thinking a decade back, to the turn of the century (!) and how much has changed since then, in both the world at large and in my tiny life and heart and mind. We are such transformative creatures, no? We morph and change so profoundly over time, and while that's a little unsettling at times, it is also how we become--I think--who we're supposed to be. In any case, the year's end finds me thoughtful, grateful, glad at what the year just past has both brought and taken with it, and looking hugely forward to what is coming down the road this year about to begin.

Am reading New American Poets, Poets of the New Century, and God in All Worlds: An Anthology of Contemporary Spiritual Writing, the last of which is massive and printed in infinitesimal type but is quite wonderful nevertheless. All three of these collections are so packed with good material I frankly don't want to do anything but read them, and will be very bereft when they're done.

The research goes well, and on other fronts, I've just finished the first of two books for Hazelden Publishers. Sane: Mental Illness, Addiction, and the Twelve Steps will be released in May. Many of you have written to talk to me about your own stories of addiction and mental health, and I hope you'll enjoy this new book. It's very much a guide through the Twelve Steps--isn't a memoir, and isn't intended to tell a story--it's intended as a companion to recovery from addiction. Those of you who know people who might be interested in the subject, please spread the word. I'm very grateful to all of you for all the support you give!

Many thanks, also, for the flurry of letters--I so appreciate all of you who take the time to write and let me know bits of your stories and your thoughts. I know it takes me a while to get back to you, but I'll keep at it.

My warmest wishes to you in this season of dormancy and renewing. Happy New Year!

Peace,
Marya

Prose poems and the yellow leaves

webmaster — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 16:38:00 GMT

Greetings from the north!

A most satisfactory feeling, when you kick out a draft of a new poem. A prose poem, this time--I'm a bit addicted to the form--have you read Great American Prose Poems: From Poe to the Present (ed. David Lehman)? I just encountered it this weekend, and there's stuff in there like you wouldn't believe. Topping the list are the Mark Strand entries, one of which is a sestina. Ever tried a sestina? Beastly hard, those, and I don't think I could write one if my life depended on it, but I intend to try soon.

The yellow leaves are nearly glowing in the gray day. I drove through South Dakota yesterday, endless cornfields in every direction, and the sparse stands of trees along the road were mostly bare. It stays dark late these late-fall mornings, and it will be winter soon. I'm working on the spirituality book, a good thing for the long winter ahead. Articulating a subject like this is most confounding, but the effort sharpens the brain.

Note: if you have not heard singer/songwriter Chris Pureka, give her a listen. I'm completely consumed by her two albums. They are perfect driving music, and her voice is a smokey drawly lovely thing.

I'm looking forward to seeing those of you who will attend the New Paltz, NY lecture on the 4th and the Skaneateles, NY reading on the 5th. This fall has been a mad dash of lectures, and it's delightful to get a chance to meet readers. As many of you are quite aware, writing is a pretty solitary business, and being out in the world is essential from time to time. I am always having a debate with a poet friend of mind about whether the generative, creative energy one feels and uses to work finds its source in the self or in relationship with others; I'm of the latter bent, and find the people around me to be a constant wellspring of new ways of seeing and being in the world. So a chance to interact with people at lectures and readings is a chance to wake up and see new things, and I'm looking forward to New York.

The year is winding down, and it's been quite something. It seems essential to me that I keep time from passing too quickly. I can't speak for anyone, really, but it seems to me we spend an awful lot of time letting time whip past without really living. Too much effort spent on getting somewhere and not enough on being in a place or a day or a moment. So I am on a mission to spend the next year savoring. There is so much to savor, so much to love about being alive. As I write this spirituality book, I'm casting about for words that describe the sense of awe we tend to forget we have. But there are no words, I think, and I'll just have to mumble and sing.

Have a lovely end of autumn and beginning of winter!
Peace,
Marya

September afternoon

webmaster — Sun, 13 Sep 2009 17:25:00 GMT

Hello, all!

Up at the lake, out on the porch, noodling around with the last chapter of a book...a fine Sunday in September, with big white billowing clouds that seem to hold totally still in the sky. The leaves are just beginning to scatter on the still-green lawn, and the wax begonias (red and pink and white) are starting to drop their petals -- I read this line a few hours ago: "When I bent to touch one, the cool, heavy petals fell to the ground like swooning birds." (Barbara Brown Taylor, An Altar in the World--loaned to me by my father, insatiable reader of good books and adviser in same, as well as all other things.) Also in this book (which I was reading as the sun came up through a thick, rose-colored, motionless mist over the lake): "According to the Talmud, every blade of grass has its own angel bending over it, whispering, 'Grow, grow.'"

Summer seems to be laying its head on the pillow, sighing, and slowly drifting off to sleep. (Which reminds me of the line "All endings seem to whisper, then lie down" -- the source of which of course I have forgotten, and now it will drive me nuts.) Fall--my favorite season--is almost here, and will whip through this corner of the world, gloriously arrayed in red and orange and gold, before it is ushered out in a rush one day by winter wind. The days are getting shorter. I wake early (has anyone read Mary Oliver's collection Why I Wake Early ? I wish I had it on hand--I would tell you what reason she gives), and sit for hours in a lingering night. It's when I write. Well, I write all day, in fits and starts, but those long dark morning hours are when the words seem to be most easily found.

