Writer's Book Shelf: Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg

A new edition of Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within by Natalie Goldberg is due out in March, 2010. This new edition, advertisements say, includes a new preface by the author.

My copy is copyright 1986, and Goldberg's Wild Mind: Living the Writer's Life (1990) is combined in this particular printing. I return to this volume again and again.

This is not a writing how-to, exactly, though it is full of how-tos, as the following two sentences from the chapter "Original Detail":
"Life is so rich, if you can write down the real details of the way things were and are, you hardly need anything else. Even if you transplant the beveled windows, slow-rotating Rheingold sign, Wise potato chip rack, and tall red stools from the Aero Tavern that you drank in in New York into a bar in a story in another state and time, the story will have authenticity and groundedness."

Goldberg is a teacher as well as a poet, essayist, and novelist, a fact that reflects in every one of her short chapters that weave together a myriad of details about technique and discussion of the reasons for the effort itself. Reading her work is like sitting in conversation with a very talented writer friend.

Robert Pirig, the author of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, describes her as having "the simple style of a Zen archer who looks like he's not even aiming, yet sends arrow after arrow to the bull's-eye time after time."

A few more illustrative quotes:
"The problem is we think we exist."
"Learn to trust the force of your own voice."
"If something works, it works. If it doesn't, quit beating an old horse. Go on writing. Something else will come up. There's enough bad writing in the world. Write one good line, you'll be famous. Write a lot of lukewarm pieces, you'll put people to sleep."

Winter

Winter

The wind carries an antiseptic bite and also
the clicking sound of ice-coated branches.

A male cardinal calls,
"Birdy-birdy-birdy."
He flits like fire through the shimmering
glisten of his ink-drawn world.

