Nine Reasons to Give a Little (or a Lot): Everyday Magic, Day 978

One of the beautiful cards with Stephen Locke’s photography for patrons

As many of you know, I’m leaping from my day job of college-level teaching to creating more transformative writing, community-building writing workshops, and a podcast series on the power of words. I’m also asking for your help in supporting this leap. Here are nine reasons to consider being a patron through Patreon, a great online platform that helps writers, artists, innovators, and others do cool stuff in the world. You can see more here.

1. Perks: You get a signed book of your choice, gorgeous greeting cards with Stephen Locke’s photography and my poetry, and even a poem I write for you for a beloved.

2. Weekly Inspiration: All patrons get a post every Friday with something to spark creativity and magic in your life, art, and work, such as “The Care and Feeding of the Artist,” a podcast poetry reading, and tips on inventing your own inspiration.

3. Poetry Party!: Every time I cross the $100 mark each month (and we’re really close to another crossing), patrons get to call out (via the Patreon site or emailing me directly) words you want me to weave into a spontaneous poem I make up on the spot, record, and share with you. You can also watch the often hilarious and sometimes moving past poetry parties.

4. Satisfaction: Doesn’t it feel good to help someone live their dreams? Patrons get the satisfaction of knowing they’re helping me follow my calling.

5. Making Good Things Happen: Your contributions help me create new writing, workshops, and a podcast series (to launch this fall) on the power of writing and witnessing our truest stories.

I dress up a bit more than for the Poetry Party!

6. Ease: Becoming a patron is simple: You just click here, follow the directions, and within a few minutes, you’re in.

7. What a Deal!: For as little as $3/month, you can be a patron. Also, those little payments are easy to swallow each month.

8. Your Fellow Patrons: I’m not exaggerating when I say my patrons are exceeding passionate, innovative, and soulful change makers in this world. Come hang out with the cool kids;

9. The Power of Being a Patron: You don’t have to be the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation to support the work you love. You have the power to do that right now. Just wave the magic wand of your credit card over the Patreon page, and there you go!

You As a Poem (for Denise Low): Everyday Magic, Day 973

Last week, I had the honor of being one of the poets giving tribute to Denise Low, the past Kansas Poet Laureate and dear friend of 35 years. She was celebrated at the Spencer Library as a new part of its New American Poetry collection at a special event that also happened to occur on her 70th birthday. While one poem, even while full of references to Denise’s splendid writing, doesn’t do her justice, I wanted to share the poem I wrote for Denise. You can see much more about her at her website, on her blog, on the Map of Kansas Literature site, at Poets.org, and at the Poetry Foundation.

You As a Poem

for Denise

The poem would rise from fossils and columbarium

time-traveled from your memory or the continent’s,

through two ancient gates, rusting in the sun after hard rain.

 

You would watch the poem from behind a window,

your grandfather’s calm breathing behind you,

as you sipped a mocha from a chipped porcelain cup

painted with twining white clematis and one ruddy robin.

 

The poem would feed you a small butter cookie, shaped

like a shell to remind you of the inland ocean we once were,

while you listen as you often do for what the snow

or heat or first explosion of lilac sings now.

 

Later, the poem would take you and Tom to Wisconsin,

in January, in a near-blizzard of course, telling you stories

about the taste of bear or what dreams lived in ice.

 

There would be a woolly mammoth, but because Kansans

excel at elegant understatement, it wouldn’t be obvious,

but a silhouette of the great beast on the western horizon,

only visible when lightning strikes.

 

Like the sky, the poem would spin torrents of fish,

speed, and spirits breaking the drought tides into rivers,

many underground that your walking feet would trace

while you sip wine and regard the sky for what matters,

which once was a dog named Burroughs, low to the ground

but functional, and lately encompasses Jackalopes

and your granddaughter’s face turning toward you.

 

Maybe a martini would mosey into the poem, and certainly

trains at 3 a.m., leaving their whistles echoes as evidence.

There would be wind-leaning switchgrass, and a circular

silence below a solo cottonwood on a ridge of your childhood.

 

Mostly, though, there would be birds: stanzas of the quick

blue fire of Indigo Bunting, an exodus of wild geese,

a charm of goldfinch, and at dusk, a tunnel of chimney swifts

spiraling down to to a single word on each rooftop —

all the birds, you too, from so far away and so near,

coming home all the time, line by line by line.

~ Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg

Please consider supporting my Patreon campaign so that I can create moretransformative writing, workshops, and even a podcast series on the powerof words. More here: https://www.patreon.com/Carynmg

Annual Pilgrimage to Our Patron Saint: Mary Chapin Carpenter: Everyday Magic, Day 944

“Show a little inspiration, show a little spark,” Mary Chapin Carpenter sings in her song “The Hard Way.” Kelley Hunt, one of my beloveds and my songwriting partner, happily obliged her by summoning up the inspiration and spark to strap ourselves into my peanut-butter-colored car so we can once again worship at her feet and replenish our songwriting well.

This year we trekked to Wichita for a long day’s night to the Wabi Sabi (beautiful, decaying, and full of soul and vibrancy) Orpheum Theater to see  this shining soul sing some of the greatest songs we know, such as “Stones in the Road,” once the best songs I know of about America. Listen to it sometime, and hear what she says about all that’s on fire in our history and lives, including lines like these: “And now we drink our coffee on the run, we climb that ladder rung by rung/ We are the daughters and the sons, and here’s the line that’s missing.”

When Kelley and I write our own songs together, I like to think there’s always an invisible and palpable icon of Mary Chapin in the room, right on top of the purple piano where we compose music, occasionally nodding at us and always making eye contact. So many of our songs — such as “Love,” “You’ve Got to Be the Vessel,” and “Let it Rain,” — speak to some of the deep-river themes of hard-won love, healing, and courage flowing through MCC’s songs, such  as her song “Why Walk When You Can Fly?” and “Jubilee,” in which she sings:

And I can tell by the way you’re searching
For something you can’t even name
That you haven’t been able to come to the table
Simply glad that you came

So it’s no wonder that we drive, drive, drive to be with MCC and her kick-ass, open-hearted band, including many bandmates she’s played with for decades. She’s someone I would leap over long highways and through 100-degree days to see, well, her and Bruce Springsteen, and you know what? This year, Mary Chapin ended her concert with a Springsteen song, “My Love Will Not Let You Down.” Sitting in an ancient theater with one of my best friends, witnessing this moment and many others together — like when she sang “This is Love” — my heart overflowed and my being exhaled in pure joy. As she sang, “The wrong things aren’t supposed to last,” and “You would’ve thought a miracle/ Was all that got us through,” I realized how some moments, maybe all if I was awake enough, are the miracles that get us through, leading us to do and be all the rights that do last.

Bonus song: You’ve got to hear “Jericho,”  a song that inspired Kelley to write a song and me to write a poem of the same name. Here is Kelley performing this live on Kansas Public Radio (and you can support Kelley writing even more amazing songs by supporting her Patreon campaign here), and here’s my poem:

Jericho

How long have you been lost? All your life?

Then you’re getting somewhere.

The walls don’t fall for those who think

they know where they are.

It takes music, low and from the bottom of pain,

like what I sang out in childbirth, each call

a plea to open and let the new one come through.

Or the sound of the handful of dirt the new widow releases

slowly quickly the long way to the top of the wooden casket

where a thousand hands hit the same drum at one moment.

Or the breaking laughter of a two-year-old running for the first time,

about to trip. Or the inhalation of surprise and verve on the cusp

orgasm in a cold room where all the blankets are kicked off.

Knowing the path has always been overrated

although washing the dishes and cleaning the counters helps.

Loving and looking for clues is all we have–the slant of the sun

across the dusty wooden floor, the ache of leaf toward earth,

the weary smile of the stranger who gives you his parking space.

When the big wind knocks you down, look carefully

for what’s ready: the horizon suddenly flashed by the brilliant

wings of an Indigo Bunting vanishing into the future

in a stand of cedar where you’ve always lived.

Jericho was never forgotten and never forgets.

His feet remember how to follow the outline of the city

ready to unmake itself into something better. Let yourself

stop trying to hold up all that weight. Come and sit

on this beautiful, cold ground. Be as lost as the rain

making its way, through the veins of the universe, home.

Moses, Meet Miriam: Everyday Magic, Day 936

As I was leaving the house for our trip to Bentonville, Arkansas — a weekend of r & r, and excuse to visit the amazing Crystal Bridges museum — I ran back inside to grab a copy of Miriam’s Well, my new novel, because I sensed I needed to give it to someone. Who I would find out later.

We stopped at Crystal Bridges Friday night about 7:30 p.m., figuring it was closed but wanting to scope out the place. It was open until 9 p.m., and it turns out, that is the perfect time to visit one of the greatest art museums in the world. Hardly anyone is there, and the staff are very happy, after a long day, to chat about the art they love. After striking up a good many satisfying conversations in the older-art galleries, we headed downstairs to find a wide hall painted with climbing leaves every which way. Ken, being a plant man, needed to study them to figure out what kind of leaves (lilac, he believes), but among the leaves, we met a wonderful man who works there.