There are writers, I've read of them, who say they write only two hours a day, or three or so, and that's that. Then they read, or walk, or write letters. I have decided these things--reading, walking, and the writing of letters--are possibly the things most nourishing to actually writing poetry or plays or prose. When people ask me how to learn to write, I tell them to read. Now I will add that they should walk, and write letters as well. Has anyone ever walked a labyrinth? I hear it's extremely peaceful. In truth, I suspect I would be just as happy walking down a street in Manhattan; I find it very meditative. Point being: motion seems to still the mind, and when the mind is still, maybe it's possible to reach a little deeper in it, and find language that's fresher and newer and more precise. But that's just a theory. And writing letters is an art that's much overlooked these days. I have complained of this here before. The epistolary form is dying out. We shouldn't let it--historically, it's our best record of intellects at work and love affairs in process and the spirit in its search. Journals and diaries aren't half as telling, I don't think. Because when we write for someone else, we work harder to express and to connect. God knows I hope my journals are burned en masse when I die--they're a wretched bore.

These days I'm buried in two sorts of books: those on spiritual matters, and collections of poetry by women. The former I am reading in preparation to write the second book of two for Hazelden Publishers, which is on spirituality for the non-believer. If anyone has suggestions for books or essays or poems that might be good food for thought on this subject, please bombard me. The latter I am reading because I have a new idea, which I will discuss when it's more than a fairly nascent inarticulate notion in my head. But between these two bodies of literature, I feel like I could do nothing but read all the time, and life would be complete. (Perhaps I would also write letters, and walk.) I wrote a friend asking for names of women poets; she obliged me with an astonishingly long list, in alphabetical order, no less, and I am reminded of how little I know, and how delightfully much there is still to read. Those of you who read poetry--who are your favorite women poets? What do they do for you, why do you read them, what makes their work work? More on all this to come.

This always happens in fall--I'm itching to travel. I mentioned upcoming locations in my last blog (Boston, Columbus, Florida, New Paltz, NY), but what I really want to do is get in my car and head out to the South Dakota Badlands. The sky there is like nothing you've ever seen. Instead, I'll hotel-hop my way from here until Thanksgiving, and then finally will get to work on the novel for a nice long spell of uninterrupted time. And then snow and more snow...

Many of you are back to school now--read much and write well--and for those of you who've long since left school behind, I say the same thing: read much, write well. And, to all, much peace on this end-of-summer day.

m

August already!

webmaster — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 11:40:00 GMT

My lord, I can't believe it's a month and a half gone by since I last posted. As usual, summer seems to be sailing past me while I scramble to keep up. The days have passed so quickly I'm not even sure what's happened--the only thing I'm quite clear on is that the Minnesota Fringe Festival just wrapped up on Sunday night. I spent ten days racing around town with all the other theater fanatics, going from show to show to show, trying to drink it all in and becoming entirely theater-glutted and dizzy with the quantity of ideas, images, good shows and bad shows, conversations, debates, and all the attendant Fringe matter. It was a fine time. I was blogging daily on www.MinnesotaPlaylist.com, and if you're interested in some mutterings on theater, art, and things related, you can read my blog there. In any case, as always happens after a long spell of ridiculously intense focus on/immersion in a single thing, I've emerged a little disoriented. I was so saturated in theater (seeing it, talking about it, writing about it, thinking about it) that I forgot what regular life was like. But here it is, being its usual regular self, and I'm back to work on my usual regular things.

I also can't believe summer's coming to an end. August is stormy and richly green in the north, and the rain has my garden gloating in its fullness. But soonish the trees will start shaking out their hair and strewing leaves all over the streets, and fall will arrive. I'm not quite ready yet. The last of summer and all of fall hold a whole lot of work for me. I'm wrapping up the first of the Hazelden books, writing and giving a passel of lectures, then returning to work on the novel and the poems. Fall and winter are good work spells around here--you sort of hunker down as the weather turns cold, put on a sweater, and focus your attention a little more effectively. I'm looking forward to it. And I'm looking forward to the smell of woodsmoke and apple orchards and to long drives to see the leaves, and to the first snows...but good grief, not quite yet.

*

Events upcoming...

Boston residents: I'm lucky enough to be giving the keynote at a fundraising dinner on September 22 for a wonderful organization called On the Rise (www.ontherise.org), which provides support to homeless women and women in crisis. I'm thrilled to be a part of this event, and if you live in those parts, I encourage you to get involved with this organization. They do remarkable work, and they could use your support.

Columbus, Ohio residents: The next day, I'm giving a talk at a fundraiser for an amazing new project called Melissa's House (www.melissasouse.org). Melissa's House is in the development stage of creating a facility for adults with severe and persistent mental illness--but not your ordinary facility. This will be a home-like setting that will foster independence and relationship-building. Read Melissa's Story on their website, and see if there's a way you can get involved.

New York residents: If you feel like a road trip, I'll be speaking on the topic of eating disorders at SUNY-New Paltz on November 4. I get an awful lot of mail from those parts asking me if I've got anything scheduled nearby--now I do. I'll also be reading at an independent bookstore in Skanekteles, NY the next evening. Details to follow.

*

I think I just posted this prematurely by accident... oops. In any case, that's all the news I've got at the moment--will have more soon. Hope all of you are having a wonderful summer, and gearing up for a splendid fall.

Peace,
M

Lush green world!

webmaster — Sun, 28 Jun 2009 11:55:00 GMT

Hello all!