Winter is not silent, still like death.
It is only a cleansing pause, the quiet season.

~~~~~Carol Bindel

Previously published in Chesapeake, a publication of the National League of American Pen Women, 1996; and again in "From The Front Porch," Spotlights #19, The Harford Poetry and Literary Society, 1997.

Basics

"You see, in the end, it's about the common property that is all around us: the air we breathe. It belongs to everyone on Earth-- and no one-- at the same time."

Larry J. Schweiger, "A Grandfather's Lament," National Wildlife: World Edition, February-March, 2010, 6.

Excerpt, a stanza especially for writers:

CLASSIFIEDS

WHOEVER'S found out what location
compassion (heart's imagination)
can be contacted at these days,
is herewith urged to name the place;
and sing about it in full voice,
and dance like crazy and rejoice
beneath the frail birch that appears
to be upon the verge of tears.

~ Wislawa Szymborska ~

(Poems New and Collected 1957-1997,
trans. by S. Baranczak and C. Cavanagh)

To Write or Not To Write, or How Do You Manage Your Time?

by Carol Bindel

I was feeling really lonely Monday, for mysterious, still undefined reasons. It is strange to be in this place, in this winter time, when there is no work pressing hard on me, where the structure of my day is more up to me to create anew each morning, to create a daily schedule out of the thin air, out of the passing minutes, than at any other season. In other seasons, after all, I have assigned myself to care for this property, as best as I can, chosen that "job," and that has its own structure and rhythm that I then follow. But Monday it rained hard, so I didn't even spend my normal hour walking out in the world. What was I to do with myself?

Over the past years I have been intentionally emptying activities (and thereby people) from my life in order to find that place where I am strong enough to carry my commitments. And now I find the hours looking at me, empty-eyed. I have this time-space within which I can see so clearly that all the structure is up to me. What will I do with my energy/time, my energy time?

I believe this is how it always is. The structure is always up to us. We just don't see that, with all the covering commitments-- the job, the family, the church-- that usually hold and keep us. Held tight in the structures we have agreed to, that we have created, held by the structures that then hold our lives, totally. All our joy and sorrow, all our knowing and sharing-- all held within the structure of whatever lives we create. I am puzzling over this.

And I am wondering about my writing. So I made a list: Reasons Not to Write. It was and is a good list. Of course, I AM a writer. An introvert by nature, yet with ordinary needs for companionship and human sharing, I love words as a form of communication. So I have, indeed, been writing letters and emails and journal entries. I need competing lists, to write vs. not to write. And do I have reason to write for publication?

I am puzzling; I am a perfectly fitted piece of the puzzle. So are you. We are different; we are the same. I want to write, I don't want to write. All true. The world as paradox. Am I paralyzed by paradox?

How do you structure and fill your days? What criteria guides your action or non-action? Why do you write? How do you value your own writing, if it goes without remuneration? How do you structure and include it, or not, in your day? Is publication and payment the ultimate goal? How do YOU settle these questions?

Writing as the Finger Pointing to the Moon

by Carol Bindel

Gleaned from Lao Tzu:

Non-being-- The Way-- that which cannot be described
gives birth to Unity
gives birth to Duality
gives birth to Trinity
gives birth to The Ten Thousand Things

The intuition of Non-being that we can experience-- most directly through our bodies (my body carries my life) or the arts-- is mostly the experience of paradox. And isn't paradox everywhere? But all our art of every form is the finger pointing to the moon, and the finger pointing to the moon is not the moon.

Wu Wei (pronounced woo way) is the state of being in action / of no wasted motion / of effortless effort. Water moves by the principle of wu wei. It represents actions that produce harmony, actions that seem so right they are effortless, yet nothing remains undone. The work is done and then forgotten and then it lasts forever.

Three precious things:
gentleness that gives rise to boldness;
frugality that gives rise to generosity;
humility that gives rise to leadership.

We write The Ten Thousand Things. We, too, are the finger pointing to the moon.

Am I Talking to Myself?

Don't we wonder this, sometimes, as we sit alone writing? Yet when writing for publication we have an audience in mind.

When I journal, though, I am my own audience. It is a way to rejuvenate and grow. Sometimes I use the "word jar" technique. That is, select from your mind, or from any book, perhaps 20-30 interesting words, write them on slips of paper, and draw five with which to work. Or have a friend create a list for you. This gives an element of surprise to the writing that may trigger interesting insights. For this particular exercise, all five words are to be used in an opening sentence, and the writing proceeds from there.

Here's my most recent one:

The words:
cheerful
strength
glowing
wellspring
stirred

Be a wellspring of cheerful, glowing strength, stirred by your passion for peace. Stand in your place, wherever it is. If you're made to be the baby of the family, be full of wide-eyed innocence, eager to absorb your elder's wisdom, for thus you bless them. If you're made to be the matriarch, be wise and generous in your place of power, and draw on all those around you for their insights for thus you are truly wise. If you're allowed to be a friend, listen carefully, question gently, be full of empathy and compassion. If you're made to be an enemy, stand firm where you must but as respectfully as you can, for you know that the compost becomes the flower and the flower becomes the compost, and the process is always ongoing. Anyone's understanding and position can change. The peaceful heart remembers this and draws forth new flowers again and again, thus creating a haven in this stormy world.

Carol Bindel

January 1, 2010

by Carol Bindel

Did you notice yesterday's date was binary? 01-01-10. Happy New Year!

Today it's January 2, 2010, that is, 01-02-2010. What's that called,
those strings of symbols, usually words, that echo from end to middle
to end-- oh, yes, it's a palindrome, how could I forget my
pal(indrome).

Both dates, as I've written them, are correct, true, easily
interpreted. But do you notice how I shaped each to meet my own
little criteria for finding them interesting?

We writers-- we humans-- do that all the time, selecting and shaping
the details we notice, the ones we report. Nonfiction or fiction,
it's a necessity. Even a Twitter devotee cannot capture every element
of every moment.

Is it possible that the things we notice and report form some
essential part of how we humans, each unique like everyone else,
separate ourselves brother from sister, mother from child? Is it part
of how we become either lonely or united in our understanding of one
another?

What was your best Christmas gift this year?

_Our family Christmas celebration will take place today, so most of mine aren't received yet, but I already know one of my best is a simple painting of a tea cup with a rose pattern, setting on a matching saucer-- the pattern extends, beautifully-- on a table, a spoon beside. I'm not sure of her original medium, but I received a print, on a card. It was done and sent to me by a friend in Indiana who I didn't even know did artistic painting. She sent with it a lovely, homey paragraph of the story of how the painting came to be. She said she sent it because I had sent my writing.
_This year has been a quiet one. The exciting events have been mainly tied to my grown sons, and those are mostly their stories to tell. So my Christmas letter included some observations from the natural world around me, and my deep, inner thoughts, and the questions triggered in me from those observations and thoughts.
_One friend asked, "Aren't you afraid to share so much of yourself? "Yes, it did feel a little risky, but I only sent to my Christmas card list, and not all of those. Some responded with "I enjoyed" comments. Many send a card that is simply signed, and no more, essentially no response. But one geographically distant friend responded in kind with a gift from her own deepest self.
_My heart broke open a little wider than it's been. That's one of my best gifts this Christmas.
_Do you understand? Tell your story, what was your best gift?

~by Carol Bindel

Light

~By Carol Bindel

In her November 12 post, "Inspiration and Perspiration, A Study In Balance," Kathleen Harms speaks of fear.

Oh, yes. Fear of all kinds holds us back. One of the fears I recognize in myself (and there are many) is the fear of exposing too much of myself to the "wrong" people, ones who may take advantage, do me injury.This fear has encouraged me to hold my words close within a small circle of known friends and family.

But it is Christmas, the time of giving. A gift requires one to give and one to receive. I would give you this poem, a small gift. Do you wish to receive?


Light

__following Papa and Mama
__who always reached for agape love,
__and wouldn't they be astonished

to see the flame
so bright, warm and calm

on five folding tables
borrowed from church
covered with white
table paper

candles
and a vase of flowers, centered
on each table set for ten
with silverware, water cups, napkins,

plates with the buffet spread on oak
deacon-bench tables that line one wall,
covered with dish after dish of food
in the basement

with a wood-stove fire glowing
at the end of the room opposite
steps, steep and narrow enough,

forty eight gathered
siblings, spouses, offspring,
three generations
aged two to seventy seven

stand, a circle around the room,
bow our heads for the preacher
to invoke the Dear Heavenly Father
to bless us in Jesus' name

then sing
a cappella
in glorious, four part
harmony,

Praise God from whom all blessings flow
Praise Him all creatures here below
Praise Him above ye heavenly host
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
Amen.

while my son shelters under his arm
the Jewish girl among us

while the daughter
of the newly bankrupt couple
looks at the floor, blond hair
swung forward hiding her face

while the recently separated one
clenches his hands, white knuckled,
and we all observe without comment
the absence of his wife and two children

while one grieves her dear
old horse put down two weeks ago
on the day we still mourn

the anniversary of Eva's death,
our beloved sister-in-law, aunt,
grandmother, sister, mother, wife,
too young, eleven years now

while one savors success—
new degree, new job—
and two treasure the secret
of new life growing

my sister the hostess
releases the reigns of organization
allowing the day to flow
forward, as it will

we celebrate
enduring, ephemeral ties

see the candle.
Be the candle.


~Carol Bindel