“What is happening here?” we asked him.

“Magic,” he answered, telling us the painting wasn’t finished, and laughing easily with us about the thousands of leaves someone carefully worked days making so vivid.

Within minutes, he escorted us to the next room, which contained a small room within a room where Georgia O’Keefe’s moon flower shone like a beckoning God to us (actually, it’s “Jimson Weed/White Flower #1“), Beholding that painting and so many others, we talked through the nuances and beauties (particularly one of a trash man in which the decaying vegetables are sensual wonders) with this man.

At what I thought was the end of our time together, I noticed his name tag said “Moses,” and said, “You know, I just finished a book about the Exodus, but in our time, and as Moses, you should meet Miriam.”

Found Moses here on Day Two

“You are a writer?,” he exclaimed, cialis generic 20 mg then had me quickly pull out my iphone and look up his website because he was a writer too. Maybe it was the exuberance of the the O’Keefe, but in short order we were jumping up and down and hugging, and I was promising to bring him the copy of Miriam’s Well tomorrow. He told us some of his story — coming to this country from Liberia, getting his to-be wife out of the country just before the Liberian civil war, working for the Wal-Mart corporation for many years, teaching, writing, raising a family, and of course we compared notes on the the follies of having 20-something children.

“Let us take our picture together!” we exclaimed, which had to be in front of a work of art, but which one? The O’Keefe of course!

The next day, we returned with the book, but finding Moses again took some wandering. The people who work the galleries never where they’ll be assigned to until they arrive, so we retraced our steps, even visiting the O’Keefe again, and eventually found Moses among the modern abstract art. He was talking with some young men, but upon seeing us, screamed and laughed, and within moments, we were hugging again.

A few hours later, after Ken walked me hard on many outside trails, we had to cross through the museum to get to the parking lot. Each step was a tender adventure for my feet after 5-6 hours of walking, yet when we had to choose which direction to go, I got mixed up and sent us on the long-cut back. It led us right to Moses again, who had started the book on his lunch break.

As we said goodbye again, I looked at this beautiful face and remembered how last night he told me, “My life has been a series of miracles.”

“Mine, too,” I told him. May it be such a life for us all.

Equinox Quirks in East Lawrence: Everyday Magic, Day 933

Nothing like a brisk walk on the first day of spring in East Lawrence with a good friend. Along the way, we saw many more friendly sites, all illuminating the wonderful quirkiness of East Lawrence just on the cusp of leafing out and flowering forth.

First, there is a totem tree of sorts, complete with a glow-in-the-dark giant cricket, strange moppet-like figure living in the hole, and a kind of anime carving on top. It’s something new, I believe, just sprouted on a quiet street, and in the process, it reminds me of how the creative just a big plastic bug away.

As we move on, we find lots of gardens tumbling themselves into a few daffodils here, some hyacinth there, all happily unfurling because of the recent rain after too long a drought. Down Pennsylvania Street, we discover the cloudy days makes more than the vegetation pop. Here’s a lovely purple-to-electric-blue-trimmed home, still flying the flag of some Christmas lights, bringing whimsy and verve to a quiet street.

No East Lawrence trek is ever complete without stopping at the Wishing Bench, something that started with just a bench and a few ribbons, then carnival-Bollywood-exploded into all manner of color and texture. As we were sitting there, casting out our wishes to the air, a man with a colorful sign saying he was “homeless, not hopeless,” called out to us about how he sits in that bench wishing everyday. He’s even helped bolster some of the soggy wood around it, and he was now musing about improving his efforts with some nails. We didn’t have any nails or dollars to give him, but we shared the Wishing Bench magic, all of us affirming that the bench’s slogan — “You will not be disappointed” — is true. Adding to that truth are new items — a tea pot for one, plus many plastic, woven, knitted, and found critters from various dimensions of the galaxy. I already wasn’t disappointed.

Toward the end of the walk, we were taken by the peeling paint on the top of a stand-alone garage, almost iridescent in the cloud-light. Many shades of sky permeated the layers of time on the worn siding. It reminded me that this moment is composed of Wabi Sabi, the Japanese quality with no English equivalent that can mean the perfection of imperfection, or the beauty of passing memory, or simply, what’s alive and storied all along us as we age and change.

Returning, I remembered that we live in a Wabi Sabi world, and there’s nothing like walking through that world to remember that.