The end of June here is always a sea of green. My office is up in the treetops (it is not, however, a treehouse, though I would like that), and there trees are heavy with leaves in all directions. It's a bit of a challenge to work, when what I want to do is laze about on the porch and listen to the birds all summer long and read books and do nothing whatsoever else. Books! I just finished Best American Poetry 2008 (I know, I'm a little behind), and LOVED IT. There is some absolutely divine stuff in there this year, which is a great comfort, because I absolutely hated last year's volume. Also reading Louise Erdrich's newest book, A Plague of Doves, which is positively delicious. If I could, I'd do nothing but read it all day long. I have become deeply lazy of late, and it's helping nothing at all. But so it goes.

Work goes on at a bit of a mad pace, laziness or not. I'm trying to wrap a finished draft of the 1st 100 pages of the new novel by August 1, and am having periodic annoying crises of faith about the thing, which are most interruptive and unhelpful and aggravating. I keep muttering E.L. Doctorow's very comforting quote: "Writing is like driving through the fog at night. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way." I can seriously only see as far as the headlights on this thing, but am hoping to hell I'm actually making the trip. Also at work on the first of the two books I'm writing for Hazelden, which is great fun. And I am being harassed by four poems. It's good there's four of them, at least; this way, when one bothers me too severely I can switch over to the next, and in this fashion I intend to finish them all. At this point, it's beginning to look like an actual manuscript of poetry is taking shape. Lordy, it's only taken me fifteen years. Good grief.

Up next: I'm covering the Minnesota Fringe Festival. Do you have Fringe Festivals where you are? I know there's a great one in New York, and another fabulous one in Scotland--where else? The Fringe is a madcap 10 days of new theater that run from 10 a.m. to midnight, one after another, all over the city. The serious Fringe goers take their vacation that week, and spend all their time zipping from one show to the next, trying to hit some five shows a day, which is a major undertaking, and a little hard on the brain, but extremely fun all around. So this year I'll be one of them, and will be posting blogs on the whole experience as I go. I cannot WAIT. Some years ago, the Jfeffrey and I hosted an insane Fringe party on closing night. I think we managed to pack about 250 people into every room of our house, the yard, the deck, and the lawn, and we're thinking of doing it again, because we are crazy.

Lately I'm thinking a lot about memory. It keeps appearing as a theme in my poems, and on this windy warm morning I'm thinking about those luscious summer days I spent as a kid by the lake at my grandmother's house. Living in a bathing suit and covered head to toe in sand and falling into dead-sleep naps in the afternoon while the curtains lifted and fell on the breeze. Lying on my belly on the living room floor, reading book after book that I'd lugged home from the public library. Those were summers I fell in love with Joan Didion and C.S. Lewis--a curious pair--and wound up with a face-print of the green and blue shag rug on my cheek. Summer was a much slower time back then--it seemed to go completely still, while the heat grew oppressive and time didn't maybe pass at all. Nowadays, I'm sharply aware of how quickly summer passes in these parts--a month already gone, and me still racing to keep up with the work I need to get done. Every summer I swear I'll take next summer off, and maybe some summer I will, and then I'll go up to my grandmother's house and lie face-down on the floor and read Joan Didion all over again.

So here's hoping some of you at least can let time slow down these summer days, and savor each one. Keep body and soul and mind healthy, all of you, and write and write and write some more...

Peace,
Marya

Last of the lilacs

webmaster — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 13:06:00 GMT

And it is finally here! Happy June 1, and happy summer to all. The lilacs, which bloom for about ten minutes in May, bloomed wildly all over the city--the city was sort of drunk on the purple-sweet smell of them--have wrapped up their show, and now it is green and more green everywhere. I swear the trees in these parts have more leaves, and arch over the streets to create a semi-tropical canopy through which sunlight makes its way and dapples the tables at the sidewalk cafes. Which is where I can mostly be found, trying to organize my wits into working order. They work well enough, my wits, but summer seems like the sort of time one ought to do like the sensible citizens of Minneapolis do, and grab a blanket and a book and sprawl out on the grass by the lakes. But I persevere, and work proceeds. I'm about halfway through the draft of the first book I'm writing for Hazelden Publishers, and I'm pleased with the progress. I'm sailing along on the novel, and find myself immersed in World War II and the lives of my characters during those years--I dream about them, for heaven's sakes, and wake up and scribble out whatever sense can be made of the dreams. I have a couple of new poems in the works--I work on poetry slowly, and have only two new ones to show for May, and I'm much looking forward to the time when I can focus more attention on them and see what there is to see. I am always bowled over by my madly productive poet friend Amanda, who is crabby if she doesn't kick out four new drafts a week -- a week! -- and I sigh and accept my plodding rate of poetic production. Meanwhile, I'm stewing up an idea for a new book. But no reports on that till it's properly stewed. Will report soon enough.

As for the issue of orchids: As previously reported, the winter orchid died, and I was most unthrilled. However, I got a new phaleonopsis, bright pink and full of blooms, for my birthday. This time I put it in the dining room, which gets only green filtered light, as the windows are thickly covered with ivy--it's warm enough in there but not too warm, and dark enough but not too dark, and the orchid seems to be happy as can be. Dammit, I WILL grow orchids!

I forgot to thank everyone for their kind birthday wishes in April! So I thank you now, very much. The original plan was that, because I was feeling terribly sober and mature upon turning 35, I was going to stop dying my hair and let it all go gray. The Jeffrey bet me I wouldn't last a year. I fact, I lasted a month. It is now, once again, brown, rather than frizzily brown-and-gray. I will try again next year. These are important matters, I know. I have to say, it's sort of hilarious to me that--for those of you who've read Wasted--after all those years uselessly and insanely worrying about my weight, I failed to realize that eventually I would start worrying about looking old. And in truth, my friends, it is a much more entertaining thing to worry about! Besides, I sort of like the process. My laugh lines are proof positive that I laugh all the time. Screw Botox.

Meanwhile, now that summer has come rushing into the city, everyone goes meandering around the lakes all day long. If you want to see your friends, you have to walk around a lake with them. Today I am walking with Megan. Megan has a fine dog named Happy. Happy is a Javanese--white, fluffy, cheerful. And Happy will not under any circumstances be walked. She will run wildly around her great big yard, sure, but when Megan tries to walk her, Happy sits down and will not be moved for treats nor love nor money. So Megan bought her a stroller. Now we stroll Happy around the lake. People stare. We don't mind. The dog enjoys herself, so who cares?

So, I've got the next three months of walks around the lakes, trips up north, long bike rides, and grilled things (I do not, myself, grill; The Jeffrey grills) in which to kick out a couple of big projects. Here's hoping I can pull it off.

For those of you who are poetry and short fiction fans, I've got a couple of pieces up this month on the really neat new online journal Slush Pile (find it at SlushPileMag.com). Hope you enjoy!

Peace, and happy June,
M

Finally spring! (mini-blog)

webmaster — Mon, 04 May 2009 18:39:00 GMT

Spring has taken its bloody time getting here--and now the leaves are nudging their way out of the branches with interminable slowness--but they're making headway, and soon the lilac tree in front of the house will bloom. There's very little to report, as I'm mostly addled with the sunshine, as are most Minnesotans this time of year. I've been hard at work on the novel, and am taking a break today to work on an essay for MinnesotaPlaylist.com, an excellent theater site where I am lucky enough to publish a piece now and then. A few new pieces out here and there lately and upcoming--when they go online, I'll post their whereabouts.

Life lately has been simple and slow. I feel a little like a caterpillar trying to kick and punch its way out of a cocoon. Winter can have that effect, and when it finally breaks it's a little disorienting. There's a huge amount of work to be done over the summer, and long bike rides to take, and some hikes planned, and many walks around the lakes, but most of all just sitting back and drinking in the long sunlit days.

I hope spring has arrived with its usual aplomb wherever you are, and I'll write a proper blog soon.

Note to Minnesota readers: I'm reading on May 14, 7pm, Barnes & Noble, Galleria, Edina. Can't wait to see you there!

Coffee shop, redux

webmaster — Tue, 31 Mar 2009 19:30:00 GMT

So at this point I've pretty much moved into a coffee shop. A couple of them, actually. I rotate. And so, it seems, does the entire populace of Minneapolis. We've all crawled out from under winter, pale and blinking, and are crowding into the coffee shops for warmth. Today the sky spat down what's euphemistically called a "wintery mix." This means it's "raining slush." Everyone looks a little cross. Meanwhile, up in Fargo, the Red River--which, incidentally, runs south to north, for whatever reason--has risen way over its banks and is flooding the town, while thousands of volunteers stay up 24-7 sandbagging and building levees to try to prevent any further damage. It's a nightmare up there, by all reports. Thus, I am thankful all we've got down here is a "wintery mix."

Oof. I'm wiped out. It's been a mad, mad couple of work weeks, and at this point pretty much all that's left in my head is static. I wrapped up a major section of the novel, and that's now in editing; wrote and edited a piece for the Boston Globe, which runs next Sunday (April 5) in the Ideas Section; worked on a couple of chapters of another book I've got underway; gave three lectures; and so what happens, when I'm working like this, is that I start dreaming I'm writing. I go to sleep, and keep right on working. Sometimes (rarely) this results in actual work getting done in my sleep--I wake up, and there it is, some new thing. But most of the time, it's just a frantic dream scribbling. So frustrating. If I could sort out how to actually write in my sleep, I'd be thrilled. But I'm taking a real live vacation soon: a week from now, I'll be in New York with the infamous Lora, banging around town, haunting yet more coffee shops and probably talking too loud. I can't wait.

Oh! Madness comes out in paperback tomorrow. Officially. The cover is wonderful. Go check it out in stores or online, and spread the word!

Yesterday a friend of mine sent me two sonnets, unrhymed, and it's got me thinking about sonnets. Do you guys ever write or read the very formal stuff? I have a certain fondness for it. If I wasn't at a coffee shop right now, I'd post a favorite sonnet. But I am at said coffee shop, so I'm leaving it to you: what's your favorite sonnet, or other formal poem? Go to!

The other thing on my mind is community. How essential it is to our health and wellness, and how when we lack it we lack something big in our lives. What do you guys do for community? Who are your people? How do you keep yourself well in this way?

And with that, I've got to get back to a chapter. Thanks to all for the many wonderful letters recently--you guys warm my heart more than you know. I'm grateful to all of you.

Be well!
Marya

Spring or NOT Spring?

webmaster — Mon, 09 Mar 2009 14:15:00 GMT

A sunny gorgeous warm weekend, coffee shops filled with blinding rays through the windows and squinting disheveled people over their newspapers and coffee and bagel and chattering in pairs or groups--the springness of it having gotten into everyone--and then this morning, 5 a.m., i set out for yoga sock-less and my windshield was covered with frost. I was most cross. Yoga did much to improve my mood, and now it's at least not fifteen degrees below zero. Just gray. Blech. The minute I got home from Florida, I wanted to turn around and get back on the plane and return until Minnesota properly agrees to be spring. My friend in Berkeley, California claims her grape hyacinths are blooming. I am dying of jealousy. I would grow them myself if I did not notoriously kill plants. I wish I were a gardener. But I seriously am not. Anyway, anyway...

I'm cheerfully drowning in work. Good work makes one feel a little better about the drowning than unpleasant work, and all this is good. I'm working away on the novel--getting close to enough pages to present it to my agent--and just had an editorial meeting with the infamous Megan to work on edits yesterday afternoon (back when it was spring). Megan is setting out on a new painting project, to my delight. Excited about that. And am plunking away on the first chapter of the first book of two I'm writing for Hazelden Books. That's a project close to my heart, and it's good to be working on it. Wrapped up that legal article, which was absurdly fun--will post when it comes out in June--and just did a little article for another magazine on Mother's Day--the assignment was "give us 700 words on your relationship with your mother"--ha! YOU try fitting that particular relationship into 700 words! But I managed something, and will post that in May. And up this week is a piece I'll be doing for the Boston Globe. That one will be a long process of working back and forth with the editor to shape it into the kind of thing that's right for the section (the Ideas Section, if you're familiar with it), and I'm greatly looking forward to that. So--with the above various projects underway--I'm teetering on the edge of not-quite-stressed-yet-but-almost, and will be heading out to the Oregon coast in April to wrap up several in one fell swoop. Can't wait to be out in the Pacific Northwest, with the misty walks on the beach. Something to be said for spells of solitude with work. They make the return to one's wonderful crowd all the more delightful. And I do have such a delightful crowd.

Interestingly, am giving a talk tonight on mental illness and spirituality. Might make for an interesting thread on the discussion board. Anyone want to take it up?

Neat news--long shots both, but I'm a finalist for the Minnesota Book Award and the Bush Foundation Award. Will find out in April. ot holding my breath, but tickled enough just to be a finalist. Feels pretty darn good.

So I'm off to work on the Globe article. Will keep you posted on the progression of all of the above. And will let you know if the one bird who sings in the bare-branched tree outside my window is joined by either other birds or, let us hope, some leaves.

Peace,
m

Lazy Florida day

webmaster — Thu, 19 Feb 2009 18:34:00 GMT

Oh, ok. It's not that lazy. But it is a Florida day. We're borrowing someone's lovely house, and have escaped the positively wretched Minnesota-ness of Minnesota in February, and instead are gazing out at the blue-green Gulf and listening to the breeze through the palm trees. And ogling the boats that come and go in the marina. Jeff is hatching plots to sail the world. As for me, I'm content to amble around in my flipflops and drift in the pool every twenty minutes. You people who live in southern climates have a good thing going, let me tell you.

Like I said, not so lazy, just lovely--work has followed me here, like it does when you work for yourself. Wherever you go, there it is. Much afoot with work these days. I'm whaling away on the novel, for starters, and that's moving forward by leaps and bounds. I just got a two-book deal with Hazelden Books for a couple of recovery-related books that I'm excited about, and I'm getting to work on the first of those. I'll be teaching at the University of St. Thomas, in St. Paul, MN, this fall, and I just can't wait. Just for fun, I'm a finalist for the Minnesota Book Award for Madness. And--at last!--I finished that law article that's been on my desk for months. It'll be published in July, and I'll post a link then.

The paperback of Madness comes out pretty quick--April somethingth. The cover is completely killer. I will post more about publicity stuff in the next couple of weeks as I learn of it.

Too much sunshine has made me freckled and a little dazed. Sorry to post so briefly--promise my next post, which will be from the wilds of a never-ending Minnesota winter, will be better!

Hope all's well with all of you. Your letters continue to make my day, and I'm doing my best to get back to you as soon as I can.

Peace,
M

Wrestling the octopus

webmaster — Wed, 21 Jan 2009 20:22:00 GMT

Good God, people! Will I never learn? This article I'm working on has turned into a many-tentacled thing that I'm now trying to organize into a tidy bunch of words. As usual, I've gotten about four thousand sources, because it was all just so interesting I had to keep asking questions, didn't I? and now I've got about a dozen interviews to transcribe, notes to review, and an outline to impose on all of it. Meanwhile, of all the damn things, one of my sources is in prison, and I haven't heard from him yet. Don't ask.

It's slushy and awful out. The birds don't know whether it's spring or not. It's not. We're months away from spring, and a slushy yucky maze of February days to get through first. As I always do this time of year, I'm badly wishing I still lived in California. The rhododendrons and bougainvilla (sp) will start to bloom soon out there, and the hills will all turn green with ivy and iceplant. Those of you who ARE out in California--a pox on you, you lucky rats.

Meanwhile, research for the novel is coming along. I'm midway through a slash-and-burn of material I've already written to clear out space in my head for what comes next. All is starting to take shape. I've made big progress in recent weeks, so I'm excited about it for the moment. Remind me of that when I start hating it again.

The Minneapolis scene is a-hopping. The advent of Facebook has got everyone up in everyone else's business all the time, which means you can't go twenty minutes before there's another event posted. My favorite are the Thursday Night Hootenannies. Gotta love a Hootenanny. I recently managed to miss a party in celebration of John Berryman's birthday, at which his "Dream Songs" were read by a dozen folks, and at which I hear much fun was had, which I missed, dammit. The next such gig is a celebration of "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" in the flat where it was written, at which we're all instructed to read poems involving motorcycles. Or, presumably, Zen. The theater scene in winter gets thick and busy. There are something like 65 theater companies in Minneapolis/St. Paul, so it's wicked to try to keep up. Just saw a production of Edward Albee's "A Delicate Balance," which my mother hated, but I liked, except for one character who was SO AWFUL I nearly shrieked. Next I'm going to see a friend's production of "The Hunchback of Notre Dame," which is staged so zanily I'm curious to see how the theater will contain it. All in all, Minneapolis is happening as usual, and does a good job of distracting us all from the Massive Winter Doldrums enough that we make it through to March without going totally berserk.

So! How's about that new President? What a day!

And that's the report from my office. It's back to wrestling the octopus with me. More soon.

Peace,
m

Cold January Day

webmaster — Sun, 04 Jan 2009 19:56:00 GMT

Hello hello!

I apologize for the long silence--the holidays this year were a whirlwind, and somehow December disappeared before I knew it. I can hardly believe it's the new year. It feels like I was just on tour, and now paperback tour is already approaching. (As soon as I have dates, I'll post them on the schedule. Also have a few lectures coming up, and will post those as well.)

So it's a bloody cold day here in the north. I'm at my usual coffeeshop haunt, Spyhouse, and getting far less done than I really should. I'm dragging my feet getting back to work after all the holiday whatnot. It was a warm, good Christmastime in my corner of the world. Snow upon snow, and I meant to get a Christmas tree...but like I said, time sped past me and I find myself with a case of the post-holiday daydreamings. I have a stack of new books to read--am partway through Toni Morrison's wonderful new book A Mercy, and just picked up Aravand Adiga's White Tiger, which comes highly recommended by a friend who claims he read Candide at the age of ten. Ha! I don't believe it for a minute. Mostly what I feel like doing on a day this cold is curling up under a quilt with a book, but I've ventured out into the real world, where everyone's got that Sunday-disheveled look about them. The day before everyone goes back to work, and no one's looking too hurried about it. In truth, I have been working a little these last two weeks--research on the Russian Revolution, work on an article for a legal magazine (no joke), and FINALLY I've kicked out about half of the new poem that's been following me around like a dog for a month. I dreamed about poems two nights running this week. One night I dreamed about the style in which I'll write the next one, and one night I dreamed, to my dismay, that I'm going to have to throw out most of the poetry I wrote prior to this year. Good lord. I want normal dreams. Like ones where I fly, or something. As it is, I just go to sleep and keep writing. In waking hours, I'm about to start work on the synopsis and character sketches for the new novel. I've managed to wind myself up into a total tizzy about it, and the only thing for it is to stop thinking and just write. When in doubt, don't think.

I've got itchy feet and am antsy to get out of town. It's unusual I'm in town for this long at a stretch--almost two months--and I'm dying to hit the road. Not for long. Just something to get the travel bug satisfied. When I get like this, I spend far too much time staring out the window and thinking about where I want to be. Today it's the Oregon coast, where I have family. Salty fog and cold walks on the beach are sounding awfully good right about now. I may head there next. I wrote the first draft of Wasted out there, as well as the last draft of The Center of Winter, and did a lot of research there for Madness. It seems like it'd be fitting to get some time in on the new novel there as well. Something about walking on the beach in a heavy sweater, listening to the gulls and the fierce crashing of the waves, does me good. On the other hand, considering the fact that it's 3 degrees outside, I could consider going somewhere warm...

My orchid, as discussed in a previous post, is thriving leaf-wise, but remains without a bloom. I'm getting cross.

And that, my friends, is all the news I've got on this sleepy cold January day. I really will be better about keeping this blog up to date now that the holidays are done. I may not have much to say, but I'll say it anyway. I hope all of you are off to a good start to 2009. Make it a happy, healthy year.

Peace,
Marya

Orchids in Winter

webmaster — Tue, 02 Dec 2008 13:35:00 GMT

So I have this orchid. Actually, I had two. One was a ladyslip orchid, one a bright pink phalenopsis. The ladyslip died immediately. Just shriveled up and died, bam, like that. The phaleonopsis (sp?) bloomed beautifully for about a month, and then all the flowers fell off. But suddenly it grew a new leaf. Mind you, I used to collect orchids. Had a ton of them. This was back when I lived in San Francisco, in this gorgeous tiny sun-drenched apartment with huge bay windows up on a hill. I took the collection of orchids very seriously. I had books. I put them in the right windows and on the right tables so they'd get just the right amount and quality and kind of sun--south sun, east sun, etc. Orchids are finicky and like a very particular sort of sun. I bought one orchid at a time. They are also very expensive, and gradually I had invested a really ridiculous amount of money in a variety of flower that basically exists to drive its owners insane. You are supposed to water some of them and not others; some prefer to be misted very occasionally. Some like to be fed, others not. So I had this houseful of orchids, which was totally gorgeous and tropical; I also had two towering tree-like plants, and the whole place was lovely. But then, one by one, the orchids started to drop flowers. There were papery dried-out blooms everywhere, all over the floor. So I threw them all out. It was several years later that someone informed me that orchids always do that. They go through cycles of dropping flowers. And I'd thrown out a fortune in live orchids because somehow in all my orchid-related research I had failed to learn that they do that. This made me very dejected. Hence, ten years later, with my improved orchid knowledge, I know that a) the ladyslip orchid has for sure died, and b) the phaelonopsis has a brand new leaf and therefore is not dead, though it is a really ugly tall bare stalk sticking out of its leaves. So. It sits on my desk. And since it is winter, and there's no damn light in Minnesota, and this office gets no sun of any kind (south, east, or any other), I turn on my lightbox and bask in its flourescent (sp) glow and hope the orchid blooms again soon.

That's all I have to say on the matter of orchids today.

Other than that--on the matter of light--I am sloggish for lack of it. I nap. It isn't smart; when I nap late in the day, I wake up when it's already dark, and then I am disoriented, and it's hard to go back to work. Some of you live in Alaska, I believe--how do you manage the all-winter dark? I am like a parrot, which thinks it's night whenever you throw a towel over its cage. Hence, the lightbox, which my friend Kristen calls Ra. God of Sun. It makes the room very hot, and is deeply unattractive, and ruins the look of the room, but it should keep me from the situation where I wind up napping through February. Yoga is also helpful. I strongly recommend yoga. Someone wrote me the other day and asked me, not for the first time, why I don't move to Palm Springs. It is because I like the snow. And finally there is some snow. Mark my words: in February, I will be complaining about the snow. Ignore me.

Much afoot with regard to work. It's poetry season--I wonder if everyone writes seasonally?--and I have two new ones I'm tinkering with. They should take me as long as the two I wrote last December, which was approx. forever. I am more prolific with poetry in the summer; I do the long ones in winter, and they pretty much consume me. I am also working on the novel, which is great fun. I have a big long list of novels I want for Christmas. They should get me through February, if I can stay awake.

My annual Christmas party is approaching. It is the world's tiniest cocktail party: there are nine of us, and we dress up. Trockman has joked, badly, that he will wear his Trocktail dress. People should be shot for jokes like that. I really only cook twice a year, at the Christmas party and the February Depression Party (though last year Jeff cooked for that, and may have to do so again this coming year). So this year's party is Mexican Christmas, and I am going all-out. I do love to cook. I'm really just very lazy, and rarely do it. I was thinking about this at Thanksgiving, which I spent with my dad's side of the family & various friends. It was warm and lovely and someone else cooked. I hope all of you had an equally lovely Thanksgiving, and that your holiday season, whatever holiday happens to be yours, is going beautifully. Many things to be thankful for, and much to celebrate. I wish the very best to you and yours.

Peace,
M

First snow...

webmaster — Wed, 12 Nov 2008 18:14:00 GMT

...and with the first snow came the first few pages of the new book. Both settled in early this morning. The snow's melting, but the pages seem to be sticking around. As usual, I'm sure they're perfectly awful. But they're a start. Book 4 is up and running, my friends--let's hope it doesn't take off without me. (Meanwhile, I'm secretly tinkering with the novel, but don't hold your breath on that. I'm thinking it's going to take me about four years. I have to get good enough to write it.)

It's been a woolly couple of weeks since I wrote. A long trip to New York to see the Lovely Lora and work out ideas on the book with my agent--a wonderful escapade, especially since I realized the day after I got there (and slept in till the radical hour of 8) that I hadn't taken a day off in 28 days. This, I might point out, is incredibly stupid. I have been cured of such nonsense, and will be taking another day off here soon. Then a whirlwind trip to Florida for a lecture, then back, and now--my God, I think I'm actually in town for two months before winter lectures start. Ha! Take that, Northwest Airlines, which lost my luggage three (3) times in the past two months. (Also--not Northwest's fault--I broke my toe. So uncool.) But--back in Mpls--and glad to be. Winter is about to settle in, and I can't wait. I'm a little out of sorts because usually I spend November and December on poetry; this year I'm going to be working on the new book proposal instead, but am hoping to scribble out at least a few poems here and there. I've got two new ones underway I'm tinkering with, so that at least keeps the poetry section of my brain occupied. The reporter section of my brain just wrapped up edits on an article on painter Megan Rye--can be found tomorrow on www.mnartist.org--and I'm looking forward to reviewing The Necessity of Theater: The Art of Watching and Being Watched (Paul Woodruff) in a couple of weeks. All of this leaves the rest of my brain free to cram the research I'm cramming into it in preparation for the proposal. I love it when the part of the writing process where you're screaming what the hell am I doing??? ends and the part where you shut up and start writing begins. It is an enormous relief to know you do, in fact, have a more or less coherent idea in your head.

Just finished the Roxana Robinson biography of Georgia O'Keeffe--quite well done, I thought; I would have liked a little more analysis of her work itself, but reading about the woman's life was wonderful. I love this far-too-often-quoted O'Keeffe quote: "I'm frightened all the time. But I never let it stop me. Never!" Wise words to live by. And continuing with the Elizabeth Bishop fixation, I'm reading Brett C. Miller's Elizabeth Bishop: Life and the Memory of It, which I like a great deal--it's got a wonderful lot of close readings of the poems, which makes the whole thing much richer. Both these women were itinerant creatures whose work depended heavily on the place they were in; they have me thinking much about travel, restlessness, and the idea of home.

I am one of those people who loves the holidays--November 1, I turn on the winter music; day after Thanksgiving, the Christmas music starts, and stays on until even I can't stand it anymore. I get my Christmas tree about ten minutes after Thanksgiving, too, and decorate the damn thing within an inch of its life, then dread the un-decorating till the tree self-immolates sometime in January and I'm forced to pack the ornaments back up. But--like I said--it's only just the first snow, and I'm tapping my foot for more. It would be good if I could find my winter jacket, too, before it blizzards while I'm traipsing around in a t-shirt. I think it's around here somewhere.

And with that, a little wintry Robert Frost...

Stopping By the Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Happy winter, everyone....

peace,
m

Saturday morning in fall

webmaster — Sat, 18 Oct 2008 10:31:00 GMT

It stays dark so much later into the morning now, and it's starting to get cold. Yesterday when I stepped out the door there was frost on the windshield of my car, and I ran back inside to get a heavier coat. Before I have time to think about it, it will be winter and I'll be crunching out into the snow on my way to yoga, huddling into my coat and looking up at the red winter sky. It really is red in wintertime. Now that I've moved, my morning perspective is different--I used to sit right in front of a window, and I've spent seven winters watching the gradual change of light as my tiny point on the planet turns toward the sun. Now my desk is in a corner of a room, and my view is of the clutter of photographs and manuscript pages and notebooks and letters that surround me. The room is painted a beautiful shade of blue, and it's very peaceful in here, but as the hours of dawn creep ahead, I go out into the living room to watch the light come up between the branches of the trees. And soon those trees will be crusted with ice, and each branch will hold its small burden of snow carefully, and the black branches will be sketched against the red sky. But not yet.

Last night I saw a wonderful production of Arthur Miller's "A View from the Bridge." A difficult play, and beautifully done--about family, broken loyalty, desperation, America, love. What play isn't about love? Maybe a few by Beckett and Pinter, and I'll see Pinter's "The Caretaker" in a few weeks. A truly strange play--if you haven't read it, do. Does anyone around here read plays? A habit I've gotten out of, but one I need to get back to--something about closely knowing the language of a play changes the experience of seeing it entirely. I recently wrote an essay on seeing theater, and it gave me a chance to really think about what it means to take it all in--language, performance, production. And last night's production was spellbinding. One of the things I love about theater is the way it follows you out the door, down the street, into your night and next day, nagging at you, demanding to be thought about and considered on so many levels of the psyche and mind. And heart, maybe most of all--maybe that's where theater hits you hardest. In the heart. Miller's plays certainly do. So today the play will come trotting along behind me like a dog, which I'll enjoy.

Articles, research, lectures, grant proposals--I'm slammed, and it's not even worth going into. It makes me feel like wandering off and lying on the floor reading poems. I'm on an Elizabeth Bishop kick these days, and I'm dabbling a little in H.D.--if you haven't gotten to either of these two yet, you must. Another obsession of late: Georgia O'Keeffe, and her mutually inspiring relationship with Alfred Stieglitz. I have photography much on my mind--I'm working on an article about painter Megan Rye (link to her work in "Links"), whose work for the last four years has focused on Iraq. Her brother, an artist and a Marine, brought more than 2000 photographs back from his tour in the Middle East. The photographs are spectacular in their own right, but Rye has taken them to a different and fascinating place somewhere between sharp realism and almost imperceptible abstraction, which creates a slightly dream-like quality that unsettles the viewer in a very subtle way; the entire body of work is devoid of polemic or even commentary, instead casting questions back on the viewer as they stand before the paintings, which are of a great and unexpected beauty. It's a pleasure and an enormous challenge to write intelligently about visual art; I find it far more difficult than writing about theater or music, and at the same time I enjoy it a little bit more, partly because it's something I'm only now learning to do. Articulating the visual is an almost ridiculous pursuit, and yet there are few great paintings or painters--visual artists of any kind, really--who don't make you want to turn to the person with you and say something. But what? And isn't it strange, when you're looking at a work alone, how frustrating it is not to have someone to think it through with you, out loud? One of my favorite things to do is wander museums and galleries with a great friend. It's fascinating to see through another person's eyes.

And that, my friends, is what has captured me at my desk with my little lamp in the otherwise-dark early morning in fall. A fine day to you all--

Peace,
M

Autumn leaves

webmaster — Wed, 08 Oct 2008 17:36:00 GMT

Hello all,

There's no news whatsoever. This is just to say (as William Carlos Williams would say) that for those of us up here in the far north, the autumn colors have exploded in all their red-orange-salmon-pink-yellow glory. The sumac and maples are spectacular. I was down in Iowa City day before yesterday giving a lecture (it's Mental Illness Awareness Week, folks--get on the NAMI.org website and update yourselves on the Mental Health Parity Bill that FINALLY!! passed), and yesterday I drove back up to Minneapolis. Heavy rains made the leaves a surreally brilliant blur of color as I flew up Highway 80 on my way home. There's nothing like the north in fall, and it got me to thinking about one of my favorite poems, by the wonderful Michael Delp (who still teaches at Interlochen):

Going north means going
into something deeper than silence.
Mist hangs for hours in the woods
and the apparitions singing in dreams
know places we will never see.
You will know you are north
by the edges of the day
and the slight aura surrounding the trees.
Something in your muscles will be trying
to remember ancient directions,
the way into old hunting grounds,
and if you died and someone
threw your bones into the water
they would swim together
and form a long arrow pointing north.

Today's one of those fall days that makes a person want to curl up in their chair and read poems. So I went to the bookshelves (which, sadly, as you know, are NOT organized as they should be) and poked around looking for fall poems. October must be the most written-about month in the year, except for the entire e.e.cummings ouvre (I've always wanted to use that word) on spring. But of the many many October and autumn poems I found, this is the one that best suits the day. It's by the Russian poet Bella Akhmadululina: "Autumn."

Not working, not breathing,
the beehive sweetens and dies.
The autumn deepens, the soul
ripens and grows round;

drawn into the turning color of fruit,
cast out of the idle blossoms.
Work is long and dull in autumn,
the word is heavy.

More and more heavily, day by day,
nature weighs down the mind.
A laziness like wisdom
overshadows the mouth with silence.

Even a child, riding along,
cycling into the white shafts of light,
suddenly will look up
with a pale, clear sadness.

*

..."A laziness like wisdom..." What could be better than that? I leave you with the autumn deepening, and the soul ripening and growing round.

Peace,
M